A Man Betrayed (64 page)

The second her
name came to him, the vision was sucked back to his heart. The jolt coursed
down his spine like lightning. The beat began again, shocking, sickening,
sending his whole body scrambling to fall in time. Baralis' lungs contracted
violently and the air from the vision was expelled from his lungs; he tasted
cheap perfume and expensive wine as it raced along his tongue.

Out of time, out
of strength, and outside of rational' thought, Baralis opened his eyes. A dark
blur raced toward him. Paws hardly touching stone, it hurtled forward, muzzle
drawn back to reveal an armory of teeth. A low growl sounding deep in its
throat. Froth foaming at its jaw. It meant to kill him.

Instinct and split
seconds were all that he had. With a brain reeling like a spindle on a wheel,
he could barely think, let alone react. Deep inside he found a resource more
primitive and more deadly than thought: the will to survive. A whiff of dog and
a glint of teeth were enough to set it in motion. The animal barreled ahead,
fur flying, mere feet away now. A hand shot out from Baralis' robe. He hardly
believed it was his own. With neither time nor consciousness to form a drawing,
something came half-remembered from the plains. A rite of passage from boy to
hunter. Without weapon or warning, but with alcohol high in their blood, they
stopped a charging boar in its tracks.

Hand held out to
command the beast, sight trained on a spot between its eyes. A thick band of
instinct rising up from the gut, and the mastery of willpower forced upon the
beast.

Baralis felt the
air push against his face. Saw the black and pink of its gums. Eyes bright with
savagery met his. Words and thoughts were obsolete, purpose was what counted.
Wills clashed a half-second before bodies met. Eye to eye, Baralis bludgeoned
the beast with his will.

No stronger force
existed in the universe in that instant. The dog responded as if whipped.
Strength drained from its body and purpose drained from its soul. Momentum
carried it forward to Baralis' throat. Muzzle closed, snout down, it slammed
into him like dead weight. He was thrown backward toward the ground, the dog
landing on top of him. Baralis blacked out.

Wet and warm,
something brushed against his face. Heart racing like a stallion on the chase,
body shaking like a long-hunted fox, he forced thought and eyesight into focus.

He was lying on
his back looking up into a late afternoon sky. The dog was by his side, licking
his face. Blood was still wet around its mouth, and it was standing with one
front paw dawn up, as if injured.

The creature
wagged its tail when it saw him move and doubled its licking efforts. Baralis
caught the stench of foul play upon its breath. Strangely, he found himself
warming to the beast. Lifting up a hand too gnarled to show to ladies, he
stroked the dog's ears. "No harm done, my pretty lady," he said.

Two men waited in
the antechamber. One had been known to the duke for twenty years, the other for
twenty days, yet he trusted them both the same.

First he spoke
with Bailor. Taking him to one side, he spoke for his ears alone. "Your
speech worked well, my friend. The lady has agreed."

Bailor's smile was
triumphant, yet his words were uncharacteristically modest. "More your
delivery than my speech, Your Grace."

The duke glanced
at the second man. Tawl's eyes were averted and he was busy putting edge to
sword. The duke risked a short laugh. "I was as wooden as the floor I
stood on, but the lady seemed not to mind."

"And the
gift?"

The head of his
household was anxious for praise. In this instance, the duke didn't mind giving
it. "An excellent suggestion, Bailor. She loved it. Her eyes sparkled like
sapphires when the falconer handed her the bird." The duke paused for a
moment, considering Melliandra's face. "She will be good with the falcon,
I know it. She has more spirit than a score of trained huntsmen. A remarkable
woman, indeed."

"She is that,
Your Grace."

The duke noticed
Bailor's eyes settling on his shoulders. "Threw a pillow at me, she
did," he said, brushing away the last of the goosedown. "I've never
met a more infuriating wench." The memory of her soft, hesitant kisses
played upon his mind. It had been many, many years since any woman had excited
him so. More than her beauty, it was her peculiar mixture of confidence and
innocence that set his blood on fire. Without a doubt he would marry her soon.
He would not wait untold months for the marriage bed; he was too old and his plans
too pressing for the indulgence of a long betrothal. He could have taken her
then and there--she had been willing enough-but no, he would not risk a
begetting before their wedding day. When Melliandra was with child, people
would keep careful count of the moons, looking for the slightest excuse to
shout "illegitimate!" The duke shook his head. He would not give them
a single arrow of doubt to shoot from their suspicious bows.

Besides, he liked
the idea of waiting. It was a novel experience for him, and one that would
surely heighten the joy of their first union when it finally came. He would
take no substitute to warm his bed in the meantime. All other women seemed like
pale imitations compared to her.

"Bailor,"
he said, "go to Melliandra now. You are the closest thing she has to a
friend. If she is having any doubts, reassure her. See that she gets anything
she wants. Tell her I will be back later to take her for a short walk in the
gardens. She must feel as cooped up as a hawk during training, stuck in that
bedchamber all day. Get Shrivral to play his harp whilst we walk, and have some
refreshments waiting in the arbor. Fruit punch and sugared fancies, you know
the sort of thing."

"Yes, Your
Grace." Bailor hesitated for a second. "Though perhaps if I might
make a suggestion?"

"Go
ahead."

"Bring strong
wine and meat instead. The lady's tastes differ greatly from the hothouse
flowers at court."

The duke rubbed
his chin. "Do it."

Bailor bowed and
began to make his way to the adjoining door.

The duke pulled him
back, for the first time speaking in a voice meant for two, "Find out from
the physicians when the lady will be fit for the ride to Bren."

Bailor nodded and
then left the room.

Turning to face
the second man, the duke said, "Tawl, can I trust you to keep a
confidence?" More statement than question, he didn't wait for the knight
to reply. "The lady who you have been charged with guarding has just
agreed to become my wife."

Tawl bowed simply.
"I wish you joy, Your Grace." The duke had known thousands upon thousands
of men in his time, some bad, some good, most a mixture of the two, and he had
developed the ability to quickly judge a man, to see where his strengths and
weaknesses lay. To know what drove him forward. Somehow, despite all his
experience, Tawl eluded him. Oh, there was a lot to see: the knight was
entirely trustworthy, loyal, and probably gallant to a fault, but his motives
were hard to pin down. Unlike Blayze he had no interest in the trappings of
glory. Fine clothes and a purse full of gold meant nothing to the knight.

Nor, would it
seem, did the chance to be close to greatness. The court at Bren was filled to
the beams with men and women who hoped for power and influence by ingratiating
themselves with either the Hawk or his daughter. Bailor was one of the few who
had found success with this all too common ploy. Instinct told the duke that
Tawl wanted none of it, which, although making him an enigma, also made him a
man whom he would gladly entrust with the safety of his most precious possession:
Melliandra.

The duke glanced
quickly at the knight. Tall, imposing, built like a warrior, but with the
manners and bearing to match any man at court. He was the perfect person to
keep watch on his bride-to-be: honorable, loyal, and deadly with a blade.

"So,
Tawl," said the duke heavily, "you now understand why the lady is in
great danger."

Tawl nodded.
"Yes. Though greater danger awaits her at court."

"I know. It
is a risk I must take."

"I suggest
that you and the lady travel in separate parties to Bren. I will travel with
Melliandra, but I don't want to be weighed down with a battalion of guards. I
want to be light on my feet in case of danger."

The duke nodded.
The advice was sound. "You are in charge of her safety."

"Who else
knows of the engagement?"

"Bailor."
He thought for a moment. "And the falconer was there when I asked for her
hand."

"That was a
mistake."

The duke smiled.
"I know, Tawl, but when the moment is right. . ." He shrugged.

"Good sense
goes out the window." Tawl raised an amused eyebrow and both men laughed.
"Have Bailor speak with the falconer as soon as possible. Find out all the
people he has come in contact with since he left the lady's chamber. Have them
all confined here, in the lodge, under sun and moon watch until the official announcement
is made."

The duke nodded.
"Anything else?"

"Once the
lady arrives in Bren, I personally want to examine her chambers before she
takes residence. All her guards and servants are to report to me, and her food
is to come directly from your personal cook. You do have a tester?"

"Yes."

"Good. For
the ride back she must have your gentlest mount. After her fall she will be
horse shy."

"What about
speed?"

"I will take
her on my own if need arises."

The knight was
good. Very good. It was far better to have Melliandra riding at his back in an
emergency than having to fend for herself. The duke felt well pleased with his
decision to have Tawl guard her. Already his mind was more at ease. "Do
you need anything special for the ride?"

"A boy's
breastplate for the lady, and for myself a bow and a quiver of barbed arrows. I
have swords and knives enough of my own."

"So I
noticed," said the duke, motioning to the green felt cloth that was spread
out on the floor. Resting upon it was enough polished steel to defend an entire
garrison.

Tawl smiled almost
sheepishly.

The duke was
beginning to like him even more. "Oh, and one more thing before I go. I
want you to befriend the lady. She knows no one in Bren except Bailor and me,
and she must yearn for extra company."

"What about
your daughter, Catherine?"

The duke drew in
his breath: what
about
Catherine? His daughter would be furious once she
learned he intended to wed. Not only was he stealing her glory, but also-if
Melliandra was to give birth to a boy-her inheritance as well. Catherine was
unpredictable at the best of times. It was better for the moment if he kept the
news from her. He already had enough on his hands at the moment, and he had
neither the time nor the inclination to deal with one of his daughter's childish
tantrums. "I don't want my daughter to know anything about the marriage
until I make the official announcement."

"As you
say."

"I think
that's everything. Bailor is yours to command, as are all my staff. Make sure
he informs you when it is safe for the lady to travel." The duke made his
way to the door.

"Tawl,"
he said, as he paused on the threshold, "I feel better knowing that
Melliandra is in your care."

The knight
inclined his head. "I will defend her with my life."

Jack ate a small breakfast
of pork and damp drybread as he counted his mistakes. Yesterday, an hour after
entering the woods, he had discarded at least half of the supplies given to him
by Mrs. Wadwell. Mistake number one was leaving the cumbersome oiled cloak
behind. The skies had been a beautiful, cloudless blue the day before and he
reasoned to himself that, as it was spring, they were bound to stay that way.
Wrong. The downpour had begun in the middle of the night. Raindrops as hard as
pebbles had woken him from his sleep. Scrambling in the dark, over ground
rapidly turning to mud, he was soaked to the skin before he found shelter.

Mistake number two
had been transferring the items that he needed from the heavy leather bag to
the lighter cloth sack, for his supplies were now as wet as himself. So he was
now reduced to eating damp drybread: contrary to popular belief, it
didn't
benefit
from a soaking.

Mistake number
three was
where
he had left his supplies: out in the open where anyone
could spot them. Yesterday it hadn't seemed important: they were dead weight
that needed to be dropped as soon as possible. Today they were signposts that
could point to who he was, where he was going, and most importantly of all, the
identity of the people who had helped him on his way. Large was the Wadwells'
trademark, and if he had learned that spending less than one day with them,
then everyone in the surrounding countryside was bound to know it, too. One
look at the size of the ointment jar, the length of the bandages, and the
diameter of the cheese would be enough to seal their fates.

How could he have
been so stupid? Jack threw the drybread on the ground. It landed soundlessly,
cradled by a bed of wet leaves. He had to learn to think before he acted.
Standing up, he kicked at the bed of leaves, sending them flying into the air.
Green and newly budded, stripped from the tree by cutting rain, they slumped
heavily back to earth. Sometimes even thinking was dangerous.

Strangely enough,
his fever had actually subsided. Jack felt more clear-headed than he had in
weeks. The gentleness of nature seemed to act like a salve. Raindrops gathering
mass on the underside of branches flashed with simple brilliance when plump
enough to fall. The many greens of spring were soft on the eye and even softer
underfoot. Everywhere the sound of water dripping, running, and pooling could
be heard. It competed with the calls of small animals and birds- Most of all it
was the smell. Fresh and old in one, the scent of new leaves and ancient earth
mixing in mistdamp air. Jack's lungs were full of it, his blood ran with it,
and gently it pushed against the outside of his skin.