The YIELDING (16 page)

“’Tis,” Sir Robert said.

Michael tapped a heel to Sartan and sped past the others. Across the great open, he felt no tremor of fear from Beatrix, and still none when the lowering drawbridge loosed its dreadful creak and groan. As the planks settled to the ground, Michael nodded to the five men who halted their mounts alongside his.

With murmurings of, “My lord,” they reined around to return to their posts.

Michael guided Sartan over the drawbridge, beneath the portcullis, and into the outer bailey. With a lifted hand, he acknowledged the men-at-arms who followed his progress.

As Sartan passed from the outer bailey to the inner where the donjon cut the night sky, Michael thought Beatrix shuddered and had to clamp his teeth against further reassurance.

On the donjon steps, a torchlit figure descended, but even lacking light, Michael would know it was Canute. No others were as tall, excepting Baron Lavonne.

“My lord,” the knight called as he stepped into the bailey and came alongside. “’Tis good you are returned.”

No questions as to Michael’s whereabouts, patience and discretion but two of many qualities to recommend him.

Michael laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “It
is
good, Canute.”

Torchlight flickered across the knight’s weathered face as he looked to Beatrix. “I should assist the boy in dismounting, my lord?”

Michael would have laughed if his leg did not trouble him so. Canute was too astute to not realize who Michael had brought to Soaring. “Aye, he is to be put in the hind tower.”

“Of course, my lord.”

As Michael removed his arm from around Beatrix, he felt a sense of loss.
All be cursed!
She
had
possessed him.

Canute lifted his arms to receive her.

As she moved into them, she looked to Michael. “When you wish to know the…truth about his death, you have but to ask.”

He warred inside himself and won. “No absolution.”

The mouth he had nearly kissed bent softly upwards. “No absolution.”

Then if he gave her over to trial she would not claim madness? What other defense, then? That she had not done the deed? That she had merely defended herself against further ravishment?

Michael’s gut tightened. She lied. It was absolution she sought, and having foolishly revealed it, she endeavored to undo her mistake.

As Sir Canute set her to her feet, Michael brooded that he had two days, mayhap three, to decide how best to ensure Simon his justice, for once tidings of his return reached his liege, Lavonne would likely descend. And with him would come questions about the hunt for Beatrix and suspicion over who had accompanied Michael to Soaring. That last was unavoidable.

Though the loyalty of most of Michael’s men was unquestioned, several had been placed at Soaring to assure Lavonne’s hold on the demesne—placed by Aldous whose mind aspired to catch up with the deterioration of his body. The old man believed none were above suspicion, including his own son. Thus, despite his confinement, he was kept apprised of all that happened, not only at Broehne’s sister castles, but at Broehne. Though Christian Lavonne was not oblivious to his father’s methods, he tolerated it as being the old man’s due.

As for the men set at Soaring, Michael knew who they were, one of them the same who had intercepted his ride on the castle. If Sir Robert, the illegitimate issue of Aldous Lavonne, did not send word this night that an injured Michael had returned and not alone, he would do so before dawn. As usual, Robert’s squire, who delivered the message, would report all to Michael. Such means Michael did not like, for it put Squire Giffard at risk, but it was how it was done. Sir Robert was oblivious, Aldous Lavonne assuaged, and Michael informed.

Michael watched as Beatrix entered the donjon and went from sight. It was as he wished it. When his course was decided would be soon enough for him to see her again.

Nearly barren. Beatrix halted inside the chamber that had taken a half dozen turns of the winding stair to reach. There was a small bed, a brazier, a basin, and an oilcloth stretched across the narrow window. No rushes on the floor, no chairs, no sheets or blankets on the mattress, no shutters at the window. But it
was
a prison. Even so, it would be more comfortable than the dank, dark crypt where she had lived this past month. Of course, there she’d had herbs to sweeten the night.

But it was not as if she would be long at Soaring. Regardless if D’Arci usurped his lord’s privilege or she was allowed to defend herself at trial—a trial she had so feared, but for which she now yearned—she would soon leave. As for absolution, she had spoken true when she agreed there would be none. She was not witless or mad and would not claim such.

“Is there anything you require, lad?” the knight asked.

She turned to where he leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “I am no lad.” She dropped the hood to her shoulders.

His grooved brow smoothed slightly. “I did not think you were.”

“But you—”

“Lady Beatrix, is it not?”

She nodded. “I am the one your l-lord has searched for.”

Up went a silver eyebrow. “The one responsible for the injury done him at Broehne?” Displeasure edged his voice. “And the injury done him now?”

Of course he had noticed the splints.

“The one who put a dagger to his brother?”

As she saw no benefit in arguing the matter of Sir Simon, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I am the one.”

The knight took a step forward. With eyes that seemed to peel back the layers of her, he murmured, “You are as expected.”

That
she did not expect. “I do not understand.”

“’Twas not intended that you should.” He cleared his throat and looked past her. “I shall bring a blanket, coal for the brazier, and a pitcher of water for you to bathe.” His gaze dropped. “And viands to quiet your belly.”

She pressed a hand to her midriff.

“Is there anything else you require?”

“Naught that you can afford me.”

He inclined his head and turned.

Now she would be alone. If only she had— “Sir Knight!”

“Aye?”

“There is one thing. Could you deliver me a…” The word flew away without a backward glance. She squeezed her lids closed to prevent them from fluttering. Though she conjured a vision of the object, it shied away from her tongue.

“Tell,” the knight said.

If not that she needed the comfort of what she sought, she would withdraw her request. “I require…” She swept her tongue over her palate in search of sounds to form the word, but they were not there. Thus, she must go the long way around. She pressed her palms together and opened them. “A book, Sir Knight—the Lord’s.”

Some of the wrinkles melted from his brow. “A psalter.”

“Aye, I am without mine.”

“I shall endeavor to secure one for you.” He halted in the doorway. “I am Sir Canute. As it seems I am to be your jailer, ‘tis as you should address me.”

Her reluctant jailer, for it was surely no pleasant task he had been given. “Very well, Sir Canute.” Providing his name did not flee her.

He swung the door closed. The key scraped, the lock clicked.

Beatrix stared at the door. Would Michael D’Arci ever come through it? Remembering what had happened between them, she touched her lips. Warm breath sweeping her fingers, she told herself that only a fool would believe the near-intimacy meant anything to Michael D’Arci, but could a man who truly believed such ill of her do what he had nearly done? For all of his threats, her heart told her she need not fear him. And in that moment she knew what beat through her. She felt for this man whose brother had tried to ravish her. Might such flutterings lead to more?

“If I may, my lord, you seem changed.”

Michael looked from the flames that spat heat across the hearth to Canute who had yet to take a seat. Other than astride a horse, the man rarely sat. Because of his stiff hip, he told, but Michael knew it was also an issue of vulnerability. In the event of an attack, it was always best to be on one’s feet. “What say you?” he asked.

The aged knight straightened from the chair he had leaned against this past hour while he recounted all that had transpired at Soaring in his lord’s absence. “Only that you do not seem yourself.” His lips twitched. “Else my memory fails me.”

Though Michael knew he should not pursue the conversation, he said, “How do you mean?”

“You are thoughtful.”

“Surely you do not say I have not been so before?”

“You have, but ‘tis as if you do not know your course now that you have what you sought all these weeks—a course you knew well ere we parted at Broehne.”

He spoke of Beatrix. But Michael
did
know his course. He turned his hand and considered the pale tress he rubbed between thumb and forefinger. The string binding it evidenced the persistent handling to which he had subjected it during Canute’s recounting—frayed and in dire need of replacement. Of course, now that he had Beatrix, he had no need for such a reminder.

“Too,” Canute continued, “though you have now been returned to Soaring for two hours, I see no wench on your lap.”

He
had
promised himself one, and still he might send for a wench once the affairs of the demesne were settled. But if not this night, then the next.

“The journey was long and, as you can see”—Michael nodded at his resplinted leg—“I am somewhat lamed.”

“The workings of Lady Beatrix, I wager.”

His pride pinched at being bested by the woman, but it was Canute to whom he spoke, a man who knew him better than his own father. It was Canute who had released Michael’s beaten body from the manacles with which Edithe’s father had bound him, Canute who had taken him away and taught him the ways of knight errantry, Canute who had fought alongside him during Duke Henry’s battles. There was none he trusted better.

“Aye,” Michael conceded. “The witch sent me down a hole.”

“Pray, tell.”

It took only minutes to cover what had happened at Purley Abbey and during the journey to Soaring, but it was enough for Canute to finally seek his backside to a chair. At the end of the telling, he murmured, “I see.”

Not all of it, but what had nearly happened between Michael and Beatrix need not be told.

“So for this you are so thoughtful.” Canute steepled his hands beneath his chin. “That though ‘tis told that Lady Beatrix murdered your brother, and all evidence you have of that, she did not leave you when ‘twould have best served her. You are thinking she does not seem one to murder.”

Once again wavering over her innocence, though he had vowed he would do so no more, Michael drummed his fingers on the chair arms.

“How does she explain Simon’s death?” Canute asked.

Michael met the man’s gaze and watched for what he knew would sound from the depths of those old, brown eyes. “She says she but defended herself when he ravished her.”

Understanding lit the knight’s eyes. “A place you have been before, eh, friend?”

Michael quieted his fingers. “A place to which I did not expect to return.”

Canute leaned forward. “Put your mind to this, Michael. The woman
did
murder your brother. There is no other explanation.”

Michael returned his gaze to the hearth. The dwindling flames caressed the logs, blackening them and reducing them to ashes, reminding him of Edithe. “’Tis as I tell myself again and again.”

“You should.” Canute pushed up from the chair. “Heed me as you did not years past. Keep from Lady Beatrix as you should have kept from Edithe.”

With the foolishness bred of the young, Michael had ignored the warnings of the household knight who had served Edithe’s father. For it, he had lost all. And could lose all again.

“This night, send word to Baron Lavonne of your return,
and
of Lady Beatrix’s capture.”

“As you know, word of my return has already gone.”

“Aye, but not by your hand.”

He was right. Regardless of this war waged over Beatrix, Michael was Baron Lavonne’s vassal. It would bode ill if he did not himself send tidings. “I give you leave to send word of my return.”

“And of Lady Beatrix’s capture?”

Though Michael nearly argued that if he surrendered Beatrix she might be granted absolution, he knew the argument would not hold with the older man. Forsooth, it barely held with him. Why did he waver? Because she had not abandoned him to the crypt? That, during the storm, she had forfeited escape that she might restate her innocence? That he had never before felt such need to kiss a woman as he had done there between their hoods?

That last slipped in before he could slam its fingers in the door. The result of abstinence, he told himself. That was all.

“You will send word?” Canute asked again.

Why did he press so hard? In the next instant, Michael castigated himself for questioning his old friend. Canute did it to assure no ill befell Michael’s lordship, for it was a terrible risk to refuse the baron tidings of Beatrix’s capture. If it was later discovered that Michael held her…