Rose of Hope (63 page)

His unwavering gaze caught the sudden flicker of shadowy movement behind the rebel leader, as someone crept upon him from the direction of the chapel entrance. He sought to center Ruald’s attention upon himself, while wondering when Leda would see the newcomer. He would have to use the moment well when the other man’s attention was distracted.

“What mean you, Ruald?” He rapped the words out with an explosive snarl. “Explain yourself!”

“’Twas my intent all along, to be rid of Renouf. I fear I could not bring myself to weep when Ysane played her role so well. The murder of my drunken fool of a brother gave me the excuse I needed to end her life in a perfectly legal execution. Imagine, if you will, how pleasing ’twas to neatly dispose of those who stood in my way in one swift stroke. With Renouf’s murder, and Ysane’s execution for the deed, the lordship of Wulfsinraed was mine.
Mine!
I held it in my very hand, the thing I had worked so hard to achieve, only to see it torn from my grasp by your inconsiderate actions.

“Aye, and now you have again interfered, and I may no longer exercise mercy. Someone must pay for what I have lost, and methinks we have come full circle, the three of us, for is this not where we began?”

He laughed again.

***

The shadow that was Cynric halted its advance on his brother. One shoulder took his weight as his body slumped against the wall. His very breath choked him and he prayed he would not give himself away by yielding to the nausea that gripped him. Had a langseax skewered his stomach, he could not have felt more wretched. He closed his eyes to shut out the sight before him, wishing he could as easily erase what he heard. Ruald—whom he had loved, trusted and
believed
—condemned himself, irrevocably, with every twisted word he spoke.

Though his mind had suspected this, his heart had stubbornly held to the hope Ruald truly loved him in return and meant to keep his word. But in assimilating the tense scene playing out in the corridor, he tasted the utter ruin of the last bond between himself and his only surviving brother.

No longer did he doubt or question. Everything Ysane and Fallard had told him was truth. His brother had lied to him and betrayed him, had played him for a fool, seeking only his own gain. In that anguished moment of absolute clarity, for the first time in his life, Cynric’s heart saw his existence as it truly was. He gagged on the knowledge of his failure as bitter tears scalded his face.

He waited in the darkness, laboring for control. The new insight he gained into his brother’s heart revealed Ruald had never meant him to be lord of Wulfsinraed. Far worse was the recognition that Ruald’s intent was to kill him along with Ysane and Fallard. His brother’s disclosure clearly implied that
no one
would be allowed to stand in the way of his greed.

In that instant, his love for his brother died, writhing in a blaze of pain and regret, while that for his sister swelled to overwhelm all else. The choice between the two, for so long a tangle more convoluted than the most snarled knot, narrowed to a matter most simple. Ruald must die.

He blinked to clear his vision. There was no time now for grief. He must act to save his sister, but he must first let the dark knight know he was there, and somehow indicate he would help. Hoping Fallard could see the gesture in the shadows, he raised his hand to point in Ruald’s direction, then brought it to his own chest and tapped. The dark knight’s answering nod appeared naught but a slow dip of his chin, but ’twas enough. Then Fallard, with slow deliberation, looked to one side, as if staring at the wall to his right, then returned his intent gaze to Ruald.

Cynric frowned, tried and failed to understand the dark knight’s gesture, then set it aside.

Ruald, still taunting Fallard, had backed nigh to the entrance of the access tunnel.

He could not let his brother make it inside. He pulled himself up and tightened his grip on his hadseax, but held it at unthreatening angle. Praying his appearance would not startle Ruald into cutting Ysane, he stepped out of the shadows.

Somehow, he kept his voice calm, his inflection merely inquisitive. “Ruald, what do you do? Why hold you my sister as if she were a hostage? Let her go, brother. I am here and we will fight together. You have no need of her, now. Send her to me.”

At his first words, Ruald’s head jerked toward him and he whirled to put his back to the wall, dragging Ysane with him. But the blade that menaced Ysane’s throat dropped a few inches.

***

Ysane’s senses had cleared. She allowed her body to hang limp in Ruald’s hold while her mind worked out how she might help Fallard. When Ruald flung her around at the sound of Cynric’s voice, she felt the langseax dip. Her response was instinctive. She sank her teeth into Ruald’s wrist. He howled and dropped the sword.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Varin and Fallard launch themselves toward him, but her husband reached him first. His fist connected with the rebel leader’s jaw. Ruald’s arms dropped away from her and he staggered. Fallard caught her and thrust her into Varin’s waiting arms. Ruald turned to run but Fallard hurtled into him. They slammed into the hard stone of the corridor wall, both grunting from the impact. As they fought, Fallard’s heel caught in some obstruction on the floor and he went down, momentarily stunned when his head hit the ground. Ruald reached for his throat.

Ysane was nigh deafened by Varin’s roar in her ear, but before he could move or set her aside, Cynric flipped the hadseax in his hand and drew back his hand to throw it. “Nay, Ruald!”

But Leda screamed, slithered from the alcove and leaped at him, seeking to stab him. He forced her knife from her hand and dislodged her, his face showing his shock at her appearance. He had clearly forgotten her, had not known she was there, watching. He threw her to one side, and turned his back on her.

The slave’s piercing screech also startled Ruald, and in that moment of distraction, Fallard rose from the floor like a charging boar. Cynric crept toward the warring knights, prepared to intervene should Ruald again get the upper hand.

Thrown to the floor beside the hadseax, Leda grasped it, hefted the blade and rose.

Ysane, her attention torn between her husband and her brother, saw the slave attack Cynric ere she could cry a warning.

With all the strength of her fear for Ruald, Leda thrust her blade deep into Cynric’s back. He grunted, staggered from the impact and went to his knees. His body wavered for a moment, then he fell on his face, unmoving.

“Cynric!”
Ysane’s cry echoed around the corridor as she fought to break free of Varin’s hold, but the big knight only tightened his hold.

“Let me go! Oh, mercy, Varin,
let me go!
”

“Lady, there is naught you can do. We must wait!”

“Nay! Mercy, oh mercy.”

She scrubbed the backs of her hands against her eyes to clear the haze of tears as her gaze was wrenched from her fallen brother to the mighty struggle that raged between Fallard and Ruald. The two were evenly matched. Powerful muscles bulged as they fought for supremacy. Ruald tried to twist to break Fallard’s hold but the movement threw him off balance. A moment later, Fallard had his foe’s back against him. He wrapped his arm around Ruald’s head and gave one powerful jerk. Ysane heard the sharp, brittle snap of breaking bones. Ruald’s body stiffened and he went limp.

Panting, Fallard stepped back. The body tumbled to the floor.

“Ruald!” Leda’s drawn out wail held an agony of grief.

She dropped to the floor and scrabbled for the knife Cynric had dropped. She came to her feet. Hate twisting her face into a parody of beauty, she raised the knife and leapt towards Fallard. She managed only two steps, for as she passed him, Cynric’s outstretched hand caught her ankle, tripping her. She hit the floor hard and lay still.

Ysane never afterward knew for how many long, shocked moments, no one moved. Then she jerked against Varin’s hold and he let her go. She threw herself into her husband’s embrace, weeping, showering his face with kisses. She fingered the edge of a deep scrape that marred his forehead.

He shuddered as he ran searching hands over her, but she pulled away. “Cynric is hurt.” She knelt beside her brother. His hand was so cold. She looked up into her husband’s troubled face. “Fallard?”

Icy fingers squeezed hers and Cynric’s mouth curved, the movement more a grimace than a smile. Pain roughened his voice to little more than a croak. “Worry not, little one. I have had worse wounds. I will survive this one, as well.”

He tried to deepen the smile, but blood bubbled from his lips.

“Aye, deorling, of course you will.” Tears flowed down her cheeks like the water over the falls in the little glade. “We all know how contrary you are.”

She continued to croon nonsense as Varin came to stand beside them. Fallard cut a long strip of cloth from the hem of her cloak and bent over her brother.

***

“Look away, Ysane.”

When his wife shook her head, Fallard glanced at Varin, who bent with tender strength to force her face against his tunic. She moaned. Fallard’s mouth tightened, but he placed one hand on her brother’s shoulder and with the other, drew forth the knife. Cynric gurgled in agony, and fainted.

Fallard folded the strip of cloth he had cut and pressed it against the jagged, bloody hole. Ysane sobbed in quiet despair.

“Varin, cut another strip to bind this pad.”

The knight patted the top of Ysane’s head in awkward sympathy, then knelt to slice another bandage from her cloak.

Fallard’s jaw clenched. Caught in the fierce, deadly struggle with Ruald, he had been peripherally aware of the altercation between Cynric and Leda, but he had not seen Ysane’s brother go down. His heart hurt for his wife’s pain, even while his gladness at her safety nigh overwhelmed him.

He bound the bandage tight around Cynric’s chest, then said, “We must get him to Luilda.”

Varin’s great hands settled on his shoulders and moved him aside as if he were a child. The knight lifted the fallen man into his arms and strode through the corridor into the crypts. Fallard followed, supporting his wife.

***

Leda awakened from the stun she had received from her fall. A keening cry broke from her lips as she knelt beside her true love, but life’s lessons had taught her well. ’Twould be the height of foolishness to stay to mourn him. As the others turned away with their burden, she scrambled to her feet. She thought the dark knight sensed her movement. She paused, heart pounding, but beyond a glance over his shoulder, he paused not.

She brushed away her tears and rushed to the alcove where she had stored the bundle with her stolen treasures.

Do I leave now, I can travel far ere any may be sent to follow me. I wear the freewoman’s clothing, I have coin, and these treasures will earn much more from their sale. I will make my way back to Fallewydde. I will change my name and invent a piteous story of an attack against my husband’s party, of which only I am survivor, as we journeyed from the north. I will find a new protector who will take me far from this accursed place.

Her flight through the access tunnel to the postern gate was swift. She stepped through the doorway, but her eyes had not yet adjusted from the torchlight in the corridor to the utter darkness without and she tripped over the threshold. A frantic grab for the door saved her a deadly tumble, but she had perforce to drop the bundle with its precious contents. The faint clatter as it rolled down the embankment to be lost out of sight seemed to her the death knell to all her hopes. Sobbing with fear, sorrow and not a little rage, she wasted several moments in a futile search before panic set in and she scrambled down the abutment.

At the river’s narrow bank, she stopped. In the deep darkness beneath still heavily overcast skies, she could not see the water, but when she had forded it earlier with Ruald, his hand holding hers, ’twas but knee deep. Fear clutched at her heart. What if she fell? She could not swim. Nay! ’Twas not so bad. At worst, she would but get wet again. She could manage this. She had to. There was no other choice.

She thought to leap into low, sluggish waters. Instead, she stepped straight into a flood. She floundered in the rapid current that closed over her head. Shock and terror held her under for several stuttering heartbeats before she struggled to the surface, but some small corner of her mind screamed the truth.

The rains! The heavy weather to the west had triggered a significant rise in the water level and the cresting surge had arrived. What had earlier been a watercourse easily waded was now a torrent in deep flood, the current dangerously fast. She had seen it happen before, and knew of those who had died when caught by the power of the water.

She fought to stay afloat, but her gasping attempts to cry for help merely choked and gagged her as dirty water filled her open mouth and poured down her throat. In despair, she realized that even had she been able to scream there were none to hear, for no sentries would be walking the wall above her. They would yet be engaged with events in the courtyard. As her waterlogged cyrtel become entangled with something large, horribly soft and yielding being carried along with her in the flow, utter panic assailed her. She went under again. Instinct drove her to gasp for air, but she was dragged beneath the dark water before she could finish the breath.

She was but dimly conscious when her head broke the surface one final time. She thrust a stiffly splayed hand above the river’s surface, but was swept underneath and past the bridge.

She vanished in the night.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Vivid striations of violet and sienna vied with pulses of gold to push their way higher into the inky wash of pre-dawn sky, revealing a disintegrating cloud cover. The increasing radiance overwhelmed the dying torchlight to lay bare a muddy, heartbreaking scene that bespoke the end of a fierce conflict.