Anita Mills (43 page)

The wooden steps up the side of the wall cracked loudly as they too were consumed in voracious flames. As she looked down into the courtyard, she did not know how any survived.

“Elizabeth!”

Incredibly, Giles came through the tower door at the other end of the wall. Behind him, the room was ablaze. His face was sooty beneath his nasal and his surcoat was gone, probably to keep him from catching fire himself. Sweet Mary, but he looked as though he’d come through Hell for her.

She rose stiffly, clutching the blanket as best she could, and stumbled toward him. He caught her, and the metal links of his mail burned where they touched her, so much so that she had to draw away. “Aye,” he said grimly, “I’ve got to get you down from here.” He turned back whence he had come, and at that moment the roof of the tower collapsed into the room, sending a great
whoosh
of flames shooting through the door.

She managed a twisted smile. “At least Reyner does not come up.” Her eyes saw the bloody sword he still carried. “Is he…?”

“I know not, for I could not see much. I did but hack my way through the yard.”

“Willie…”

“Hob got him out. But the wind shifts, and there is no time for speech.” His gaze dropped to where the wooden stairs had burned. He laid aside the sword and removed his heavy gloves. “There is no help for it, Elizabeth—we’ll have to jump into the water,” he said tersely, working at the hooks of his hauberk. “Can you swim?”

“Like a dog.”

“ ’Tis good enough.” He pulled at the neck of the heavy mail shirt to no avail, and when she reached to aid him he shook his head. “There is not time.” His hand grasped hers, squeezing it, and then he pulled her after him. “I’d jump at the other end—as far away from the garderobe as ’tis possible.”

“Aye.” She tried to hold the blanket about her.

The blast of hot air coming from the tower nearly overwhelmed her, reminding her of the great furnace where the armorer tempered blades. Sweat poured from her face as she peered over the side into the dark, murky water. It was a long way down.

“I’ll go first, and when I shout you jump after,” he ordered. When she made no answer, he met her eyes. “I’ll try to hold your head above the water, if you are afraid.”

“Nay.”

“Keep your mouth closed and do not breathe until you come up. Aye, and jump out that you do not hit the wall.”

With that, he released her hand and went over the small ledge. There was a splash, then a yell. She dropped the blanket and stepped where he’d stood. Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Mary, aid me now,” and she jumped.

The cold water closed over her, swirling her hair about her like a net, and the mud below was soft beneath her feet. Then he caught her arm and pulled her up. As her head broke the surface he gasped, “Come on.”

Despite the encumbrance of his mail and padded gambeson, he was strong enough to swim and hold her up. She caught another breath and began to paddle. The bank on the other side was slick, so much so that she had to use her hands like claws to scramble up it. For a moment she lay there, muddy, wet, and naked, staring at the orange sky. She was out of Wycklow, she was away from Reyner.

With water and weeds dripping from his mailed arm, he managed to pull himself up to sit beside her. “Art all right?” he asked anxiously.

“Aye. And you?”

“Aye.” He stood with an effort and pressed the water from his sagging gambeson. “Get you to the tent and dry yourself ere you are ill.”

“Giles…”

“Nay, you do not have to say what you think I would hear, Elizabeth. ‘Tis enough that you are safe.”

“I went to Harlowe, Giles.”

“Aye, I know.”

Guy of Rivaux rode up to them, shouting, “You have her?”

“Aye!”

He swung down out of the saddle, and Elizabeth was suddenly conscious of her nakedness, of the humiliation inflicted on her by Reyner of Eury. She pulled her wet hair down over her breasts. “Sweet Mary, Papa, but I never thought to see you again,” she whispered. “I failed you.”

“Nay, you did not.” He took off his embroidered surcoat and awkwardly hung it over her head. “Here—’twill cover you better than that.” The water from the moat spotted the fine silk when she tugged it down over her wet body. His smile twisted downward as he held out his arms. “Ah, Liza…Liza,” he murmured as she stepped into his embrace.

And it was as though all she’d endured had finally broken her. Her whole body shaking, she clutched his mailed arms and leaned into his chest. “Oh, Papa!” she sobbed against him.

“Nay, sweeting, but there is no need for tears now. You are safe. God’s blood, Liza, but ’tis to a fierce lord you are wed.”

Giles looked at her in her father’s arms and felt a pang of envy still. Despite all, ’twas to Guy of Rivaux she’d turned, not to him. He pushed his wet hair off his face and started back toward his burning keep.

“Giles!”

She’d broken away from Guy and was running after him. He hesitated, then went on, lengthening his stride.

“Giles! Sweet Mary, but can you not wait?” she cried, catching up to him, reaching for his arm.

It was as though every nerve of his pride were raw. He shook her off. “Nay. I’d look to the others,” he muttered. “Get you back with your sire.”

“Did Bevis not give you my words, Giles?”

“Aye.” He stopped and waited warily. “Why?”

“I was never ashamed of loving you, my lord—’twas only mine anger that spoke.”

The flames that licked the sky gave an eerie orange-yellow hue to her pale face, while the wet hair that tangled over her shoulders seemed even blacker than the darkness at her back. The green eyes that searched his face reflected the fire behind him. She bit her lip to still its trembling.

“Please, Giles,” she whispered, “I’d have naught but love between us.”

“You went to Harlowe,” he lashed out, finally betraying his pain. “You chose your father over me.”

“Nay. I tried to keep my oath—nothing more. And I came back, Giles—I came back to you. Sweet Mary, but can you not understand? ’Twas mine honor!”

“Watch out!” a red-shirted knight shouted as the mounted men bore down upon them.

They had not the time to run, for Reyner of Eury was leaning from his saddle to swing his sword at her. “Witch! Lying witch! You betrayed me!” he screamed.

Giles, who’d left helm, sword, and gloves on the wall, caught Elizabeth by the waist and threw her to the ground, rolling from beneath the horse’s pounding hooves. In his fury Reyner slashed through the air, nearly unseating himself. He reined in sharply and the horse reared, coming down within inches of Elizabeth’s head. Giles scrambled to cover her with his body.

“Reyner!”

Richard of Rivaux pursued at the head of several men. Cursing, the count of Eury spurred his lunging mount, cutting across the clearing toward Guy of Rivaux instead. But Guy, who had been running toward his fallen daughter, had drawn his broadsword and now waited.

“Afore God, but I am not done with you!” Reyner called out, wheeling to flee rather than face the Doomslayer. “I’ll see you dispossessed yet!”

Richard pulled up and leaned from his horse. “Art both all right?” he demanded of Giles. “God’s bones, but I thought you dead!” He shouted rapidly, breathlessly, “We had him taken, but he felled one of your Scots and took his beast!” Waiting only for Giles to rise and reach for Elizabeth, he started after Reyner.

Giles dashed for Guy’s destrier. Behind him Elizabeth screamed, “You are unarmed! Sweet Jesu, but you are unarmed!
Papa!”

But Guy took off his helm and held it out to Giles. As the younger man jammed it on his head, he unbuckled his sword belt also. “May God give you good aim, my son,” he said, sliding it around the border lord’s hauberk. He proffered the Doomslayer hilt-first, then held out the reins. “He is called Baucent.”

Giles sheathed the blade, nodding grimly, and swung up into the saddle. Elizabeth reached him, clutching at his mail-covered thigh. Tears streamed down her upturned face. “If not for me, have a care for your son, my lord—he will need you.”

His palm brushed over her wet cheek lightly, and his smile twisted. “Nay, Elizabeth, ’tis for you—’twas always for you.”

Her father’s arms closed around her, pulling her away. And from above the helmet nasal Giles’ black eyes glittered, reminding her of their first meeting. She caught her lip with her teeth and forced a smile.

“May God keep you, Giles!” she cried as he put the spurs to the horse’s flank. “Sweet Mary, but without you, I’d not survive!”

There was no destrier bred that could sustain a gallop, but Rivaux’s horse was fresh. The huge animal lunged forward in pursuit, pounding the packed mud. Giles prayed silently that the darkness would force Reyner to keep to the road. After about two furlongs Baucent slowed to a hard trot.

Giles knew not how long or how far he rode at the bone-jarring pace, but he’d almost despaired of catching them when finally he saw the ghostly reflection of pale moonlight on mail. ‘Twas Rivaux of Celesin, at least.

Richard raised his arm to acknowledge him, then shouted, “His horse tires—he is just ahead!”

Giles removed the count’s helm to listen and he could hear Reyner in the distance, his voice carrying as he abused his beast, urging it beyond its endurance. Grimly, the lord of Dunashie replaced the helmet, adjusting the nasal to suit him. His hand closed over the hilt of Guy of Rivaux’s sword.

Cornered and on a horse that was spent, Reyner tried to dismount and offer his surrender, but Giles was not to be denied. Riding ahead now, he called out clearly, “I give no quarter, Reyner! I am not called Butcher without reason!”

The Count of Eury licked his dry lips and turned to appeal to Richard. “I’d yield myself to Count Guy! I’d have him ransom me!”

The younger Rivaux shook his head. “He is not here—and the lord of Dunashie would have satisfaction for his wife’s honor! You are his to take!”

The message was clear: Reyner had but the choice of how he would die. The memory of Giles swinging the broad-axe sent a shiver down his spine. “In the name of God, messire,” he addressed Richard again, “I’d remind you of the bond of blood that was between us!” When he received no answer, he appealed to Giles. “There was no quarrel between us, my lord!”

“You shamed my wife!”

The red-shirted knights circled, leaving the count no means of escape. The destrier’s lather soaked his boots. A sense of desperation overwhelmed him.

“Swords then!” he yelled defiantly. “And I win, I am free!”

“Aye.”

“You behold I have no buckler!”

“Nor do I! ‘Twill be a quick fight!”

Reyner dismounted first, testing his legs, then drew his sword. As Giles swung down from Rivaux’s saddle, the older man lunged, slashing at him ere he could draw his weapon.

“Foul!” Richard shouted.

But Reyner was beyond the proprieties of contest— he’d wound ere the other man could defend himself. Giles backed away, his right hand still on the pommel of Guy of Rivaux’s sword, when Richard thrust Hell-bringer into his left. He shifted it quickly, bringing it up to block Reyner’s thrust, and the duel was joined.

The Count of Eury, though far shorter in stature, was possessed of long arms. As Giles circled him warily, waiting for an opening, Reyner tested his defense, swinging low. The Viking sword came up quickly, deflecting the blow, and the moonlight showed the runes written on the blade. For a moment Reyner was paralyzed with fear, and ’twas the end. The blow caught him beneath the rib cage, ripping upward through his mail.

He looked down in disbelief as the hot pain spread through him, then he staggered to fall at Richard of Rivaux’s feet. He coughed, and foamy blood spewed from his mouth. “A priest… Must have a priest. Cannot die… without a priest,” he gasped.

Giles dislodged the Count of Rivaux’s heavy helmet and leaned over, his black eyes glittering. “What proof is it that dispossesses Guy?” he asked brutally.

“Sweet Jesu … a priest,” Reyner begged. “I’d be shriven.”

“What proof?” Giles demanded again.

“In the name of God …”

“Nay.”

Reyner coughed again, and the foam flowed also from his nostrils. And he knew an even greater fear. It was as though he could see hell. “Letter from Eudo… case in my … box …”

“Where? On peril of your soul—where?”

“Wycklow. Brought it … to take … to Stephen. Oh, Sweet Jesu …”

Giles nodded. Kicking aside Reyner’s sword, he knelt beside the Count of Eury. “Confess then, and be shriven.” He held Hellbringer above Reyner, that the tang and quillon would represent the Cross to the dying man.

There was so little time. Reyner caught at Giles’ hand, holding it. “Father in heaven, forgive me, for … my sins have … been many … and I’d ask … forgiveness for my … poor Ivo. He …” His fingers tightening on Giles, he struggled as though he would sit, stiffened suddenly, then fell back to stare, his eyes open but unseeing, at the stars.

Giles picked up the count’s discarded sword and laid it over his breast, folding his hands over it. “Father, receive the soul of Reyner of Eury, that he may be judged according to Thy will.”

There was a hesitation behind him, then Giles heard Richard murmur, “Amen.”

He stood and wiped the blood from Hellbringer ere he tendered it back to its owner. “I’d send a cart for him,” he said soberly. Then, as though he would explain why he’d done what he’d done, he added, “ ’Tis for God to consider his madness.”

“Aye. Papa would have a box made for him that it may be sealed. As he is the last of his line, he should be buried beside Ivo at Eury.” He sheathed the sword, then lay a hand on Giles’ shoulder. “Art Butcher no more to me, brother.”

They rode back slowly to spare the horses, every man silent as though each contemplated his own mortality. At the edge of the camp, Elizabeth waited with Guy of Rivaux. Her face was streaked with soot, her hair was still tangled over her father’s surcoat, and her legs and feet were bare, like those of a serf just come in from a summer field. Above her, the sky was still aglow with the burning rubble behind the stone walls of Wycklow. Yet when she smiled at him Giles knew her for the most beautiful woman in Christendom.