Randulf reached up and took her hand. “You don’t have to—”
“I do. And I will,” she said staunchly. “How can we do less than she, Randulf? How can I? She has accused to their faces, those who are guilty, and she will go to the gallows if need be, reciting these names. I will stand before the king, too, if I must. Or I will have my own account stand on its own—but I will not let her buy my freedom with hers.”
“She has told them we are not Thorel and—”
Pagan cut Randulf off, “It will be evident why—and I expect will be nonessential in the grand scheme of things. I will not let her go, Randulf. I will not let her die for saving me. Moreover, that she has been in hell for—”
“Nigh two months...”
“Bloody Christ…God’s mercy—” Pagan moaned and closed his eyes. “Get me up. Get me up and dressed!”
No one argued. They got him up and though Pagan staggered and weaved, within an hour he was dressed.
Pagan picked up the crushed helm that lay with his armor. He struggled to remember what had happened, but could not. He asked his brother to tell him what Illara had done.
Randulf did.
When he was finished, Pagan remembered her words, “I will fight for you, my beast…”
He whispered, “Aye, my Lady, you have fought for us all. Even those, who haunt the halls of Dunnewicke, awaiting justice, even them.”
Pagan turned to his brother. “Find the means and the persons to Cry the Tournament, we will hold it at Thresford,—when our men meet up with us, we’ll have a contingent go ahead and prepare. Meantime, we will draw the rules for the judicial duel, a pas d'armes, the appellants can be those who accused her of malice and murder—and those who accused and condemned our family who are living.
We will leave the lists open for any challengers to enter, a fight to the death—the losers to be deemed craven, as is stated in a trial by combat and judicial duel. Those who lose are perjured, and as they will be void in their right to law, can never again appear as a witness against us, or anyone else. This will clearly be an à outrance encounter, to injury or death. All opponents are considered enemy. This challenge must be clear.”
Randulf stared at him, their gazes holding whilst the wind howled outside. Finally, he nodded slowly, “Very well. I would just as soon fight them all at once. In addition, by the laws, we can set the points of combat ourselves, and lay out the weapons and penalties for the losers. What else?”
Pagan said first, “We could die, too.”
Randulf shrugged. “I would rather go fighting for honor and the truth, than being punished and dishonored for a lie—”
“As would I.” Pagan nodded. “There is one more thing. We need to discover where Illara is being held. Lylie will get word to her that she must insist on her right to challenge her accusers. It is not likely any judge would allow her to participate in combat. She can and will be championed, through me, as to her motive. But, neither was she able to face her accusers in Starlings castle, and for the courts record, she can make the plea, and the request, to be allowed to take part in the judicial duel.”
“Are you mad?” Randulf was shaking his head, but smiling.
Lylie cut in, “Nay. He is very sly.” She looked at Randulf and grinned, “By requesting, she will be able to be freed and have her esquires and the rest, just as any loyal subject. If they do not take her seriously, it will at the least amuse them. In any case, there is not a Baron or Knight among them who has not challenged accusers in this manner—and they know the significance of it. Illara is serious enough to believe in her ability with weapons, and she is pure enough in her definition of honor and fairness, that after her speech to them, I don’t think any will scoff at her.”
“I think we should hold this at Dunnewicke.” Randulf turned to his brother. “I know the reasons you want to hold it at Thresford, to remind them of Lord John, and his renown, and because it is she who is accused and it is her home. But I think since we are revealing ourselves, I would just as soon spill my blood and that of our enemies among that of our father. It’s you she saved—and our family, including me, she spoke with pride and certainty about.”
“Very well.” Pagan nodded. “Let us depart and begin the arrangements. Meantime, I am writing my personal invitation to the king. He will not show, and is likely heading to the Holy land, but it is my hope his conscious was pricked over what happened to our father and family, because of father’s great loyalty and service to him. It will be our official explanation, Randulf, and after that—we have only our prowess and skill to speak for us.”
“I am ready.” Randulf nodded with conviction. “I have been awaiting this half my life, and I am curious to see just how many line up on the side of the accusers, and how many conveniently change their testimony or flee.”
Lylie said, gathering their things, “Or how many come to our side.
Both brothers snorted, but Lylie held out hope. She had a plan of her own to put in place, and as soon as she found Illara, she was going to start on that.
They departed an hour later, Pagan often swaying in his saddle but would not listen to their urgings to stop and rest. He pushed himself as he had through worse, to reach Dunnewicke, and get all in order for the bans. The sooner he did so, the sooner it would reach the ears of those who would condemn his wife to death. The sooner he could see her, if not hold her in his arms.
He kept chanting in his mind, she saved me—
She killed Ryngild
Mentally shaking his head, Pagan had seen her skill and quickness, and from her father he knew of her spirit, before he witnessed it for himself. However, he, a scarred and all but faceless man, had been saved by hands twice as small as his own.
Pagan could not think about what she may have suffered. It hurt his guts to think anyone would ever treat her badly. He knew though, that she would endure it. Pagan believed that she would hold on and hold out hope also, for him.
Just as a knight, she has shown every trait and skill, displayed bravery, courage, and honesty, and he would never mock that in her. As a wife, she was beyond that in his mind now—and when they kissed, touched, she was everything that was passionate and woman. She was his, and no power short of death would change that. Moreover, he would fight death too; wrestle it, to keep her.
Let them either take his prizes, his lands also if they wished, but they would be free with the truth following them, or die fighting for each other.
* * * *
Illara sat in the private chambers of a rural Inn. She watched the young serving woman named Constance fill a long wooden tub with water, by a blazing hearth. Each time the woman entered, the royal guards could be seen lining the hall, and they had brought in folded clothing, a comb, shoes and a cape, as well as writing material. She had been given food and wine, a feast after existing on a little bread and tepid water.
Sitting at a small desk, she had written out words she had already claimed, this time for the king, and signed the page before sealing it with wax. She would have her account known to him as his faithful subject. She trusted none of the Baron’s court, though the Marshal had been fair and had given her a say. He had sent her a priest whom she gave all confessions to. Finished with her writing, she arose when the tub was full, the girl having left toweling, cloth, and soap on a stool by it.
Illara stripped off the sack gown and stepped out of the shoes, climbing in and setting her teeth at the feel of her first bath in weeks. Sinking under, she ignored stings and aches, and for a space shut out the world—feeling almost in the womb, where no sounds intruded.
When her lungs hurt, Illara emerged and soaped her hair, washed it, after that her body. She lay afterwards, covered to the neck, her spiked lashes closed, and her arms over her breasts. She had been told little save that the council would decide her fate, and Illara had no hope of swaying them on her behalf, because she’d admitted her guilt though disclaimed any malice.
Sometime during the harsh and cold nights, d
ays without rest or enough food, she had come to terms with her fate, and her only goal was to leave some truth behind in her testimony, regardless if it was ever believed. It was what her father would have done—her mother also, she thought.
She rolled her head as the door opened and the girl slipped in. Under the guise of setting down oil for Illara’s skin, Constance placed a note with it murmuring, “A woman came to the back doors and left this. She waits in the kitchen. When the guards are at their meal, and think you are sleeping, I will sneak her above. She has clothing and provisions for you also.”
“Thank you,” Illara whispered and cast her a smile, grabbing up the note then and opening it. Her eyes spurted with tears.
It read simply. Pagan is alive. I must give you urgent instructions from him. Lylie.
She took the girl’s hand saying low, “Thank you. You have no idea what you’ve given me.”
The girl flushed. “You are welcome.”
When she left, Illara hastily dried and afterwards rubbed herbed oil on her body feeling the healing sooth of it on chaffed skin. She dressed in the clean clothing and put out the lamps, sitting on the bed and combing her hair in the dark. Pagan was alive! She cried, wept silent, but with so much release of grief, worry, and pain, that it all but drained her. She laid aside the comb and reclined, letting her tears come freely, as she had not in the last weeks.
It seemed a time-consuming wait before the door opened and Lylie slipped in. She set down the trunk, and as Illara jumped up, they ran into each other’s arms, weeping and holding tightly for the longest time.
Finally, Lylie held her back regarding her in the weak light and whispered, “Pagan and Randulf are at Dunnewicke to prepare for a trial by combat, a judicial duel, to settle all matters charged to the both of you. This will be most dangerous, more a melee, which means many men on the field fighting for life and death….”
“Oh, no. No, he must not—”
“Yes. Listen to me. I have not much time. You must request the right to face your challengers. Pagan says you are to request to meet your accusers in a trial by combat. Though you will likely be denied participation, it is soon to be known you have a champion and that all charges will be proved or not, on the Tourney field.”
Lylie explained to her the laws of word against word. “Those who lose will be perjured, never again be witness for the law. ‘ Tis a last resort, Illara, but the only chance for any of you. And truth to tell, both Pagan and Randulf are ready to stand as boldly and openly as you have.”
“I just want him safe, safe, and alive. Please dissuade him, there may be—”
“Nay. There will not. Write your requests, and ‘tis probable you will be allowed to go to Dunnewicke. Request me as your servant. In addition, if there is any name, in any part of this earth—that is friend to you—write to them. Your girlhood friend, Sefare, whom did she wed?”
“An Italian nobleman.”
“Write to her. To anyone you recall as friend of your father.”
Illara nodded and though she wished Pagan had ridden off to some peaceful life, she realized it could never be, with the old charges and the betrayers still living. She knew that Pagan would never take exile so long as she lived.
She drew a deep breath and met those wise eyes in the same murky light. “I hope they do let me stand on the field. I would just as soon fight as go meekly. I had no malice in me when I killed that Baron, Lylie. He was going to murder my husband. He knew who Pagan was.”
“I know.” Lylie took her hands. “Do as instructed. I have all your things below and the girl has given me rooms off the kitchens. ‘Tis likely you will have a guard when moved, but methinks the king and Barons will approve of this answer. The king does not strike me as a man who will tolerate these conflicts for long. And I believe he will give the Marshal’s the authority to sanction this Tourney.”
“Very well.” Illara went to light candles as Lylie was leaving.
“My lady?”
“Yes.” Illara looked at her.
“I brought your tunics and leggings, your breeches—and I found your sword in the secret sheathe of your cape.”
Illara laughed for the first time in weeks. “I think I will shear my hair also, why not let them see how serious I am at standing with my husband.”
Lylie nodded. “We heard of your testimony and you have moved many I think, with your sincerity. Make them take you seriously, now. You have behaved as any knight would—for it is their oath to protect their liege and lord—to the point of murder. You must mention that.”
When she left, Illara wrote out her requests, five of them for each judge who heard her cause, and one more for the king. She signed it, your loyal vassal, and subject, daughter of Lord John of Thresford. She sealed them and opened the door, eyeing the first guard she saw then told him, “Have these delivered quickly. It is a matter of life or death. A matter, of the utmost importance.”
He looked to another guard, who nodded. Afterwards he bowed to her and left.
Illara closed the door and leaned against it. Pagan was alive. Wither they approved her no, this time she would live or die with him. She would not leave her champion’s side again.
She fell to the bed, realizing her legs were weak from relief and prayed, Thank you. Thank you this second chance—and for letting him live to regain the honor for his family, and to release the guilt, finally, that I know he carries over those whom he could not save. Give us all the strength and courage, to stand up to our enemies. If ‘tis possible, let me feel his arms around me once more.
Finished, she arose and lit a candle. Using the small cheese knife, she hacked away at her hair, leaving it chin length when done. She used the window to see her reflection, smiling again. She was not ashamed of whom she was, nor of what her father taught her. She was born woman, but her heart was simply human, like her spirit and her mind. She was not born to be idle and passive, to let life happen to her. She knew that as much from her days at Starling, as from what she had learned being with Pagan. If Pagan could be fearless, he and Randulf, so could she.
Chapter Nine
At Dunnewicke, Pagan and Randulf had assembled the men and every soul within the castle, to relay what occurred at the Tourney. Still in their dirt from travel, they told the story of Dunnewicke, of their family, the betrayal, and their time in the hands of their accusers. They told how Lylie had helped them escape, and reinvent themselves, and why they had.
Pagan laid out his recourse to them, making it clear that anyone who was not loyal should pack and leave Dunnewicke by nightfall.
Randulf said, “We have sent our testimony and our solution to the king. While we await his word, we go ahead to prepare the castle and grounds, and set in motion all that is needed for this Tourney to take place.
Men who wish to participate will be named in the lists—those who do not, other than those unable and more suited to esquire and serve the fighters, are exempt. As we prepare, should any knight or warrior show up and set his tent and standard near the field, friend, or foe, he is not to be harassed, but treated with curtsies and honor. It is on the field where all will be proved.”
They released everyone back to their duties, and sought their beds.
Pagan awoke at dawn to the tending of a young servant named Ruth, who treated his healing wound and mixed strengthening drinks for him. He would rather not expose his features to her, but he needed healing in order to fight.
In the Great hall later, he spoke to the steward and elder of the females.
“Until Lylie arrives, I have only the instruction that you prepare the castle for a great number of guests. Open the wings, and do what you can. The storerooms overflow with fabrics, carpets, and comforts. Make them for any of the aristocracy or nobility. I will send two men to the nearest market and our hunters will go out once a week. If the worst comes from this business, my brother and I thank you for your loyal service and for your hard work on our behalf.”
The steward bowed. “We wil
l accomplish it all, and on time.”
“I have no doubt.” Pagan nodded. “I’ve my younger men seeing to the barracks and a field will be prepared despite this poor weather. Until the Tourney, the men will be oft in training and their food will be prepared in the yard, in pits and cauldrons, thus you will be asked only to provide bread and mead to them at morning and days end.”
After Pagan dismissed them, he went to the solar, slowly passing the bathing chambers that smelled faintly of Jasmine. He leaned in the doorway, his gaze going over the bed and her trunks, two capes hanging on a hook. He thought of Lord John and felt a keen responsibility to the man’s daughter, aside from her being his wife. Pagan could think of no other way to free her. His own life was the cause of her action, and he carried enough guilt from his young manhood.
He sighed heavily and uttered, “I thank you for her, John. I thank you that she exists. I am heartily sorry for this business, for I sought to free her, give her what you would want, and instead have compelled her to this…. I can do nothing, save give up my former plans and finally face the past. I hope I may honor my family, and you, on that day.”
Pagan turned to find Randulf standing there, having obviously heard his words. Though masked, his brother was in a linen shirt and breeches.
“I was on my way to make use of the pool.”
Pagan nodded and their eyes held.
Randulf said, “If we live through this, I will never more deny my name. I earned my glory as Ronan. It was in that name of my birth I found freedom and triumph.”
“Aye—”
“And,” his brother went on. “If we live, and all our rights are restored, our prizes and deeds kept. I must be about my life and you yours—with Illara.”
“What was your dilemma with her on the journey?”
Randulf turned his head to stare somewhere to his left. A sure way to hide his emotions, as he and Pagan were so well at reading each other’s souls at a glance. He said uncomfortably, “She told me in the courtyard that day, that if I could trust her, she could love me, only differently. I gave her that leave—before we entered Ryngild.”
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