Lord of Vengeance (36 page)

“Mayhap there is a way we can both obtain satisfaction,” Nigel said after some careful thought. “How would you like a chance to settle the score with Rutledge...permanently?”

The mercenary didn't miss a beat in answering. “The bastard's 'ead and a purse as well? Why, 'ow can I resist?”

“Indeed,” Nigel concurred, tipping his cup in a grave salud.

A couple of hours later, Nigel threw a coin on the table for his ale and left the tavern, fairly gloating over the ease with which his plan was taking shape. He had no misconceptions that a man of Burc's caliber could be trusted to keep the truth of their meeting a secret, no matter how much he was paid for the crime. But then, Nigel had no intention whatsoever of paying the greedy sot even so much as a farthing. Nay, Burc's reward when he came to collect would be the cold steel of Nigel's sword biting into his fat throat.

The deed would be done, no coin would be lost, and none would be the wiser. Nigel chuckled aloud at the deftness of his wit--and the prospect of his boon come tomorrow eve.

Now all he had to do was convince the old baron to put aside his contempt for Nigel's unfortunate birth if only for a day, and allow him to ride along to the clandestine meeting with Rutledge, where he might guard his side as any allegiant son would want to do.

* * *

Baron d'Bussy and Nigel set out for Wynbrooke early that following morning. It had taken only a couple flagons of wine and a healthy dose of guilt to convince the old man to allow his bastard son this one honor. Nigel now rode at his father's side, watching a vein tick in the side of his ruddy neck and anticipating the moment it would cease...for good.

He smiled, nearly giddy with the idea that he would be the one to do the deed.

Beside him, slouching in his saddle, the baron let out a lengthy sigh. “My bones are growing weary of riding,” he murmured, his speech slowed from too much wine with his morning meal. “How much farther do you reckon we have yet to go, my son?”

Nigel ignored the endearment, shutting out the stab of guilt he felt at hearing the acknowledgment voiced at last. The old man said it only because he was drunk and had forgotten himself for a moment. It was too late, anyway, Nigel reasoned. It meant nothing. Norworth needed a new lord, someone stronger than this feeble-minded, slovenly drunkard. Norworth needed him; it was his birthright. Time he set about claiming it.

“Not much farther,” Nigel replied evenly, scanning the thicket of woods ahead of them and deciding it looked secluded enough for his task. “It won't be long now.”

* * *

Gunnar approached Wynbrooke soon after dawn, conflicting emotions buffeting him with every step his destrier took nearer the keep. During the ride south to his familial lands, he had nearly come to terms with the idea of letting d'Bussy live.

He doubted he would ever forgive, and certainly never would he understand, but he no longer needed to stain his hands with the baron's blood to move on, to live his life in peace. Something inside him had gentled, had softened the old feelings of hatred and hurt, had made him take joy in living and gave him hope for tomorrow.

That something was Raina.

She
was inside him. Inside him and around him, in everything he did and felt and thought. She was his life. Loving her as he so fully did, he could never bring her pain, could never make her suffer the loss of family that he had. And if he could have her in his life, he knew he would feel that loss no more.

Letting the warmth of that notion embrace him, Gunnar urged his mount forward and up the hill to the castle to await the baron's arrival. He was halfway there when something whisked past his head and landed on the ground behind him with a solid thwack. Stunned, he pulled the reins and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “What the devil--”

He spurred his destrier, scarcely having time to register the meaning of the attack before a second arrow flew, this time closer to its mark. The bolt whizzed down from the tower and grazed his right arm with searing pain.

“D'Bussy,” Gunnar cursed, charging up the rest of the incline, sword drawn, prepared to kill or be killed.

A clatter from above him on the roof echoed in the bailey as he leapt from his horse. Damning himself for being fool enough to trust a proven deceiver like the baron, Gunnar dashed up the stairwell that spiraled through the heart of the keep, toward the portal opening of the tower roof. He smashed the wooden plank open with his forearm, nearly daring the assailant to fire on him as he hoisted himself up.

All that greeted him was quiet: a momentary, eerie pall that belied an attack waiting to happen.

Gunnar pivoted, weapon raised as he made a quick assessment of the rooftop, noting the abandoned, open wine flask and the quiver of arrows spilled in the corner near the wall. Bow and archer were nowhere in sight. A breeze kicked up, nearly masking the soft click that came from behind a large barrel, likely once filled with oil and left there from the day of siege.

Gunnar took one step forward and his attacker sprang from his hiding place, armed with a loaded crossbow and a murderous gleam in his eyes. Gunnar experienced but an instant of surprise and then anger burned to the fore.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance, Burc.”

The mercenary chuckled, lowering his head and squinting over the bow. “Doubtless ye wish ye 'ad now. Drop yer blade.”

Gunnar took a step forward, his eyes trained on Burc's. “So, my old enemy has taken to paying other men to do his misdeeds, has he? What did he promise you in return for my head? A nice plot of land? A handful of coins? I do hope you got your payment in advance, because you won't be collecting any time soon.”

Burc shifted, readjusting his aim. Sweat beaded on his brow. “I said, lay down yer arms.”

“Nay,” Gunnar replied coolly, “I don't think I will. Your striking me on the motte had little to do with skill or aim; more likely beginner's luck. 'Tis obvious from your handling of that weapon that you've never so much as held one before.”

Burc scowled. “Another step and I'll skewer yer carcass where ye stand.”

“You're drunk and you have one bolt. Take your best shot. For I promise you, you'll be dead before you make it to the rest of your supply.”

Burc's gaze slid to the side as if to gauge his chances of reaching the cache of spilled arrows. The instant his attention flicked away, Gunnar surged forward, knocking the crossbow up with the flat of his blade. Burc discharged his weapon. The arrow soared up past their heads to arc, then disappear, over the battlement wall.

With a growl, Gunnar hooked his foot around Burc's ankle and shoved him. Burc took two stumbling steps backward and dropped the crossbow. Armed with his sword, Gunnar charged, striking with a heavy downward swing. Burc rolled to his side, narrowly avoiding the cleaving blow. In the next instant, he rolled back. Gunnar's weapon snapped out of his grasp.

Burc's hand reached out, clutching and groping, nearly seizing Gunnar's ankle. Gunnar kicked him away, stretching to reach the crossbow. His hand closed around the shaft just as Burc's hand closed around his leg. Burc gave a hard tug.

Irate and cursing, Gunnar rose up, twisted around and punched Burc square in the face. He cried out; his grip relaxed immediately. Gunnar scrambled to pick up an arrow from the dozen scattered on the floor, threw it into the weapon, set the bowstring and leapt on top of Burc.

He straddled him, pinning the knight's arms at his sides, the crossbow loaded and poised at his forehead. Burc didn't move, scarcely breathed, though his eyes blazed with animosity. “Bastard should have asked for a demonstration of your skills before he enlisted you to kill me,” Gunnar taunted.

“Aye, well, 'e didn't much care 'ow I did it,” Burc sneered, “only that ye were good and dead by day's end.”

Gunnar's innards coiled with rage. He had been betrayed. A fool. Ten times a fool, he had trusted a scoundrel and walked right into a trap. But the thing that burned worst of all, was that he had
hoped
for a peaceful meeting. Curse his pitiful hide, but he hoped for it even now.

He wanted answers. Damnation, he would demand an explanation. He would drag Burc with him to testify to Raina of her father's continued deceit, and depending on her reaction, Gunnar would either take her with him, or say good-bye to her forever. One way or another, his conflict with d'Bussy was at an end.

“Get up,” he said and began to ease off Burc, gripping the crossbow in his left hand as he made to rise. All at once he felt Burc's body tense beneath him, felt his legs draw up. In the next instant, Burc's feet were in Gunnar's gut, and with a heaving grunt, he shoved him off.

Gunnar flew backward, crashing against the wall. The crossbow went skittering across the rough stone of the rooftop, beyond his grasp. Cold, steel arrow tips bit into his back and jabbed his arms where he landed and his vision spun from the impact.

“Now ye die,” Burc seethed as he scrambled to his feet and drew his sword. Arms spread wide, he barreled forward, teeth bared, snarling savagely.

Instinctively, Gunnar's hand went to his scabbard...and clutched naught but air. The realization sobered him instantly, his vision clearing as he reached behind him and grasped the slim shaft of an arrow.

Burc lunged at him, sword raised over his head.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, Gunnar let the bolt fly.

Burc froze. His jaw went slack. A look of sheer surprise washed over him and his arms fell limp at his sides. His wince turned to a befuddled frown. The sword dropped from his hand, clattering at his feet. With trembling fingers, he touched the slick bolt protruding from a growing, scarlet stain at his chest. “Jesu,” he gasped, a look of stunned disbelief on his face, “I am dead!”

“Aye,” Gunnar observed blandly, rising up and scrutinizing the wound with a casual glance, “in a few hours. But first, you will make the trip back to Norworth with me.”

Chapter 24

Raina kept herself busy in the kitchens most of the day in an attempt to keep her mind off the meeting between Gunnar and her father. She had found it hard to concentrate on even the most mundane task, her fingers trembling with anticipation and her heart nearly leaping out of her chest at the slightest noise. When one of the castle hounds barked, she spilled an entire bowl of trimmed green beans and was still on the floor picking them up when the trumpeter's blast sounded, announcing the arrival of her father's riding party.

She vaulted to her feet and threw her handful of beans into the bowl. “They've returned,” she cried, nearly breathless with excitement as she dashed over and embraced Eda, the cook, who had patiently endured her assistance all day. “Oh, Eda, they have returned!”

“Thank the saints,” the woman replied with a smile. “Mayhap now I can get some work done.”

Raina laughed, spinning on her heel, then lifted her skirts and dashed out of the kitchens and through the great hall. “They've returned at last,” she announced gleefully to the group of knights conversing around one of the trestle tables.

The chains supporting the drawbridge ground noisily in the bailey, echoing down the winding corridor as the great wooden gate was lowered over the moat surrounding Norworth Castle. A hopeful image of Gunnar and her father riding side by side eagerly leapt into Raina's mind. The urgent clatter of horses' hooves sounded atop the drawbridge, quickening her pace--too quick, for she nearly lost her footing on the narrow stairs leading from the keep to the bailey.

She was laughing as she ran across the grassy courtyard, giddy with joy at the prospect of being united with Gunnar once again. Castlefolk, drawn from their work at the announcement of their lord's arrival, watched Raina with open curiosity, but she didn't care what they thought. A crowd had gathered near the gate and she waded through them, trying to move toward the front.

Nigel was the first to thunder through the arched gate of the barbican. He was shouting something, reining in his mount, but Raina was only vaguely aware of him or his voice. She listened instead for two more horses on the drawbridge.

The crowd behind her began to disperse, as did a few to her sides, but it was the people in front of her that Raina wished would move. Standing on her toes, she bobbed to look between their heads and over them, straining to catch a glimpse of her father and Gunnar. Surely they would not be far behind. Moments passed. Where were they? Commotion grew to a din behind her.

Then the drawbridge began to creak back up into a secured position.

“Nay!”

Raina's voice rose above the crowd. The men turning the drawbridge winch ceased and looked down at her from their posts, their faces solemn...damning.

Suddenly, Nigel's shouts became horrifically clear:
Ambush. Rutledge betrayed us. Our lord is dead.

“Nay,” Raina whispered, shaking her head. It could not be true. “There must be some mistake.”

But the drawbridge chains groaned again and the great wooden barrier closed with a heavy boom. The bailey came alive with activity as the castle was secured. Peasants scurried around her driving chickens and sheep into their pens and clearing the courtyard.

Raina stood dazed and numb before the iron-banded panels that now separated her forever from Gunnar.

He could not have betrayed her.

Grief and anger collided within her and she railed at the drawbridge, throwing her fists against the solid wood as if the physical pain would somehow crush the deeper anguish. A tortured cry keened on the wind, ringing in her ears, before she realized it was her own pitiful voice. Feeling a hand come to rest on her shoulder, she turned to find Nigel, his cropped hair sweat-soaked, his jaw tense and smeared with blood.

“Oh, Nigel. Pray, tell me this is not true,” she pleaded. “What happened? Where is my father?”

“Dead,” Nigel said simply. “Killed by Rutledge's traitorous hand.”

“Nay.” Raina mouthed the denial, taking in the visible signs of struggle on Nigel's person: The cut on his lip from the night before had been split open anew; a bruise shadowed his jaw. Stains from grass and dirt marred his russet-colored tunic; a swatch of fabric had been torn from the hem.