by GinaRJ
Rachel had stirred from the commotion, and was terrified by the sight of this blood. She’d touched her skin and raised her hand, breathing hard. And suddenly she was taken by the arm, and her mouth was covered. Marcus held her backside against his stomach telling her in the ear. “Be silent.”
His blood coursed thru his veins and his eyes searched the doorway while his mind searched what lied beyond. He recalled the layout of the structure, the separate ways one could go, and very fleetingly wondered if the opposite direction would lead out or to a dead end. It was too risky to try it. Better to go the original where an exit was guaranteed.
“The blood is mine,” he said against her ear. “Now we have our chance. You aren’t harmed.” He slowly lowered his arm. His sleeve was now saturated, crimson red from all the blood. He took Rachel by the wrist, pulling her with him to the door. “Hold on to the back of my shirt,” he whispered, and then, “Hold on tightly and do not let go.”
He peeped out from the door, and began creeping up the passageway, Rachel doing just as he’d commanded. He could feel her fist clenching his shirt. Her eyes were wide now, and the sound of both her breath and his could be heard between them. Her heart thumped with anticipation. There was hope. They could escape.
It was not so difficult a task. Yes, the hardest part was over. He once found himself face to face with another man whom being caught off guard was not difficult to overcome. Marcus merely thrust him thru the heart with the blade of his sword. This happened twice. Two men he thrust thru, doing so vengefully, caring not to take the life of such men as these.
On the outside, he cast his gaze about, and swung her around to the outer side of the wall of the fort. He kept them there for a moment, their backs pressed against the stone wall, him telling her, “keep holding to my hand, Rachel. Do not let go.”
And he simply listened. When she realized that’s what he was doing, she listened as well, and could hear the faint sound of men talking to one another…a sound that seemed to get closer and closer but then trailed off as the two men speaking moved further from where they were. Marcus scanned the area ahead, knowing for certain that Jacob’s guards, those remaining alive from the original incident, would not have fled the scene. They would have stayed and watched so as to have some sort of report, not only for the messenger of these criminals, but for Jacob as well.
He scanned the area closely, thankful that his vision was perfect. It always had been, and for causes as these he supposed he’d been so gifted.
Where would they be?
He was certain he saw a hand and something white waving in the air. Yes, it was a sign. They were there, and they would act where action was due, whatever action it would be.
“When I say so, Rachel, you must run with me. Run as hard and as fast as you can. Run as if you were running for an unborn child. Run, as it means life or death for your husband.”
He looked down at her feet. “Take off your sandals.”
She did so swiftly, slipping them from her feet.
“When I say,” he said, keeping his eye on that movement up ahead, and noticing a second movement, that of something white…another handkerchief, a sign that it was well for them to go, and that there was protection for them. So soon as they were safe, these men would attack.
“Run,” he said, and they darted away from the wall, and with his teeth clenched, holding one hand to the sword and the other her arm, he said it again, harshly this time, “Run!”
And they did. Fast as they could. With all their might. She could not recall having ever run so fast. They heard as they came near the woods a man shout out from behind them, from the fort…and it happened swiftly, those who remained from Jacob’s guard came out from their hiding places and attacked.
In the woods, they both fell to the ground. He did not let her loose. He did drop the sword as he saw with his own eyes in the distance the guards taking the lives of the foes, overcoming them one by one. He then loosed her arm. His entire sleeve was now soaked, and much of his shirt as well. His breeches and his face were also blotched with blood, mostly his own, some belonging to his assailants.
“It’s done,” he said, feeling as if he would pass out. He dropped his back to the ground and lied there staring upward at a very blurry sky.
Rachel dropped to her knees. “Marcus,” she breathed, observing his arm, his sleeve, the front of his shirt. “You have lost too much blood.” She patted his face when it seemed he would sleep. “Please, Marcus,” she pled. His eyes opened and she quietly and weakly commanded, “Stay awake, Marcus, you must stay awake.”
She glanced up to see the guards simply roaming about the fort. They had succeeded in their mission. The place had been scouted out, and those remaining men killed on the spot. No, not one was spared. So said one of the guards who came to them, and then another and another.
One of them brought a horse. They all observed her livelihood.
“Milady,” said one. “Your husband is heading this way. We will meet him and you will be reunited.”
“Sir Marcus,” another called, getting on his knees beside of him.
“I….I do not know what happened to him,” she said.
He was pulled up by his good arm and with a hand behind his back. “We’ll get him on a horse. Milady, you must ride. You will stay close to us. Lord Trent should not be far by now.”
Marcus allowed them to pull him up, but then shoved them away and stood on his own, staggering a few paces. “I can ride on my own,” he told them. “She will ride with me. She will not leave my side. No, not until I have handed her over to Jacob.” He then observed the fort. “Some of you must stay. There is no certainty that they are all dead. The fort is…it is deeper than it appears. But if it be at all possible, we must take some of them alive.”
And so it was, despite their concern that he would not survive, and that he was not even able to ride, that his orders were followed and he did ride. From time to time he swayed, forcing his eyes to stay opened, although they barely stayed that way at times. He focused continually on the feel of Rachel’s chest against his back, and her arms around him that at times began to slide away as if to become limp from sleep. She quickly put them back in place, refusing to let go of him. And she would not.
They were surrounded by the majority of the remaining guards, those who had not stayed in sight of the fort, all of whom continually looked upon him to be sure he still sat upright, prepared to react if anything went awry, and keeping their eyes opened for any sort of intrusion, in the case there were more of the rivals than they even knew of.
******
It was as Jacob rode onward, one of the guards he’d sent out ahead of him came riding swiftly toward him. Sir Edward, out of breath as if he’d been running. Jacob slowed his horse while he came near and announced, “I see some of our own in the distance approaching. Your men, milord, I am certain.”
So he and Marty rode with him to the spot he spoke of. “Milord, ‘tis your men, indeed,” said Marty, “and Lady Trent as well, I do believe, with Sir Marcus.”
Jacob tightened his grip on the reigns and they all rode toward the small convoy. His heart swelled with relief. Yes, the men did belong to him. Most importantly he recognized Rachel, truly alive, seated behind Marcus who so far as he could see was injured and barely sitting up straight.
At the same time, one of the guards who travelled with Marcus and Rachel stopped his horse ahead of them all having noticed a trio coming from afar, and having recognized them.
One by one the others stopped at well, and the first called out, “Sir Marcus. Lord Trent is up ahead. I see him and Marty and Sir Edward.”
He tried to see. Even as good of vision as he had, it was difficult to make out the scene of his friend, Jacob. He’d never been happier to see the man in all his life.
Rachel also lifted her head and noticing her husband felt the greatest sense of relief ever. She would not die. Jacob would not die. Marcus…he would not die. There was hope. There was
help. He could be nursed and the physician would help him.
After having come so far, Jacob dismounted and his men with him and hasted toward that direction. They all stopped their horses. Marcus shoved away the assistance of the guards; dismounting and reaching up to help Rachel do the same.
Just as her feet hit the ground, and as Jacob stalked toward them, Marcus brought her to his side. “Milord,” he greeted, guiding her ahead of him. “Your wife...alive...and well.” With that, he collapsed, falling into a very deep darkness.
******
Jacob instantly embraced her. She clung to him, thankful it was over. Thankful they were safe and sound. She knew it now for certain.
“Rachel.” He was kissing her head, her cheek, her lips. “My dear Rachel.” He saw the blood and panic took over him. She shook her head while he took her face between his hands. “It is not my blood, it is Marcus. He-he….”
She didn’t know how to say it, didn’t even know what had happened, but had an idea he may have injured himself in order to stage the possible loss of the made-up child.
It was when she turned she realized Marcus had fallen to the ground unconscious. The guards surrounded him. Jacob studied the scene a moment, very uncertain, confused—so much confusion. He nodded at one of the guards saying, “Put him on his horse.”
Rachel noticed men on horseback coming out from this direction and that, and felt afraid all over again. Jacob sensed her fear. “These are my men,” he told her. “You are safe. We’ll go home now. We’ll go home.” And they did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The mood of the palace grounds had shifted since Rachel’s return and as news of what’d happened spread. Hardly anything else was talked about besides the incident that could have possibly taken her life. Not that anyone knew the entire truth of it—only that the caravan had been attacked, Rachel held hostage and…well, the rest nobody could say for sure.
From those who’d returned—some injured, others not—Zaria was most acquainted with a portion of the invasion. She, herself, had clamored out of the carriage, claiming the horse of a dead man and hasting back to the Great City and to the palace to alert Jacob. Marty had soon-after followed. He could not say a whole lot about the incident altogether, neither could Zaria.
Servants and maidens were placed over the well-being of the injured: Rachel, Marcus and several guards…also Tilly who’d been recovered from Rylan and returned to the palace.
Marty had taken a small army to the fort to collect not only the bodies of those guards who had not survived the attack, returning them to their families for a proper memorial, but also of those who had made the attack. The hope was that at least one of them could be identified. Jacob, feeling quite frustrated with the driver, turned him over to the prison keeper until all involved could explain exactly what had happened and be sure he had not been involved in any way. The whereabouts of Lionel were yet to be heard of. The driver upon questioning merely insisted he’d taken off…to where or to do what he hadn’t a clue.
In a week’s time, most of the injured arose, going about their business and proceeding with their duties. Jacob questioned them individually. It was unanimous. Nobody knew who the attackers were. Nobody could identify them. It was assumed, though, that they were acquainted with the king of Roark. The main cause, an accent to the voice that some of them had heard.
Marcus eventually awakened in his quarters at the palace. His clothing had been removed. His skin cleansed and his arm bandaged. He was only awake for a short time. He slumbered, very exhausted from the entire ordeal, but content that he would actually live, and fearless enough now to purposely close his eyes and sleep.
The next time he opened them, he spotted Jacob sitting by the bed, an elbow to his knee, a hand to his chin, simply staring at the floor however as if into nowhere. Marcus watched him a while before shifting, making it known that he was conscious. Jacob lowered his hand and lifted his head to get a look at him. His posture straightened while his expression went from relieved to sad and then simply sincere. Marcus thought about Rachel, hoping she, too, had recovered from the ordeal. Not that she’d been physical injured, but he still felt a sense of dread to think of her suffering at all. Such an episode was sure to take a toll on the mind.
He parted his lips, closed them, parted them again and asked, “Is she well?”
After a short hesitation—the cause of which one could only wonder—Jacob quietly answered, “Yes. A bit shaken is all.”
This relieved Marcus. He leaned back, gazing up at the ceiling for a time. Jacob studied his profile and then his bandaged wound.
“Your arm,” he came to say.
Marcus raised the injured limb so slightly, but automatically felt a sting in his damaged flesh. He lowered it so as to not cause any more pain.
Jacob reached for and took up a chalice. “Here,” he urged. “Edison has prescribed this to you. It will ease the pain and help you rest.”
“I have likely rested enough,” he commented, but still pushed himself up with his good arm as best he could so as to rest his back against the pillows behind him. He accepted the chalice. “How long have I lain here?”
“Six days altogether.”
“Six days,” he quietly repeated. “Too long for a wound of this size.”
“You lost a great deal of blood. Edison is determined to keep you here so long as he can.”
Marcus raised the rim of the chalice to his lips and drank. He frowned upon the taste of the concoction, doubting he would follow any orders to drink it.
“Perhaps strong drink would better suit you,” Jacob decided. “I will have the maidens bring some, if you wish.”
Marcus agreed with silence. Jacob’s eyes swept briefly over him during a decent span of silence before he said, “You, um, gave yourself this injury? On purpose?”
Marcus simply ogled the chalice, thinking back to the incident and not really knowing what to say about it…any of it. For some peculiar reason he did not want to look the man in the eye, so he continued to focus upon the chalice, saying nothing at all.
“Rachel has rested and recovered a great deal from this horrible incident. She has been able to speak about it, although with very few words. She is in shock, so to speak. She has been given something to help her rest. So she sleeps again, even now. She could not say exactly what occurred. She does not seem to know anything for certain…only that you concocted some tale about an unborn child in order to get to where she was, to become captured yourself when you could have remained a free man, risking your own life in the process. It seems you may have purposely injured yourself in order to spare her life…and mine, in return.”
Still, Marcus said nothing. Such sincerity as this made one feel emotional…sentimental. Not in any horrible way, but very unique. It seemed as if his friend was going to cry.
He looked away while Jacob bowed his head. His eyes were very red when they came back up to meet his, as if burning with the sting of tears. The grin on his face was not genuine, but forced and fake.
“I….I was cursing you all along the way. Yes, I…I cursed you Marcus. Meantime, this?” He extended a hand toward Marcus’s arm. “And the gash is deep, they say. Very deep. According to Edison, it appears to have taken not one but two attempts to create such an injury.” He gradually stood, and hands behind his back stared up at the ceiling. “You are even more faithful than I knew you to be. You put your life on the line to spare ours. This idea of finding another to replace you can no longer apply; it just simply cannot be. You cannot be replaced at all, and I will never trust any man the way I now trust you.”
“I reacted as any decent man would,” Marcus said, still without looking at him. “Especially under hire,” he added and then, “especially a friend.”
“No, no.” Jacob shook his head and began to pace. “These are not average deeds of a hired man or of a friend or of an ally or of any man at all. These are not average thoughts let alone deeds. You think quickly, Marcus, and react
just the same. You…you are a different sort of man.” He finally stopped at the foot of the bed, turning to stare down upon him. “You may leave here. You may have your manor house and your city…who’s to say what great things will become of it. Nonetheless, no matter where you are, near, far, none the matter, I am forever indebted to you.”
He went on to say, “The bodies of the dead, both of my men and theirs, have been transferred. Those of my own have been returned to their families for a proper burial, although I do intend to hold a memorial in their honor sometime in the nearest future. The others have been kept as best as possible, but have not been identified at all. I had hoped you would be able to rise and look at them yourself. I have questioned the guards, even individually so as to get so close to the truth as possible. Some of them claim to have heard an accent similar to that of a native of Roark. I am eager to hear your opinion of the matter. Their corpses were brought to me. I, myself, cannot identify any of them. Could you, perhaps?”
“I will arise and look before it becomes impossible to tell. Those I did see…none of them were familiar to me. But with or without the accent, which I heard as well, I perceive they were, indeed, natives of Roark.”
“I remember those who warned me in Arlington.”
“They did not warn you of a personal attack.”