Outrageous (27 page)

Touched by moonlight
, the spidery writing blared at Griffith like the flourish of a trumpet.

Marian gloated at his wide eyes and open mouth, at the astonishment writ on every line of his body. It was working, just as she’d planned. This would convince him of the rightness of her quest and would bring him into the battle on Lionel’s behalf.

Then the parchment began to shake. She watched as the shaking traveled up his arm to his whole body, and she grasped his elbow in alarm. “Griffith? Are you ill?”

The anguish and horror in his gaze slashed at her, bringing home her mistake, as did the trembling of his voice when he asked, “Why did you show this to me? Do you wish me to dispose of it for you?”

“Not dispose of it, nay!” She snatched at her precious parchment, but he held it out of her reach. “I showed it to you so you would realize all portents point to Lionel’s succession.”

Like the knell of a church bell at a funeral, his
solemn voice pronounced, “I am Henry’s man, and this is treason I hold in my hand.”

“Not treason!” she cried. “’Tis Lionel’s birthright.”

“’Tis Lionel’s death warrant.” Despite the evening chill, moisture sheened his brow. “I could take it from you.”

She looked at the irreplaceable document, held above her head, and examined the width of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. She could do nothing to stop him if he chose to keep it or destroy it. Her gamble had failed, and now she could only try to repair the damage. “You could keep it,” she answered steadily, “but you won’t. You are too honorable.”

Had she convinced him, or was she merely reading his character correctly at last? It didn’t matter, for he dropped the parchment, and she lunged, catching it before it fell in the dirt.

Anchoring her wrist with the grasp of his hand, he whispered, “Bury it. Burn it. Take your knife and shred it. As long as the proof of that wedding exists, evil men would be seeking Lionel to use him against the king—as they have done now, even without that proof.”

Righteousness burned in her. “What about my vow to Elizabeth?”

“Your vow to Elizabeth!” He snorted. “I read the letter Elizabeth sent to you. Didn’t you?”

“Aye, I did. In it she spoke of Lionel and how tenderly she thinks of him.”

“And?” he prompted.

She shrugged, impatient with this empty conversation. “She spoke of her other son, Arthur, and of her husband, Henry.”

“And?” he insisted.

Bewildered, she said, “And…what?”

“Didn’t she tell you about her love for Arthur, and how he repairs the emptiness left by the death of her brothers?”

“Well…aye, I suppose.”

“Didn’t she tell you of her husband, the king, and how he encourages her to send you money for the well-being of Lionel?” He peered at her, and her blank expression seemed to drive him into a frenzy. He caught her by the shoulders and shook her. “Don’t you understand what she was saying?”

Marian shook her head. She didn’t understand what Griffith wanted. She didn’t see what seemed so obvious to him. She didn’t understand anything at all.

Griffith pushed her away as if the touch of her disgusted him. “You close your eyes deliberately. What value is a vow extorted by a woman suffering from the exhaustion of childbirth, a woman grieved from the death of her brothers and unsure of her own fate? Don’t you understand? Elizabeth has found contentment with her son and her husband, and she wants you to forget the past and move on.”

Stunned by his wild imaginings, Marian stammered, “She…does…not.”

“Does Elizabeth want her second son killed to make way for her first?”

Marian defended Elizabeth almost on instinct. “Elizabeth is the most loving creature in the world. She wishes death for no one, and certainly”—she gasped as the truth of it hit her, but she denied it—“her second son would not have to die.”

“Don’t play the fool, Marian. You lived at court. You were part of the greatest intrigue in English history. You know the truth.” She covered her ears, but he took her hands away. “Arthur would have to die. Henry would have to die—and Henry is easily as devoted a father as you are a devoted mother. It would be a bloody fight.”

Griffith was flinging facts at her—facts she hadn’t wanted to face. Facts that scourged her as precisely as a whip in the hand of an inquisitor.

He continued relentlessly. “For Lionel to become
king, Henry must be a victim, and Arthur, and even your dear friend Elizabeth.
That’s
what Elizabeth was trying to tell you. That’s what you must accept.”

Breathing was an effort. The bleeding of her heart seemed to have clogged her lungs. Thinking became impossible. The agony of the truth destroyed her mind.

Struggling to articulate some of her own conviction, she found herself reduced to reciting the old litany with which she’d supported her hopes. “Lionel is my son, the heir to the throne, and he deserves better than a life as a bastard.”

Griffith swelled with a kind of triumph. “Aye, he does, and I’ve offered Lionel just that. I will make him my son, give him part of my estate, and love him as my own.”

It was a great offer, a generous offer, but she rejected it unconditionally, and he knew it even before she could find a way to soften the blow. In a rage of disappointment and bitterness, Griffith said, “You would have Lionel live a life defined by threats against his person and his power, a life where life itself is a gift to be stolen by one stray arrow, by a single knife blade to the heart. That is the life of a child king. That is what you wish for him.”

“Nay, not so.” She shook with the same palsy that had earlier afflicted him, and his accusations drove her half-mad with grief. “I can protect him. I am not so selfish.”

“Aren’t you?” He picked up the hand that held the parchment and pushed it before her eyes. “Perhaps you should wonder who you’re saving this for? Is it for Lionel, or is it for you?”

“Not me!” She denied it instinctively, knowing she wanted only the best for Lionel, knowing no thought of her own benefit ever stirred her soul. For that was surely the blackest sin—using the child of her heart for advancement. Only a monster, only a depraved
creature, would dream so deceitful a dream. She hadn’t.

“Are you seeking vindication from those who called you a whore? Are you seeking power as the king’s mother? Or are you simply seeking the court life you lost and miss?”

Steel flashed in the moonlight, and she found the haft of her knife in her free hand. She pressed the tip against his chest, so hurt and enraged she would gladly cut out his heart.

“Go ahead.” He loosed her and spread his arms wide. “Drive your knife deep. But do it only if I’ve lied.”

She pressed harder.

“Do it, and know the truth has died this night.”

Griffith felt each mighty thump of his heart, each pulse of blood through his veins, as he crawled along the ground, and he thanked God for ongoing service of that uninjured organ.

Griffith had always known he might end as a piece of meat on a skewer, but he’d thought it would be in battle. He’d never considered his own wife would be the butcher.

But it had been close. Too close. Marian had pressed on that knife until he’d felt the threads in his doublet give way.

Then she’d pulled back. Without a word, she’d put her knife in its sheath at her waist and had lain down. He hadn’t had to wake her for their raid on the mercenaries—she’d never slept, and he wondered if it was guilt or fury that had kept her awake.

Marian. Why had God given him Marian? Was it some celestial jest on Griffith, who had sworn to have a domestic woman, content to stay home? For if he now had that woman, she would not be creeping around to the far side of the mercenary camp as he
prepared an attack from the near side. She would collapse at the suggestion of fighting, and he would be alone in the dark.

With Marian, he knew he wasn’t alone. He had a partner he could depend on, and depend on her he did.

Taking care to remain behind a sandstone slab, for the protection of his leather armor was not enough, he rose to his feet and surveyed the area. The mercenaries had chosen their camp well. A ring of rock towered above them in the shape of a horseshoe, with Dolan and Lionel tucked in the deepest part beneath the sandstone overhang. The fire had been built ten paces in front, and four men lay wrapped in rugs around it. It couldn’t have been comfortable, for the ground sloped away beneath them, but it served as protection for the child, and that, no doubt, was their intention. One man was missing—a lookout? Or simply a visitor to the bushes?

Griffith waited for his return, measuring the distance between the overhang above Lionel and the ground. They had planned that Marian would drop between Lionel and the fire and get Lionel, regardless of the cost.

He looked again, then turned his head away. It was easier, he found, to engage in battle than to contemplate your mate in battle, and he observed her escape route with care. Ringing the front of the camp was a brook that cut deep into the sandstone, a natural defense, but also the escape route Marian would use. He would earn her the time she needed. He knew she had the courage. Now, if only her strength proved great enough and her luck proved shield enough, his lady falcon would fly away from this place.

Alert in every sense, Griffith watched the camp as he notched his arrow in the yew longbow. The missing man had not returned, but the minutes were slipping by and the moon was sinking toward its resting
place in the mountains. The raid could wait no longer. He lifted the bow and pulled the bowstring taut, then took aim at one sleeping figure.

The arrow flew straight and true, burying itself deep into the body. With a shriek, the mercenary died. The other mercenaries revealed their training as they rolled away from the fire and to their feet. Griffith picked off another as he ran toward the concealing woods, but in his hurry his shot faltered, and he could hear curses as the man plucked the arrow from his leg.

He waited only long enough to see Marian jump from the overhang above Lionel, and then he raced to a new position.

The slippery sandstone gravel around the overhang served as its own protection against marauders, as Marian found when she landed and her feet slid out from under her. Knife in hand, she tumbled a few feet down the slope, panicked by her clumsiness and hoping Dolan hadn’t heard.

Madness. He would have had to be deaf to miss it. Gripping her knife between her teeth, she clawed her way up the few feet to the overhang and realized Dolan was not deaf, but gone. Lionel lay tucked back into the crack of the rock, wide-eyed and unguarded, and Marian’s heart sang.

Her son was alive, safe, and unharmed, and never had she thought to seize him so easily.

“Lionel,” she coaxed. “Come to Mama.”

He only scooted tighter into the overhang.

“Lionel, please.” She glanced around, but no one appeared. “Sweeting, ’tis Mama. Come with me, and we’ll go away from here.”

She could hear his rapid breathing and knew that for him, abruptly wakened from sleep, her appearance was nothing more than another part of this continuous nightmare. With another glance behind her, she crawled under the overhang and reached for her son.

Before she could touch him, another hand whipped out and caught her wrist.

It came from a dark and empty place—only it wasn’t empty. Dolan unfolded himself from his hiding place and pushed her farther back into the rock. “M’lady,” he said. “Ye came at last. What are yer plans?”

“I’m going to take Lionel.” She whipped out her knife and pointed it at him.

“Don’t wave yer spur at me, or I’ll show ye how t’ use it,” he growled. “Have ye a horse? Fer ye’ll not get far without one.”

Confused by what sounded like benevolence, she stammered, “I don’t…aye, I have a horse. Two horses.”

“Griffith wi’ ye?”

“Aye.”

“Then ye’ve got a chance.” He picked Lionel up and wrapped him tighter in the blanket, then led her to the edge of the overhang. He peered around. “Keep low until ye reach th’ steed, then spur him ’til ye’re well away. Go fer Castle Wenthaven, I guess, fer these dickweeds aren’t Wenthaven’s men no more. They’re renegades, seekin’ t’ make a fortune sellin’ th’ poor lad t’ his grandfather. There now”—they heard an explosion of screams—“yer Griffith got another one. Go now!”

He handed Lionel to her, but she said, “Why should I trust you? You’re one of
them
.”

“Don’t be such a damned stupid twit. Who th’ hell did ye think was carin’ fer th’ lad? I had t’ join ’em, or they’da not let me take him.”

Looking at his gnarled face, she believed him.

And he knew it. Pushing at her, he commanded, “Run!”

She did, and he served as a shield as she slithered into the trees. She heard Griffith shout, then Dolan urged, “Keep goin’. Don’t look back!”

She skidded to a stop, and he skidded into her.

“Go on,” he said again, but she couldn’t.

Regardless of the precious burden in her arms, she had to know. Through a gap in the trees, she saw them, face to face in the moonlight.

Griffith and Harbottle.

Harbottle held one of the dueling swords Griffith so despised.

Griffith held a war hammer.

“Oh, God,” Marian whispered. “Harbottle’s going to kill him.”

“Don’t be so sure, m’lady.” But Dolan’s usual cockiness failed.

From across the clearing, Harbottle glowed with health, with beauty, with the certainty of victory. Next to him, Griffith looked large, solemn, and slow, a bear or beast too simple to embrace his fate with grace.

A yell from the woods opposite startled Marian. “Get ’im!”

But for whom was the encouragement intended?

Dolan plucked at her sleeve. “M’lady, we must go. Th’ other mercenaries are loose. They can find us”—he glanced around as if puzzled—“if they choose.”

The silver blade sliced the air toward Griffith’s face. Griffith stepped back—far enough? Marian stifled her cry, braced herself for the shower of blood that would follow the stroke.

Nothing. Even Harbottle frowned. For a brief moment Griffith had transformed himself from a lumbering beast into a skilled warrior. But the moment passed as Griffith clumsily swung his hammer toward Harbottle’s shoulder. The powerful blow whistled as it missed him in a clean sweep.