Claire Delacroix (144 page)

“Now!” Rowan cried in the same instant that Niccolo cast the burning torch at Baldassare. Gavin drove an elbow into the ribs of the fair-haired man beside him and Rowan attacked the dark-haired seaman behind him.

Bronwyn jabbed her elbows back with vigor and managed to escape her captor’s grip. She pivoted and kicked him in the privates, sending him to the floor writhing in pain.

Adhara similarly took advantage of Baldassare’s surprise. She stamped on Baldassare’s foot, ducked, and ran. The torch hit the wall behind them and the timbers began to burn, the flames licking greedily at the dry wood.

The men paired off to fight. Bronwyn noticed all too quickly that the battle was mismatched—Rowan had no blade, nor did her father or Gavin. She saw her father snatch another torch and light it, closing on Baldassare with resolve in his eyes.

Bronwyn ran for the hearth without hesitation and seized another torch. She lit it and raced to Rowan, who waved it immediately under his opponent’s gaze. The dark-haired man was blinded by the light and danced backward.

Adhara similarly took a torch to Gavin. The hall was lit with flickering orange light, and though they should have roused the others and fled, Bronwyn and her mother remained to watch.

Gavin first swung his torch with gusto and caught his blond adversary across the midriff. The man cried out as flames licked greedily at his clothes. He fell scrabbling to the floor, and Rowan’s father stepped forward to seize the knife from that man’s belt.

The blond man rolled suddenly though and stabbed upward, catching Gavin beneath the ribs. Bronwyn saw Gavin catch his breath, his complexion paling as he stumbled. The fair man leapt to his feet and dove on the older man, despite his burning clothes, and the pair went down.

“Rowan!” she cried.

Rowan took one look and shoved his torch toward his opponent’s face, taking the opportunity to seize the man’s knife. Rowan stabbed quickly at the man’s throat and the dark-haired man went down, to move no more.

His clothing burned and he rolled into the wall, the flames quickly feasting upon the timbers.

But Rowan had turned on his father’s opponent. He leapt into the fray, drawing the man’s attack. The man fought with unexpected vigor, though both he and Rowan were clearly tiring.

Gavin, meanwhile, did not move, and Bronwyn feared for his life. She and Adhara tried to carry him from the hall, thinking that the morning air would revive him. They managed to drag him only a few feet before Rowan bellowed and felled his opponent.

But the man who had held Bronwyn stumbled to his feet, hatred in his eyes. Bronwyn stopped to stare, her heart in her mouth as Rowan turned on that man. He attacked him in a sudden burst, torch in one hand and blade in the other, and the man was quickly vanquished.

Rowan bent over and dispassionately ensured the man would not rise again, then spun to meet Bronwyn’s gaze. He looked past her to her father, swore and raced to that man’s aid.

Niccolo and Baldassare battled on the high table itself, dancing back and forth as they parried and struck. Bronwyn was shocked to see her father being driven back, blood running from his face, but Rowan’s cry made Baldassare glance up in alarm.

’Twas all it took for him to err. Baldassare stepped forward, clearly intending to strike down Niccolo, and slipped. Niccolo took advantage of the moment and battled anew, slicing Baldassare across the throat with a sweeping gesture.

Baldassare fell to his knees before Rowan reached the dais. Niccolo drove his blade into the other man’s heart, the effort costing him dearly.

Indeed, Niccolo fell back, his features drawn and his flesh pale, his bright gaze locked upon the fallen Baldassare.

“Tell me,” he urged Rowan huskily, “that this villain will never threaten my family again.”

Rowan bent down and touched Baldassare’s throat. “He is dead,” he acknowledged, and Niccolo’s shoulders sagged in relief.

Adhara fled across the hall and caught him in her arms,
her tears flowing at the gash upon his face. His fingers traced the line the knife had made, his kiss falling on her wound.

“I shall live, Adhara,” Niccolo declared, his gaze rising to the timbers that burned all around them. “But only if we escape the hall soon.”

Bronwyn had time for one glance only at the hall where she had been raised before Rowan seized her hand. He hastened her before him, seeing her safe before returning for his father.

Bronwyn found her mother by her side as she worriedly watched for Rowan’s return. “You will do well with this man beside you,” Adhara said softly, then smiled quickly. “I shall dance long at your nuptials.” And she gave Bronwyn a tight hug as the men came out once again.

They gathered in the fields beyond Ballyroyal’s gates, the red of the rising sun echoing the embers that glowed where the hall had once stood. All of the servants and vassals within the hall had awakened in time, and Rowan had carried his father to safety. Adhara had fussed over Gavin’s wound, the wrinkle in her brow telling all that her hopes were not high.

Finally, Adhara sat back on her heels and tugged Gavin’s cloak over the wound, which still bled. “There is no need to torment the man,” she said softly, and all knew the import of that.

Rowan sat vigil beside his father, his expression grim. Bronwyn joined him, hoping he would have an opportunity to mend matters with his father and uncertain he truly wanted to.

Indeed, Rowan seemed to have naught to say, though his grip upon her hand was sure.

Bronwyn and Rowan both jumped when Gavin suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse. “I would tell you a tale, while I yet can.”

He did not open his eyes, though he clearly knew who sat beside him. “Once there was a man, born of a saddlemaker in a small town in Wales,” he said gruffly. Bronwyn and Rowan exchanged a glance, then Rowan frowned as he watched his father.

“The name of the town is not of import, but the saddlemaker was named Gerald. He was a man of uncertain parentage, a hardworking man who was uncommonly proud of the birth of his first and what would prove to be his only son. He believed he had built something for his son, a saddlery of repute, one that serviced knights and lords, a place of craftsmanship which generated a reasonable measure of coin.”

Gavin took an unsteady breath. “But that was not enough for his son. Nay, that son was ambitious beyond all else; no mere saddlery would suffice for him. He left his family as soon as he was able, he fled to fight and to win his fortune, for a fortune was surely the only thing he deserved.

“He was victorious at first and returned home a wealthy man. His father, thinking this lust for adventure was satisfied, arranged a match for his son with the pretty daughter of a local man. The deed was signed, the dowry exchanged and spent, before the son discovered the news.”

Gavin began to cough, a fearsome amount of blood in his spittle. Rowan braced his father’s back and held a crock of water for him, winning a grunt from Gavin when he had had enough.

“The son”—he continued as if there had been no interruption—“was enraged. No country wench would do for him—he intended to wed a lady of the court, no less would suffice. Father and son argued, as fathers and sons are wont
to do. The family could not return the dowry, and yet more important, the father Gerald refused to break his word. He insisted the son stand by the pledge.

“The son took this news in poor temper, for he was not one who preferred to be denied his will. Perhaps his parents had indulged him overmuch, as he was their only child, perhaps it was his nature. It matters little—what matters is that he vented his rage upon his new wife. He was drunk when he bedded her.” Gavin swallowed. “God in his mercy spared this fool the memory of what he had done. His bride likely never forgot it.

“He left with the dawn, vowing never to return. ’Twas years before he realized that the weight upon his heart was shame.”

He fell silent then, his eyes opening as he seemed to watch the clouds scuttle across the morning sky.

“And the wife?” Bronwyn prompted.

Gavin flicked a glance her way. “She died, bearing his son.”

“ ’Twas then he felt remorse?”

“Not he.” Gavin |hook his head. “Nay, he turned his back upon the place of his birth, holding naught from there but the memories he denied and a small golden ring that had been dispatched to him. It was the ring he had put on that bride’s finger. He remembered the ring, for it had been his mother’s own.” Gavin frowned. “He could not remember the bride.”

Bronwyn realized belatedly that Gavin made his confession before he died. Not to a priest, to be sure, but clearly he intended to set matters straight while he yet could.

Rowan sat beside her, his gaze fixed on the distant hills, his features so still that they might have been carved in stone.

But she knew he was listening.

Gavin cleared his throat. “So he sought another bride, one more fitting of his ambitions, and he found her at the court of the French king. A cold beauty and an heiress, he knew he could win her, and he set to the chase with diligence. She succumbed to him and wedded him, much to the shock of all the nobility, with a passion that shocked her new spouse. Indeed, he had made a rare bargain, though he realized that later than he should have.

“He might have given her the ring, but he thought she would have mocked him for saving such a tiny sliver of gold. She had far finer jewels already.”

Gavin smiled and shook his head. “ ’Twas years before he realized that she only wedded him to take vengeance for her own father’s lofty ambitions for her.”

He looked to Bronwyn, clearly expecting her to comment. “That is terrible.”

Gavin seemed to find that comment amusing. “Nay, they were of the same ilk. Indeed, they had much in common, these two with their burdens of bitterness and ambition. Perhaps they deserved each other. At any rate, they had a son, a fine boy, despite the anger between them, and I suppose their match was not all bad. In the end, though, ’twas the husband who spoiled all.”

Rowan’s lips tightened, his hand closing over Bronwyn’s again, and she guessed this was the part of the tale that concerned him.

“That mercenary spied a wench in a dancing troupe and she was a beauty. Flashing eyes the color of sunlight and hair as fiery as the dawn. She laughed like a goddess and danced like a firefly—he was bewitched the moment he saw her. He followed her like a dog in heat and was astounded when she yielded to him. He was further astounded at the sweetness that blossomed between them.

“But, of course, such stolen treasures are not destined to
last. The troupe of entertainers moved on, and she went with them, slipping away in the night. She had his heart, though, and she had that sliver of gold, that ring he had once put upon another finger. He sought her, without success, but this woman, this one who had never been his bride, he never forgot.

“And when, five years later, the call came that the troubadors were at the gates, he ran there with all the enthusiasm of a child. She was not there.” Gavin’s voice broke over that confession, though he stared diligently at the sky. “But there was a child, a red-haired boy with his mother’s eyes and the man’s own ring on a chain around his neck.”

He paused and swallowed. “This was his son.”

Bronwyn glanced quickly to Rowan.

“ ’Twas a gift he had never expected, and it humbled him that this woman had borne him a son, unbeknownst to him. Indeed, ’twould have been easier to deny the boy, to turn him away, but the man could not do it. The dancer had melted his heart and the revelation that she was dead broke it. So he took the boy into his home and his rich wife promptly cast him out. She kept the boy, for she was not an overly cruel woman, and, indeed, she had the grace to raise him with her own child.

“Though she never could explain to him the origin of that ring.”

Gavin’s roughened fingers closed over Bronwyn’s left hand. He lifted her hand to his view, a smile slipping over his lips. He brushed his lips across Bronwyn’s knuckle just below the golden ring that Rowan had slipped onto her finger.

“So, you see, in the end, the man won all he roundly deserved.” Gavin’s smile faded to naught and his voice faltered. “He left his home with little and ended his life
with naught; he had pushed aside every soul who had ever cared about him, and he had lost even that sliver of gold.”

Gavin turned a bright gaze upon Bronwyn, and she found her vision clouded with tears. “ ’Tis your tale now, just as ’tis your ring. I would not have you think its legacy a wicked one.”

“ ’Tis far from that,” she said quietly, and saw a smile of reminiscence touch his lips briefly.

Then Gavin looked to Rowan, the two men’s gazes holding long. “I have never asked you for anything,” the older man said. “But now I would have your pledge.”

Rowan caught his breath. “In exchange for the tale?”

“Is the wager not fine enough for you?”

Rowan smiled slightly, his own gaze suspiciously bright. “ ’Tis more than fair. Name what you would have of me.”

“Go home to Montvieux. Go to Montvieux and tell Margaux that I would grant her the only thing she ever desired of me.”