Lady At Arms (35 page)

Ranulf’s squire took charge of Lady Zara and guided her horse behind the ranks of men. Though Duncan tried to do the same with Lizanne, she shook her head, refusing to relinquish the reins. The squire threw Gilbert a helpless look, then settled his bow across his lap, removed his short mantle, and leaned sideways to drape it over her shoulders.

Ranulf assured himself she was safe with the squire at her side and looked to his brother-in-law. “Which will you take?” he asked, offering him first choice.

“Darth.” Gilbert pointed his sword at the pale-haired man.

It was surely not the one he wanted, but it was a wise choice as Ranulf had hoped it would be. Gilbert had good cause to question how Ranulf would deal with his newfound brother and was taking no chances—ensuring justice was done.

“Very well,” Ranulf said, “but first I would speak with him.

Gilbert nodded and shifted his regard to Charwyck.

“Come, Brother,” Ranulf said, moving toward Darth. “Let us speak ere we do battle.”

Darth looked uncertain but acquiesced, following Ranulf a short distance away from the other two.

Each with their swords before them, the two brothers faced one another and studied the other’s face. At first, it seemed to Ranulf as if he stood before a large mirror, but the differences soon became clear and he felt a pang of regret for the hard life reflected in his brother who had grown up beneath the warped tutelage of Philip Charwyck.

“Would that I could have known you, Darth—Colin,” Ranulf said. “That it could have been different.”

“’Twill be! Chesne will be mine, and ye will be dead.”

Ranulf shook his head. “Chesne is mine, though
had
things been different, I would have shared all with you.”

Darth’s mouth twisted. “Ye lie as much as our dear mother.”

Ranulf glanced at where Lady Zara sat unmoving upon her mount, then to Lizanne. Back stiff, his wife watched their exchange, her dark hair lifting in the cool breeze.

Justice would be done—for her, for Gilbert, for all those who had fallen at the hands of his brother in the name of Philip Charwyck.

“I speak the truth,” Ranulf said, returning his attention to Darth, “but ’tis too late now.” It was a risk he took in turning his back on the man, but Ranulf pivoted. With long strides, he crossed toward where Charwyck awaited him and briefly paused to clasp arms with Gilbert.

“No mercy,” Lizanne’s brother said, meeting Ranulf’s gaze, then continuing past him.

Two would die this day, Ranulf knew, but which two would live? Determined he would not be the one to spend his life’s blood upon this field, he readied his sword and advanced on Charwyck.

Lizanne prayed. And prayed. What followed was bloodier than expected, for Ranulf’s opponent was more than simply proficient with a sword. He was expert. Darth was a different matter, but not to be taken lightly. What he lacked in finesse, he redeemed in sheer strength and unpredictability, which proved dangerous for Gilbert whose speed and maneuverability was hindered by his lame leg.

Labored grunts and groans filled the air, curses were hurled like flotsam upon the waves, and blows were exchanged that left each man staggered and bleeding.

As Lizanne swung her gaze from Ranulf to Gilbert, she saw her brother parry a thrust that would have severed his head from his neck had he not anticipated it. Wrath roared from him, and he countered with a swing that sliced through the other man’s sword arm.

Darth stumbled back, grasped at the gaping wound from which blood flowed. Though his sword was of little use to him without the strength to guide it, he held it aloft as Gilbert cautiously circled him. And then her brother was upon him, sword thrusting, triumphant shout rolling like thunder over his opponent’s passionate death cry.

Lizanne nearly doubled over with relief. Gilbert was safe, now she had only Ranulf to worry about.

She swept her gaze back to him and caught her breath when she saw him falter in his battle with Philip as he glanced at where Gilbert stood over the body of his brother. In the next instant, his opponent made up the ground earlier surrendered by dealing a blow to Ranulf’s side.

“Nay!” Lizanne cried.

But her husband remained standing. With a shout, he deflected the next blow and forced Philip back a pace, then another. Steel rang upon steel with increased vigor as he sought and found the other’s flesh, repaying tenfold each injury done him.

Finally, Philip reeled backward, dropped his sword, and fell to his knees.

Victory at hand, the world soon to be set right again, Ranulf touched his sword to the man’s chest. “And now it ends,” he ground out.

Clutching his gut, Charwyck threw his head back. “I yield!” he shouted for all to hear, then slowly smiled.

Ranulf tensed. “Either way, you die, be it by my hand or the king’s order. My question is, will you die honorably, or as the poltroon you are?”

“I shall take my chances with Henry,” Philip retorted.

Ranulf pressed the point of his sword more heavily to Philip’s chest, causing the man to sway backward. But one push was all it would take to end this now and forever.

“You would kill a fallen knight who has offered himself up to you, Baron Wardieu?” Charwyck challenged his honor.

 
Ranulf clenched his jaws, battling with the conflicting inner voices that seemed intent upon tearing him in two. Finally, assuring himself the miscreant would meet the same end either way, he gave honor its due.

“Get up!” he ordered.

As Charwyck rose, holding a hand to the wound that had been his undoing, he taunted, “I had your wife, you know.”

Ranulf nearly leaned into his sword, but stopped himself. Every muscle straining, he lowered his sword.

Charwyck laughed and straightened.

Stepping behind him, Ranulf thrust the man ahead of him toward Gilbert. His anger was so consuming that he was unprepared when Philip rounded on him, arm thrown back, the newly risen sun glinting off the blade he held.

Before Ranulf could swing his sword up, Charwyck convulsed where he stood poised to release his dagger. A moment later, he toppled forward, an arrow shaft protruding from his back, blood spreading over his tunic.

Ranulf knew.

He raised his gaze and found the master archer whose accuracy and unhindered reflexes had spared his life. The bow still extended, Lizanne faced him from atop her mount.

Ranulf stepped over Charwyck’s inert form and went directly to her. As he neared, she lowered the bow, giving him his first close look at her.

’Tis not the time for rage,
he reminded himself. Although he had seen she had been beaten, he was grateful he had not known the extent, for it could have clouded his judgment, and it might be he who lay dead on the field—as had very nearly happened before his brave, indomitable wife had stepped in.

Holding her gaze, he halted beside her mount.

With a strangled cry, she tossed the bow to the ground and slid off the horse into his waiting arms. Clinging to him, she wept against his chest.

Ranulf held her and stroked her hair. Even when her brother appeared and spoke soothingly to her, she refused to relinquish her hold on her husband.

Gilbert turned and crossed to where Lady Zara remained atop her mount.

“’Tis over,” Lizanne finally said, raising her tear-streaked face to Ranulf’s.

He gently cupped her cheek. “It is indeed.”

“What of your injuries?” She started to pull back as if to examine them, but he kept hold of her.

“Naught that cannot wait,” he assured her.

“Can we go home to Chesne?”

He smiled. “Aye, Wife. Home.” Then he lifted her into his arms.

Geoff was waiting with his lord’s destrier, a broad smile upon his face.

Ranulf set Lizanne in the saddle, mounted behind her, and drew her back against him. “I love you, Lizanne Wardieu,” he spoke the words he had thought never to utter to any woman.

Her head came around. “Truly?”

He lowered his head and kissed her. “With everything I am and everything I shall be with you at my side.” He drew back and looked into the shimmering green pools of her eyes.

“Have you loved me long, Ranulf?” she asked with wonder.

He had to laugh. “It seems as if forever.”

“But when did you discover it?” She reached up and played her fingers through his pale hair.

“Methinks ’twas when you crawled up that accursed tree and refused to come down, though I did not realize then that was what I felt. You see, I have had little experience with loving.”

“As I have had little. But then, we are just at the beginning, are we not?”

He nodded. “Aye, years and years ahead.”

“Forever,” she murmured and lowered her head to his shoulder.

He urged his destrier forward and, at a leisurely pace, preceded his men back toward Philip’s camp where, he was confident, Walter would have everything under control.

“I have something for you,” he said some minutes later and removed the dagger from his belt. “For such a valuable weapon as this”—he placed it in her hand—“you seem to have a difficult time keeping possession of it.”

She ran a finger over the hilt. “I fought him,” she murmured.

He felt every muscle tighten. “I do not require an explanation. ’Tis behind us.”

Lizanne sat straighter and raised the dagger. “Though I did not get the chance to carve him with this, it did serve its purpose.”

Ranulf stared at the hand with which she gripped the hilt. From wrist to fingertips, it was scratched, gouged, and bruised, and he knew Charwyck had beaten it against the rock in order to take the dagger from her. “Then he did not—?”

She shook her head.
 

He released his breath, lowered his head, and kissed her soundly. “Why do I continually underestimate you? ’Tis you who saved my life, and for which I will be ever grateful now that I have you.”

A mischievous glint shone from her eyes, and her dimple emerged. “Then you will not object to my practicing weaponry occasionally?”

“If it pleases you, Lizanne Wardieu, you may instruct every last one of my men—especially in the use of a bow.”

“A girl,” Ranulf breathed as the perfectly formed infant was placed in his arms. Cradling her carefully, he touched the silken hair sprouting in abundance from the small head.

“Flaxen,” Lady Zara murmured, standing on tiptoe to view her granddaughter. Cooing softly so as not to awaken her daughter-in-law, she placed a finger in one miniature flailing palm and smiled at the child’s strong grip.

“Do you think she will be as beautiful as her mother?” Ranulf whispered.

“Of course. Save for the hair, she has the look of Lizanne.”

“Do share,” his wife said from the bed.

Ranulf stepped around his mother and lowered the bundle into Lizanne’s waiting arms, then he kissed her.

As he straightened, she peered at her babe and breathed, “Oh, she is beautiful.” As she had barely had time to focus on her child before exhaustion had overtaken her following the birthing, it was her first real look at her daughter.

“Gillian,” she pronounced. “We shall call you Gillian.”

Ranulf frowned. “What kind of name is that?”

She kissed the crown of her daughter’s head, then settled back upon her pillow and smiled at her husband. “Since I can hardly name a girl Gilbert, ’tis the closest I can come to honoring my brother.”

Ranulf looked to his mother, but as if realizing he would get no support from her, he resignedly plowed a hand through his hair. “You are certain?”
 

Lizanne nodded. “As she has your surname, ’tis only fair she has one of my family’s names. But you may choose a name of endearment, if ‘twould please you.”

Ranulf lowered beside her and took her hand in his. “I must think on this a while. ’Twill have to be something wonderful lest she not care for her given name.”

Lizanne chuckled. “Oh, she will like it all right.”

“I must needs tell Walter,” Lady Zara said. “He was as nervous, I think, as Ranulf.” She turned, hastened to the door, and went in search of her husband.

Lizanne beckoned Ranulf closer. “Now I would have a real kiss.”

Eagerly, he complied.

Gillian gurgled, and he drew back to stare into the eyes of the gift Lizanne had given him.

“You are not disappointed she is not a he?” Lizanne asked.

He touched the new pink skin of his daughter’s hands. “Never.”

Gillian whimpered, her round face slowly brightened, and she began to thrust her legs beneath the swaddling cloth.

Lizanne and Ranulf looked at each other in silent question. Then, with a grin, Lizanne turned the babe in her arms and settled the little one to her breast. It took coaxing and several failed attempts, but at last Gillian set about satisfying her hunger.

“You have sent word to Gilbert?” Lizanne asked.

Ranulf was slow to answer, his attention upon his daughter. When Lizanne nudged him, he said, “Aye, ere long he will know he is an uncle.”

“Do you think he will come?” Worriedly, she nibbled her bottom lip as she reflected on her brother’s latest troubles with the Charwyck woman, Philip’s sister.

Ranulf shrugged. “Mayhap not straightway, but he will come.”

“’Tis that Charwyck woman again, is it not?” Lizanne grumbled.

He nodded. “It seems she is not making this easy on your brother.”

Lizanne fingered Gillian’s soft hair. “’Tis a pity she did not get word of Philip’s death until after she had taken her nun’s vows.”

“Gilbert will no doubt survive,” Ranulf assured her.

Then the subject was forgotten as they immersed themselves in the wonder of their child.

“Are you truly happy?” Lizanne asked later when their daughter slept and Ranulf stretched out beside her.

He propped himself up on an elbow and drew a finger down her throat. “Very.” He met her gaze. “Now I have two worth dying for.”

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed Lizanne and Ranulf’s love story. If you would consider posting a review of
Lady At Arms
at one of the online retailers below, even if only a sentence or two, I would so appreciate it. Thank you for joining me in the middle ages. I wish you many hours of inspiring, happily-ever-after reading.