Everlasting (43 page)

 
On the fourth evening, Abrielle’s optimism had become merely a show for her people, who had been fed and calmed. She herself could not contemplate sleep, as it was becoming more and more difficult to fight her sense of fear and sadness. She went out into the courtyard and climbed up into the battlements above the curtain walls. There the stars were pinpricks of light across the sky, and the moon hung low like a white grin laughing at them.

 
Vachel was patrolling the walkways with the soldiers, bolstering spirits, keeping a grim eye on the enemy encamped some distance away. When he espied Abrielle, he came to her and swept his own cloak about her. She had not even realized that she was cold until she was enfolded in comforting warmth.

 
“You should be resting, my dear,” Vachel said.

 
“As should you.” She allowed him to put his arm about her, to pull her against him, but his presence could not ease the pain in her heart. “Innocent men on both sides are dying because of me,” she whispered, her throat raw, her eyes surprisingly close to tears.

 
“Nay, that is not true, daughter. Men are dying because of the
greed of one man, who has swayed many fools to a false cause. They cannot see beyond their fear.”

 
She leaned near the embrasure to see out over the dark countryside. Dozens of campfires dotted the horizon. “How long do you think this will go on?”

 
He shrugged. “Until the northern lords come to their senses and see Thurstan for his true motives.”

 
At night, with the sound of battle a distant memory, there was a deceptive peace over the land. All Abrielle could hear was the murmur of male voices carried on the wind, the babble of the stream below—and the faint clash of weapons.

 
She stiffened at the same moment as her stepfather. “What was that?” she asked.

 
“Battle,” he said grimly. “But at night? And it is not near our walls. Does someone attack our enemies?”

 
One by one, soldiers came to stand against the battlements, to peer into the distance, to speculate with cautious voices. Abrielle’s eyes hurt from the strain of trying to see, but she thought the sounds were getting closer. More than once, she saw fire glint off metal, heard several shouts.

 
And then came the thunder of a horses’ hooves, and the shout of a man’s voice as he neared the castle.

 
Abrielle did not need to see who had shouted to know in her heart who it was moving through the darkness and danger to reach her side, and she cried out, “Raven!”

CHAPTER 20

 
Not an hour before, Raven had worked himself through the lines of his enemies. He had crept by stealth, past campfire after campfire, and patrols that were looking toward the dark horizon rather than to the earth itself. And through it all he kept his mind sternly focused on the moment at hand, never letting his thoughts stray from his next footstep, his next handhold, not daring to think of the one thing he wanted to think of most, his very reason for being there, lest it cause him even a second of delay.

 
He had come ahead of the regiment he’d summoned, men loyal to Stephen, ’tis true, but willing to fight an injustice and settle the uneasy countryside. Raven had left his own men-at-arms a league distant, knowing he could get through the enemy lines more easily and quickly alone.

 
Get through he must, and would, no matter who stood in his way, for on the other side of the wall that was now in sight lay what mattered to him most in the world, more than he’d known was possible, and a million times more than she was willing to believe…Abrielle. He would not see her harmed, nor any of those she loved. And it an
gered him enough to make him even more dangerous than his reputation just to think of what this siege had already put her through.

 
When he was within sight of the castle walls lit by torches, he heard the first shout of warning, and then the echoing cries of alarm. He had been discovered. He jumped to his feet, unsheathing his claymore as he ran, cutting down the first guard without even breaking his stride. Several more came at him, swords raised, but there was fear in their eyes, too, as if they thought him dangerous because of what he dared. He veered toward the hobbled horses, cut a line, and then vaulted onto the animal bareback, urging him into a gallop toward the castle.

 
His plan to approach the walls and be let in secretly at the postern gate was no more. He was leading too many enemies for the guards to risk opening the door. If he had to ride away, he would fail Abrielle, which he would not accept.

 
Just as the castle walls rose above him, a man ran out of the darkness, startling the horse, which reared wildly. Raven was already tumbling backward to the ground as he heard a woman scream. After landing heavily, he rolled to his feet, claymore still clutched in his hand.

 
Thurstan de Marlé was alone before him, sword held with purpose and skill. “Raven Seabern, you must win your way past me to enter this keep. We claim it for King Stephen.”

 
“’Tis obvious my wife disagrees with ye on the ownership of the castle,” Raven said. He could hear soldiers gathering around him, noises and shadows in the dark. “So ye’ll attack me in force, will ye?”

 
“Nay, right now let this be between you and me,” Thurstan said, then raised his voice. “The rest of you stay back.”

 
“And if I win, do I receive the dubious award of their swords in my back?”

 
“You can have free passage into the keep. Agreed?”

 
“Agreed.”

 
And with that, Thurstan attacked. His advance was immediately met with a deft stroke of the claymore that left a deep cut across his arm. It did indeed unsettle his firm conviction that he was the better swordsman. Soon it was all he could do to hold ground against the Scotsman’s unrelenting advance. Rising cuts from the back guard continued to propel him ever backward in a desperate attempt to avoid the menacing strokes of the claymore. In turning the hilt and bringing the point in a position to strike again, Raven left his adversary astonished out of measure by the skill he displayed. Even when Thurstan sought a more aggressive approach with a hanging guard, he found himself again amazed by the deftness with which the Scotsman parried his attack. Beads of sweat were now dappling his brow as he strove to halt the other’s blade and keep it from snuffing out his life. His own sword seemed no less than paltry in comparison, and yet, with each passing moment, his arm grew increasingly weary from its weight. He could only wonder how the Scotsman had the strength and stamina to wield the much heavier weapon with unyielding proficiency.

 
Raven felt almost calm, each stroke of the claymore springing forth from strength born of long hours of practice. He felt a nick to his wrist between his mail and the gauntlet he wore on his hand, but it was not a serious wound. He took a hard hit to the mail chausses covering his thighs, and knew he’d be well bruised. Cheers and cries of encouragement or dismay rang through the air. Up on the battlements, more torches had been brought, lighting the sky as if it were the birth of dawn. From up there, he knew Abrielle was watching. After endless weeks of tedious meetings or long, boring, cold journeys across two countries, at last he was almost with her again. He had to end the battle, to make his wife safe from this fool.

 
In the next instant, a downward stroke of the claymore evoked a loud, tortured scream from Thurstan, who lifted what remained of his left arm and, in growing horror, stared at the bloody stump.
Knowing he would soon die if something weren’t done to stem his copious loss of blood, he stumbled in agony toward the fire. Another bloodcurdling scream was wrenched from him as he thrust the stump into the flames and held it there until the wound was seared black and the loss of blood had been adequately stemmed.

 
The sudden silence was eerie, and was followed by the sound of the claymore, cleaned on moss, sliding home into its scabbard.

 
“We are done,” Raven said in a cold, calm voice. “You can no longer hold a shield. Do you guarantee my reward?”

 
Mordea came forward, teeth gnashing, arm raised, but Thurstan grabbed her before she could get past him.

 
“Aye, you…have won,” Thurstan said, breath coming in gasps, eyes stinging with sweat, “but only this battle. Enter the keep. We shall…see how long it lasts before falling…to our siege.”

 
The soldiers ringing the battlements began to cheer, but they also readied their arrows as the drawbridge was lowered, in case of treachery. Raven suddenly whistled, and from the darkness came three of his mounted men bearing a flag of truce, and leading Raven’s stallion. All four clattered over the drawbridge, and it was slowly lifted closed again.

 
Only when Raven was safe within the curtain walls did Abrielle sag against the embrasure, where she had stood to watch the battle. To see him risk his life for her, and for her family, left her weak, and it unleashed an avalanche of questions and second thoughts, so many it would take her a week to sort them all. For now, one rang out clearly above the rest, the one that mattered most of all. If all Raven cared about was wealth, as she had been so certain was the truth, he could have waited in Scotland while the castle was besieged, but he had not done so, he had not abandoned her. Nay, he had acted as honorably as any husband could, and suddenly Abrielle could not bear to wait another moment to be by his side.

 
Vachel put his arm around Abrielle, and although she protested that she was fine, he supported her down the narrow stairs leading to
the courtyard. Knights and serfs and castle residents were all streaming into the courtyard, surrounding Raven and his men, throwing question after question at him.

 
Abrielle pushed her way through. “Enough!” she cried with force.

 
All around her, people fell silent. Raven focused that intense gaze on her. She saw flecks of blood on the cote over his hauberk, dirt smeared across his face, and a coolness in his features that she was not used to seeing. But still, his blue eyes were hot as they took in the length of her body. It took her some moments before she could compose herself enough to say, “Husband, you need tending. All else can await the morrow.”

 
Raven did not hesitate, but rather with haste pushed past all others to take her hand and lead her through the castle to their bedchamber. Thanks to Nedda, the bed was turned down, linens were laid out, and water heated over the fire. Even the bathing tub had been set up, and a line of servants arrived with steaming buckets of water. Abrielle watched the grateful looks they gave Raven, and though he be a Scot, he had already proven a far superior master than Desmond. They obviously did not care what country he came from as long as he treated them well and fairly.

 
When they were alone again, Abrielle helped Raven remove his mail and gambeson, and she was relieved to see that the blood did not seem excessive. His breeches, bloodstained shirt, and braies came next, and she still found herself averting her gaze as he sank into the tub and began to soap a cloth.

 
“Wash your wounds well,” she said, sorting through her medicines. She had to keep busy, for it was far too easy to be swayed by the tension between them. They had parted weeks ago, leaving her to feel awkward and worried about their marriage. Now there was an energy and excitement moving through her, and she tried to tell herself it was only because he was safe and because he was here to help rescue her family and her people.

 
She glanced at him over her shoulder and felt a strange tenderness to see his big body crammed into that tub, shoulders out of the water, his head tilted back awkwardly against the rim as if he were almost asleep out of weariness. Through slitted eyes, he watched her warily as she soaped his face and took a blade to his many days’ growth of beard. She pushed his shoulders forward to bare his wide, strong back, and then began to scrub diligently with a soapy cloth, for she didn’t know when he’d last had the luxury of anything more than an icy stream. He groaned softly, his head dangling forward. She put her soapy hands in his hair and started to rub.