The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (36 page)

All for naught.

"That is what I said," Richard shrugged, smiling. "What more must be added?"

He kicked his mount into a canter to match Ulrich's; and she did the same to match his. The sky was gloomy and the rain hard as it hit; they would not make Dornei before Vespers. The setting was unromantic and the mood uninspired. And Richard did nothing to help.

"Perhaps to tell me why you cannot leave me?" she coaxed.

"You are my wife. I will not leave you. 'Twould be unnatural and neglectful of my—"

"Richard," she snapped, "if you say 'duty' I will—"

"—most natural desires," he finished huskily.

She looked over at him, for when had she ever been able to resist the sight of him? She knew him well. She had loved him for years. She was to be married to him for a lifetime, a most cherished answered prayer. The teasing smile he wore now was bright enough to part the low clouds that enshrouded the earth and pressed upon them.

Richard might not be adept at courtly banter, but did it matter when she could read his heart?

"Will you or will you not admit that you love me?" she asked.

"I would rather show you," he said, grinning.

Isabel smiled in return and then kicked her horse into a run, leaping into the lead in their unannounced race for Dornei. "Then show me, my lord," she said as she left him behind, "and I will then give you the words to tell me."

Richard caught up with her in moments, his mount easily overmatching hers. "I will leave you too spent for words, Lady," he said, his eyes gleaming with dire promise.

"Think you that is possible?" she panted. Dornei was just through the next stand of wood, a dark and tangled mass of branches in the pelting rain.

"I see it as my duty," he said, his words a delicious threat.

"And when does duty become desire?" she asked, echoing him, slowing her mount.

"With you, Isabel," he said without hesitation and without restraint. "With you."

Chapter 29

He rode out of the wood slowly, his chain mail glinting with rain. His sword was out, shining even in the dim light of a stormy spring dusk. His identity was no mystery; they had known each other long, had grown to maturity together at Malton, had supped together at Dornei. And he had been sent to Warefeld and been told to remain. Yet here he was, in the wood surrounding Dornei.

Nicholas, his sword raised for battle, his shield ready, rested upon the back of his warhorse and waited.

Richard drew his sword instantly, knowing there would be no parley. This battle between them had been coming for an age. Nicholas and his malicious tongue had seen to it that Richard had cast Isabel from him with both hands. He had been a fool. Worse, what he had done to Isabel because of this man's caustic words shamed him. There had been no place for Richard among the other boys at Malton, no rapport; he had stood alone, always alone, as Nicholas had stood in the center of the boys, shunning him.

Richard smiled his eagerness. They each stood alone now.

Edmund held his shield, and Richard held out his hand for it. The boy kicked his horse forward, his face white and his eyes firm with purpose. The arrow came from the wood, piercing Edmund through the hip. The boy fell from his horse without a cry, the shield rolling from his outstretched hand.

'Twas Isabel who cried.

"Nay! What is this? Did you not swear homage—"

"Attend the boy, Isabel," Richard commanded, his eyes not leaving Nicholas. "Is there an arrow for me?" he asked Nicholas.

"Only my sword," Nicholas said.

"What of me?" Isabel said, her voice high and angry as she knelt beside Edmund and pressed the length of her bliaut to his wound. The blood soaked the fabric through in seconds.

"For you he plans a wedding," Richard answered, speaking Nicholas's intent.

Nicholas smiled grimly. "She is too rich a prize to let slip."

He attacked then, kicking his mount to run at Richard. Richard waited, letting him close the distance over the sodden earth, and Isabel could not smother the whisper of doubt which wondered if Richard was afraid to meet a fellow knight in combat. Did he pray, even now, for divine deliverance?

The sound of running horses, heavy with the weight of armored men, came from out of the wood. "Saint Stephen," she mumbled, "let it be aid."

Her prayer was answered.

William and Rowland rode out of the wood, their own swords unsheathed and ready for blood. With a sigh, she thanked God for His mercy in delivering Richard, for who could defeat both William le Brouillard and Rowland the Dark in battle? Quickly she turned her full attention to Edmund.

Of all the skills which Bertrada had taught her, the mending of flesh and the setting of bone were matters at which she excelled.

Her eyes kind, she urged confidence and comfort. "Can you feel your toes, Edmund?"

"Aye," he whispered.

"Can you move them?

"I dare not try, Lady," he breathed.

Isabel smiled down at him. "Then do not try. I must remove the arrow. It must be pushed, the fletching cut..."

She needed to work quickly, before his pain increased. And it would. She had learned that the pain of injury only grew as time passed and that any aid was best given soon.

She had no knife.

A knife appeared out of the rain.

Looking up, she saw Rowland towering above her. "You know what you are about?"

"Yea, but Richard—"

"Richard has no need of aid. You do," he said with a soft smile.

Richard had no need of aid? 'Twas not so. Richard had merely waited while Nicholas rode him down.

Isabel looked up, away from the blood that pumped out of Edmund. Only for a moment, only hoping to see that Richard was safe. Surely William fought Nicholas. What could Richard have done without a shield to protect him?

He had done much.

Nicholas's shield was shattered and his mount lame. He and Richard were standing facing each other in the cold and driving rain, their swords wet and shining and lethal. William of Greneforde held the reins of Richard's horse, an easy and nonchalant spectator to the battle being played out before him.

"Nay, he cannot—" she whispered, not able to take her eyes from Richard.

"He can," Rowland said calmly. "And has."

"How?"

"The boy needs attention, Isabel," Rowland reminded. "How may I aid you?"

"Cut the fletching off. A clean cut with no splinters, mind... and you may tell me how Richard unhorsed Nicholas," she said tartly. 'Twas not possible. Could prayer unhorse a warrior?

"Aye," he smiled, bending to the boy and gripping the shaft firmly. "Hold, boy; it will be quick," he comforted. He sliced through the shaft, his knife sharp and working cleanly through the wood.

Looking to Isabel, he asked the question with his eyes, his hand on the blunt end of the shaft. With a nod, she answered him. Without pausing to take breath or to prepare Edmund, Rowland lifted Edmund upward and shoved the shaft through to the grass behind. A fresh burst of blood poured through, and Rowland looked for something to stanch the flow.

"Let it bleed out," Isabel said, kneeling beside Edmund, who was white and silent, his hands clenched on Rowland's arms. "Whatever wood remains within will be washed out."

"He will lose much blood."

"Only for a moment. We need something to bind him, something without the stain of mud and field," she said, looking down at her own muddy bliaut and Rowland's splattered surcoat. "I have only my shift," she said and began to strip off her clothes.

Let Richard beat her, if he lived.

She watched Richard, her fingers hurrying with her laces, the rain making all stiff and unyielding and cold. The ring of blades striking, loud and strangely melodic, beat against the pounding rain in uneven rhythm. The two men circled each other, Richard the aggressor, his point up, dancing almost gaily in search of kindred steel. Ever graceful, he advanced over the uneven and sodden ground, his hair a black and shining cap, his eyes dark and alive as his hand sought death. For the fight was to the death. It could be nothing less.

Nicholas had ever been a strong fighter, his arm sure and tireless in all his mock battles. But this battle had nothing in it of knights in training or tumbling squires; never before had he faced a man intent on his death. Never before had he faced his death in another man's eyes.

He had not expected a monk to be so fierce.

He had forgotten that Richard of Warefeld was no monk.

"Hurry, Isabel," Rowland murmured. "Richard suffers not. Edmund needs you now."

He kept his eyes on the boy while she stripped to the skin, keeping her linen shift off the ground as she pulled it from her soaking body. She shivered when the full swell of wet wind hit her body; her cloak was gone, a sodden bird lying in the road before Malton, and her bliaut would take too long to don. She could not wait; nay, 'twas Edmund who could not wait.

Naked, she knelt at his side. Rowland lifting him, the grass beneath him black with spilt blood. Ripping the shift in two, she pushed the fabric into his dual wounds, one in front and one behind, seeking to touch her fingers within the wound, connecting the fabric, blocking the wound and stopping the flow of his life out upon the grass. 'Twas the best she could do until a cauterizing iron could be heated and applied.

Edmund's eyes rolled and he was still, his breathing shallow and his pulse thin. He had lost much blood. But that was over now. The linen was holding.

Laying the boy back to earth, Rowland removed his cloak and pressed it round her shoulders. 'Twas wet, but it covered her. She hardly noticed; kneeling at Edmund's side, her eyes were all for Richard.

Nicholas was a big man, thick with both muscle and arrogance. He fought a man who had succeeded at every endeavor to which he had applied his skill, yet a man he had bested in his proud heart for year upon year. Richard had always been the best with sword and mace and lance; his skill had flowed from him, making every effort seem one of effortless ease while all around him struggled clumsily to master what he had mastered at a touch. Nicholas had hated him within a week of his arrival at Malton. How not to hate such a man? When Richard had flown like a startled thrush to the abbey, he had rejoiced. When Richard had appeared with Isabel at his side as his wife, he had marked how much a monk Richard had become. Such a man could not fight; the skill and inclination had been prayed out of him. Such a man as Richard now was, he could defeat.

How such a man could stand against him now was beyond his reason. Looking down, he saw that he bled from a single slice across his thigh. 'Twas of no matter; no man would die of such pricks as Richard dealt.

William and Rowland saw what Nicholas did not. They too had fought the man, and understood his style. Richard was no hacker. He did not hack and hew his way to victory, but struck lightly, as effortlessly as lightning and as quick and sharp. And, understanding the rage of a man who defended his wife, they knew he toyed with Nicholas, to prolong his suffering and his penance for so heinous a desire. No man would have Isabel save Richard.

Isabel saw only that Richard was unharmed. 'Twas all she needed to see to ease her heart.

With a smile, Richard lunged and sliced Nicholas again on the thigh where his hauberk ended; Nicholas's wealth was not such that he could afford mail that went below his hips. Isabel's wealth should have taken care of his lack.

But had Richard missed? Looking down quickly, Nicholas could see but a single cut. And yet, was it not deeper than before? Had it not been a mere scratch, and was it not now the depth of a finger's width?

Looking up, Richard smiled. Nicholas thought that most odd; it was well known that Richard did not often smile.

Never had Richard had such cause.

Another lunge and Richard's sword swung down. Nicholas tried to block the sword with his own, but his sword encountered only air. His leg pained him, the blood running hard and fast. So much blood from a single, shallow wound?

But 'twas not shallow, not anymore. The red and gaping cut now gleamed with the white of bone.

God above, 'twas not to be borne. If he did not strike soon and win, he could lose the leg.

And still he could not lay his sword to Richard; the man moved as light, as sun, seen but not able to be grasped. Nicholas could not lay his hand or his sword to Richard. Without doing so, he could never lay his hand to Isabel. He had arranged it all; his uncle was high within the bishop's household, and, with Isabel widowed, his name would appear on the marriage contract. His uncle had him assured that it would be so, that such arrangements could be made, that Isabel and Dornei could be his. His part had only been to make Isabel a widow, and he had gladly taken up his task. To kill a monk would be no effort. Yet he bled and Richard, the monk, did not. He could not comprehend it.

Richard's grin was as wide as the wound on Nicholas's leg; he was enjoying the slow death of his enemy. He could see that Nicholas was befuddled and still thought to win. Such arrogance was killing him.

Richard moved in close, his sword a gleam of death that was reflected in his eyes. "Did you think you would take her from me? She is a gift you shall never touch, not even with your sight," he growled. With a twist of his arm, his sword a shining extension of his intent, Richard pierced Nicholas's left eye. His eye was gone in a burst of blood and pulp.