The Redeeming (38 page)

It was then Gaenor saw the four ropes that bound her sister’s wrists and ankles, each running to an opposing horse. She caught her breath. Christian’s misbegotten brother had but to loose both sets of horses—or merely one—and Beatrix would be torn apart.

“Dear Lord, nay,” Gaenor whispered and once again drew her meat dagger.

She ran to the nearest horse. Praying that the shadow thrown by the great tree would conceal her from sight, she grabbed the rope tied to the saddle’s pommel. Though her blade was not sharp enough, nor her arm of sufficient strength to allow her to quickly sever the tightly woven strands, a half dozen desperation-driven slices chewed through it.

As the rope fell to the ground, she turned and, forcing herself to go slowly lest her movements draw attention, skirted the backside of the horse that she might cut the rope from its companion’s saddle. However, no sooner did she draw alongside the second horse than Sir Robert bellowed across the clearing, “Halt! Else I shall loose them!”

Gaenor stopped breathing and peered across her shoulder. And saw that the eyes of the murderer where he stood between the destriers on the opposite side of the clearing with his fists full of reins, were not fixed on her. Indeed, due to the dimming of the clearing and the narrow space between the horses, she was too deep in shadow to be clearly seen if one did not know where to look. But there was no overlooking the man to the right who had come into the clearing with sword in hand and who stood still as he heeded Sir Robert’s warning.

A mix of relief that Michael D’Arci had come and fear that Christian had not, bounded through Gaenor, but she forced all feeling aside and applied her dagger to the rope meant to part her sister’s left leg from her body.

“What is it you want?” Michael shouted.

Sir Robert laughed with such joviality one might think he raised a tankard of ale in the midst of beloved companions. “Revenge upon the Wulfriths. Revenge upon the one who spawned and denied me. Revenge upon the little monk who stole what is mine—and who I most wish to witness the fate of his wife’s sister.” He paused. “Where is Christian?”

“Baron Lavonne is dead,” Michael raised his voice louder.

Whatever Sir Robert’s response to the tidings, Gaenor could not hear it above the cry of her heart that preceded the cry of her mouth. Blessedly, she retained enough presence of mind to press her face hard against the horse’s neck lest her anguish further loosed itself above the clamor of her guard’s continuing struggle against the brigands.

“The baron was cut down by your men,” Michael fed Sir Robert more heinous words, “the same as they laid down Abel Wulfrith.”

Fingers spasming on the dagger’s hilt, Gaenor panted against the horse’s coarse, musty coat.
Dear Lord, all is lost. My husband, my brother—

Nay, not all. Think
now
, Gaenor, not of what is past. Beatrix is
now
.

Setting her teeth against the pain that would have her crumble, she raised her head and viciously sawed at the rope.

“Hence,” Michael said, “your revenge is complete. Not only— Hold!”

Gaenor snapped her chin around, but it was not Sir Robert whom her brother-in-law addressed. Her guard, who had bested the brigands, drew up well short of the murderer who had but to open his fists to deal the Wulfriths another mortal blow.

Michael, keeping his hand raised to his men on the opposite side of the clearing, returned his gaze to Sir Robert. “Not only have you gained what you and your father sought—the life of a Wulfrith—but no longer is there anyone who stands between you and the barony.”

In that moment, the last threads of the rope gave way to Gaenor’s blade, ensuring Beatrix could not be quartered, though that would not prevent her from being halved or dragged to her death.

“Indeed,” Michael said, “’twould seem you are now my liege, Baron Lavonne.”

Staying tight to the horse’s side, Gaenor looked between her sister’s husband and his men and searched for a way to alert them to what she had done. Providing they acted without hesitation, there was a chance they could cut the ropes binding Beatrix’s wrists before the loosing of the destriers dragged her slight figure more than a few yards.

Sir Robert’s chuckle sounded terribly bitter. “Even if ‘tis true my brother is dead”—

Gaenor gasped. Had Michael lied?

— “you know I will never bear the title, that I will be extinguished with the lot of the Lavonnes. Thus, I have naught to gain by leaving your wife intact.” He jerked on the reins, further rousing the destriers such that they snorted and sidled. “And since my end will be all the more tolerable with
two
Wulfriths to accompany me to hell, all that remains is to send these fine beasts their separate ways.”

And he would.

Holding the recently severed rope before her that her brother-in-law and his men might better understand, Gaenor lunged into the clearing. “Cut the ropes!” she cried.

Sir Robert’s eyes opened wide. Next, his hands.

G
aenor. There was no time to question her presence or more than glancingly interpret the part she played. All Christian could do as he gave up the shadows through which he had furtively moved as taught him by Everard Wulfrith, was entreat God to protect his wife.

Lest D’Arci failed to reach the rope binding Beatrix’s wrist before she was torn apart, Christian veered away from Robert whose back was yet turned to him and, dagger in hand, launched himself at the nearest destrier. Though he hoped Gaenor would see him and know D’Arci had not spoken true about his fate, he knew her eyes were likely all for her sister. Such was not the case for his brother who swung around to flee.

Christian felt the slash of Robert’s gaze, heard his shout of anger, saw him draw his sword, but did not waver in his purpose as he had done on the battlefield previous to his training at Wulfen. First he would deal with the destrier, then the murderous man whose atrocities roused in Christian so terrible an anger that the thought of embracing death was far more palatable than it had ever been.

The horse surged past and Christian grabbed its mane, causing it to lurch sideways. In the moment it took the great animal to regain its balance, Christian pressed his chain mail-clad torso tight to the horse’s side and thrust his dagger alongside the pommel. As he was dragged forward, he sliced the blade up through the rope. It was so thick and Christian’s position so treacherous that the taut strands did not immediately yield, but a second slice caused the rope to fall away.

Christian released the mane, thrust backward to avoid landing beneath frenzied hooves, and rolled over the scrabbly ground that sloped away from the clearing. On the last roll, he thrust his legs beneath him and pushed upright. The links of his mail loosing deceptively pleasing music upon the night, he swung around to face the fog-skirted ridge upon which the shadows of those overhead moved. Though he expected his prey-turned-predator to appear against that backdrop, it was not Robert who came at him but the second destrier.

Christian jumped to the side and the horse galloped past, trailing a rope to which Beatrix was no longer bound. Praying D’Arci’s men had cut it before further injury was done their lady, he switched the dagger to his left hand, drew his sword, and searched the wood for his brother—for a shadow among shadows, a glint of moon in eyes, silvered light running the edge of a blade.

Nothing, though Robert was surely near.

Determined to make certain D’Arci’s lie remained a lie—that he would have the opportunity to return Gaenor’s love—Christian slowed his breathing and strained to catch the sound of his brother’s movements beyond the anxious voices of those in the clearing above.

Listen!
Everard called to him from weeks past.
And listen again. The sound that will mean the death of you if you let it slip past, will have purpose, intent, the stink of stealth…

Though tempted to close his eyes to sharpen his hearing, Christian knew better than to yield up one of his senses.

Do not let the sound elude you,
he told himself.
Separate it from the din above. Pick what does not belong from what does belong in this place.

The stir of chain mail to his right. The squelch of a boot guardedly treading damp grass, moldering leaves, needles of the pine.

Holding close his discovery, Christian maintained his stance, though the shadows in which he stood were not deep enough to shield him from seeking eyes.

Now breathe, Baron,
Everard spoke again
. Smell and taste the air beyond yourself…the sweat of your enemy that wafts fear, loathing, excitement, strain.

There it was. Not simply to the right, but ahead, the shifting air carrying the festering filth and perspiration of a long-unwashed body. And desperation. Robert had to know that what he had begun would end this night, his sole hope that his would not be the only blood to stain Soaring’s soil.

Christian let him come nearer and, out of the corner of his eye, glimpsed light on steel. Knowing the time had come to embrace the death of one with whom he shared a father, he tightened one hand on his sword and the other on his dagger. However, as he started to come around, movement on the ridge drew his regard to two figures whose swords advanced before them—D’Arci’s men who had surely been charged with bringing Robert to ground.

Though the Church-bred Christian might have viewed the soldiers as respite, the man he had shaped himself into these past years, and now the Wulfen-trained warrior, saw them as interlopers. Not only was it the responsibility of Abingdale’s overlord to end the terror that Robert and his brigands had wreaked, but it was Christian’s responsibility to stop this depraved member of his family and ensure justice was done.

“He is mine!” he shouted and set himself at the place where his brother had been—and no longer was.

As told by the flagrant fall of retreating footsteps and the ring of chain mail, the appearance of D’Arci’s men had caused Robert to run. However, he would soon learn that “the little monk” was more to be feared than soldiers who but followed orders.

Christian returned his sword to its scabbard and, keeping his dagger to hand, gave chase.

Little effort was required to espy Robert between the trees and amid the undergrowth. Indeed, so large were his movements and the din of his passing that the moonlight piercing the leaves and branches served as little more than confirmation of the path he carved across the darkness. Soon, he and Christian would meet at swords and nevermore would the miscreant—

Stay alert,
Everard counseled.
No greater loss can a man suffer than when he believes victory is his ere the battle is done.

Christian reverted to senses that would guide him far better than anger or bloodlust. Thus, he was aware when the earth beneath his boots turned firm, when the rich, loamy scent of the heavily-treed wood was infused with the smell of running water inhabited by fish, algae, and human waste, when the shush of a stream met the distant rush and ripple of a river, when something beyond corporeal warned him danger was nearer than it appeared.

Keeping Robert in sight, he slowed and halted. Shortly, the shadow ahead also arrested its flight.

Robert swung around and, after some moments, called, “Christian!”

As Christian was no longer in motion nor his mind bent on death, he placed himself and knew what had been intended for him. Just as his father’s eldest son had learned Castle Soaring’s secrets during his years of service to D’Arci, so he had learned the secrets of the surrounding wood. Doubtless, death lay in the direction Robert ran—a sharp drop off, perhaps into a ravine, and Christian’s headlong flight would have provided his brother with another victim.

“Have you tucked that tail of yours and scampered away, baby brother?” Robert demanded, taking a step forward.

Christian remained in the shadow of an immense oak.

Robert advanced another step. “Does my sword make your heart gasp? Make you tremble like the
man of God
you were bred to be?” He barked laughter. “How old Aldous rues the day you came shrieking into the world—more, the day he chose you over me. And all because my mother did not speak vows with him ere falling into his bed.
That
is all you have and will ever have that I do not—useless words spoken before a priest who, doubtless, set many a woman upon the harlot’s path.”

Christian seated his dagger, drew his sword, and strode into moonlight. “I am here,” he called, “and here is where this night will be decided.”

“Will it?” Robert taunted.

“Aye. If there is any slaying to be done, it will be by way of the blade, not the trickery of a coward.”

Christian sensed that his brother longed to test him, to flee again that the chase might resume, but those last words caused a feral growl to erupt across the night. In the next instant, Robert sped over the ground, his sword raised.

As Christian assumed the stance Abel had time and again shown to be among a warrior’s best allies, he caught the sound of others and glimpsed D’Arci’s men who had followed though Christian had claimed this battle for his own.

“Stand down!” he roared and, a moment later, knocked aside Robert’s blade that sought to part his head from his shoulders.