The YIELDING (2 page)

Though Gaenor tensed further as if she might reject the attempt to console her, a moment later her shoulders eased. “Let us pray so.”

Aye, pray—at which Beatrix had become proficient these past years since the commencement of her training for the Church. When the abbey that her brother raised five leagues from Stern Castle was complete a year hence, she would go there. And perhaps one day she would be named its abbess as was her mother’s desire.
If I am worthy.

Beatrix leaned forward and touched her forehead to her sister’s, possible only because Gaenor stood a step down. “We ought to visit the chapel.”

Gaenor’s lids narrowed and mouth tightened, evidencing how ill at ease with Church and God she was, but she nodded. “Mother would approve.”

Most highly. In fact, if they lingered long enough, Lady Isobel would surely join them there. Yearning to place Gaenor’s troubles at the Lord’s feet, Beatrix entwined her fingers with her sister’s and drew her up the stairs. They entered the candle-lit chapel, traversed the aisle, and knelt side by side before the altar.

Dear Lord,
Beatrix beseeched behind steepled hands,
deliver Gaenor from King Henry’s plotting and Baron Lavonne’s hatred.
She glanced at her sister who stared sightlessly at the altar.
Use me as You will.

“Sir Durand and Sir Ewen await you in the wood at the barren rock,” Lady Isobel said as she drew the mantle’s hood over Gaenor’s head. “Stay low as you cross the meadow lest the king’s men have set a watch.”

Gaenor nodded and Isobel looked to her younger daughter who had already pulled her hood over her head to ward off the chill of night that painted their breath upon the air. Though Isobel had argued against Beatrix accompanying her sister to Wulfen Castle where Isobel’s second son would shelter her until Garr received word of the king’s plans, Beatrix had insisted and Gaenor had pleaded. In the end, Garr’s wife, Annyn, had convinced Isobel it was best that Beatrix also flee lest the king’s man attempt to deliver her to Christian Lavonne instead. As for Isobel, she would remain at Stern Castle with Annyn who had recently delivered her second child and was slow to recover from birthing so large a son. God willing, the king’s men would not dare lay hands on either of them.

“We should go,” Beatrix urged, her teeth beginning to chatter.

Lady Isobel stretched to her toes and kissed her oldest daughter’s cheek. “Godspeed, my dove,” she whispered and turned to Beatrix. However, her youngest child had already stepped through the hidden doorway set in the castle’s outer wall.

As Isobel watched her daughters merge with the dark night, all she could think was that she should have called Beatrix back, that she should have pressed her lips to the impetuous one’s cheek, that she should have wished her “Godspeed.”

CHAPTER TWO

“We have paused long enough.” Sir Durand rose from the log he had rolled to the stream’s bank and offered a hand to his charge.

Shielding her eyes against the brilliance of the newly risen sun, Beatrix tilted her head back. As with each time she looked near upon the knight, she regretted the admiration with which he regarded her. Convent-bound though she was, she was not so unlearned in the ways of men and women to be ignorant of his feelings for her, but she knew it was best not to acknowledge them. After all, the only bridal garments she would ever wear were those reserved for a bride of Christ. Which was just as she wished it.

“My lady?”

She placed her gloved fingers in Sir Durand’s and let him draw her to her feet. When he was slow to release her, she pulled free and eased back a step.

Sir Ewen snorted.

Beatrix looked to the mounted knight who grinned as if he enjoyed Sir Durand’s fascination with their lord’s sister. Mounted beside him was Gaenor, the soft smile hanging about her own mouth transforming her features. Though tall for a woman and somewhat plain of face, she had but to turn up her lips and call her dimples into being to become what she declared she could never be—lovely. Unfortunately, smiling was something she mostly reserved for their three-year-old niece and newborn nephew.

“Mount up,” Sir Ewen called.

Pulling her mantle close to ease the chill that seemed to have settled into her bones throughout the night-long ride, Beatrix stepped to where Sir Durand had taken the reins of her brown palfrey. Once more, he touched her hand to assist her into the saddle, and once more Sir Ewen snorted.

Beatrix scowled. “Have you something lodged in your nose, Sir Ewen?”

“Nay, but I believe my friend has something lodged in his eye.”

His heart? She looked to Sir Durand and gained a glimpse of the high color that swept his face before he pivoted, strode to his mount, and swung into the saddle.

Feeling for him, Beatrix narrowed her gaze on Sir Ewen. “Do you wish to lead, or shall I?”

He jerked his chin toward the other knight. “Methinks Sir Durand has already determined to do so himself.”

True enough, the humiliated knight had set off ahead of Gaenor.

With Sir Durand in the lead, Sir Ewen bringing up the rear, and Gaenor and Beatrix in between, they began the second half of the journey that would see them at Wulfen Castle before nightfall.

To counter the chill buffeting her face and wending the weave of her clothing, Beatrix bent low over her horse, huffed warm breath up her face and down her chest, and silently urged the sun to more quickly temper winter’s grip—a difficult task considering the grueling pace with which their mounts parted the air and the spray of frost their hooves loosed from the brittle grass.

After what seemed hours, the sun climbed high enough to return feeling to Beatrix’s fingers and toes. Savoring the warmth in the small of her back, she sighed, winced as her cramped muscles resisted their unfolding, and eased herself upright. Ahead, Gaenor and Sir Durand had also straightened in their saddles.

Beatrix glanced over her shoulder, and the half smile Sir Ewen slanted at her confirmed that the hardest part of the journey was past. Though Wulfen Castle still lay many leagues ahead, it was increasingly unlikely any would prevent them from reaching it. This night, Gaenor would be safe within its walls and Christian Lavonne would have to look elsewhere for a bride.

“Thank you, Lord,” Beatrix whispered and drew a deep breath that smelled of pine and loam and the leaves of Autumn past. And, doubtless, beyond the din of their ride arose the song of birds that braved England’s inhospitable weather and the chitter and chatter of small woodland creatures. Now if only Gaenor would open her own heart to the beauty and benevolence that the Lord—

A shout shook Beatrix out of her musing. Searching for the source, she landed on Sir Durand where he rode at the fore and saw he pointed west.

“Please, nay,” she whispered and looked around.

A dozen riders. Though yet distant, one would have to be a fool to believe they were anything other than the predator to the prey.

“To the wood!” Sir Ewen bellowed.

Trading speed for the wood that, blessedly, boasted an abundance of evergreens capable of providing cover, they veered right and slowed only enough to accommodate the trees and undergrowth.

Dear Lord,
Beatrix prayed as they passed single file among the trees,
deliver us
.

“My lady!” Sir Ewen warned.

Beatrix opened her eyes in time to duck a low-hanging branch that would have unhorsed her. Resolved to praying with her eyes open, certain God would not fault her, she glanced over her shoulder. Heartened by the sole presence of Sir Ewen, she urged her palfrey after Gaenor and Sir Durand as they increased their speed and veered toward a rise.

Thank you, Lord, for shielding us from our pursuers—

Distant bellows broke through Beatrix’s prayer, and she snapped her chin around. Though their pursuers had yet to reappear, it could not be long now.

“Deliver Gaenor, Lord,” she whispered
as her sister and Sir Durand disappeared over the rise. “I ask it in Your name.”

“They are near upon us!” Sir Ewen shouted.

As Beatrix picked out the blur of riders beyond him, a whimper cleared her throat. Given a few moments more, she and Sir Ewen would also have been over the rise and out of sight. Of course, given the speed at which the king’s men covered ground and the facility with which they handled their mounts amid the wood—skills Beatrix and Gaenor could not possibly match—it would not have been long before they once more had their prey in sight.

In the next instant, realization landed like a slap, and Beatrix caught her breath. She had become a liability to Gaenor, but that could be undone, providing Sir Ewen followed her lead.

She jerked the reins and turned her palfrey aside. Blessedly, the Wulfrith knight came after her—as did the king’s men.

Pressing her mount harder than she had ever done, she fought her fear with the reminder that each thundering hoof beat increased the distance between the king’s men and her sister. Barring a miracle, she and Sir Ewen would be overtaken, but Gaenor and Sir Durand would further distance themselves and, God willing, escape.

“Just try and force wedding vows from my lips, you vile red-bearded beast of a king,” Beatrix muttered. “Soon you will learn my blood is as Wulfrith as any of my brothers’.” And for just this one excitingly fearful day that was unlike any day she had ever lived, she believed it.

Shouts and the whinny of horses once more drawing her regard, she peered beyond Sir Ewen where he continued to protect her back and saw the king’s men rein in their horses. Why? They had been so near they were not even minutes from overtaking her.

A moment later, two of their pursuers broke from the others and resumed the chase while the greater number rode opposite. Obviously, the difference between the figures of the two sisters had become clear the nearer they drew. Thus, the king’s men now directed their greater effort toward bringing Gaenor to ground. Might Sir Durand have gained a large enough lead to hide her?

Beatrix bowed her head and squeezed her eyes closed. “Pray, let it be so.”

“Do not slow!” Sir Ewen called, the desperation in his voice evidencing their pursuers were gaining on them. Because of her.

She set her teeth, leaned low over her palfrey, and urged the animal to greater speed.

Still, the din of pursuit did not lessen as they sought paths between the trees and over muddy ground that sorely tested the footing of their mounts.

“Go right!” Sir Ewen shouted.

She obeyed and, moments later, burst onto a clearing, the center of which was divided by a rocky ravine.

The Wulfrith knight drew alongside her. “Ride, my lady,” he commanded, eyes wide and fiery. “Do not look back!”

She did look back and saw him turn his horse, draw his sword, and charge the riders. However, only one crossed swords with him while the other turned his mount aside and lunged past to intercept Beatrix.

She looked forward again. “Faster!” she rasped, vigorously applying heels to her mount. “Pray, find wings!”

Too soon the knight drew alongside. It was his eyes that first made him known to her, those pale orbs out of which darkness shone. Next, his mouth with its leering smile that bespoke such ill it made her skin feel as if she were already a corpse to the vermin that would one day visit her earthen bed.

When the knight reached for her, she lashed out with hooked fingers, but he evaded the rake of her nails by sweeping his arm high and and slamming it into hers.

Pain coursed Beatrix’s forearm, and she snatched it to her side even as the impact knocked her opposite and presented her with a view of the blurred ground that yawned wide to receive her.

Something struck her back, clawed at her side, and wrenched her from the saddle. For a dizzying moment, she dangled between the horses, and then she was thrust hard onto the fore of another saddle.

“You are had, Lady Beatrix!” The knight gave a triumphant laugh and turned his mount.

He had saved her, but for what? If not for the ring of swords and shouts of anger from Sir Ewen and his opponent where they clashed astride their horses, Beatrix would have resumed her struggle. Instead, she prayed her brother’s knight would prevail as the huffing horse carried her and her captor toward the ravine alongside which the two men fought.

“Your man is just this side of dead,” said the dark-souled knight, his moist breath in her ear making her cringe even as anger shot through her.

She jerked her head around and met his gaze amid the fair hair fallen over his brow. Though she thought herself prepared for the darkness in his eyes, up close it was more fearsome, and she knew what it said of him even before he slid a hand up her waist and groped her chest.

“Nay!” She strained away.

He chortled and redirected his hand to her thigh.

She opened her mouth to scream, but a terrible shout silenced her.

“Ah, nay,” she breathed and sought out Sir Ewen.

He sat unmoving in the saddle, face downcast as he stared at the blade piercing his center, then he looked up, met Beatrix’s gaze across the distance, and toppled to the ground.

“Lord!” Beatrix cried, unable to believe God had not brought her protector through this trial as he had done the aged knight who gazed down at Sir Ewen from atop his destrier. Unlike the one who held her, the man’s face reflected regret. But regret would not breathe life back into Sir Ewen who had risked all to see her safely away from these men.