The YIELDING (27 page)

He stood. There was no time to waste on useless pondering or bent knees. Not when there was so much to be done before dawn.

As Aldous Lavonne’s men were not inept, it had proven bothersome to secure everything needed for the journey without alerting those who had passed on the wine this eve, but it was done. Three hours hence, before the sun warmed the land, Michael would take Beatrix east.

Leg throbbing for lack of the staff he had left behind to more inconspicuously negotiate the inner and outer bailey, Michael eased the door closed that accessed the gardens. In turn, the gardens accessed an entrance into the inner bailey that was known to few. Through it, he had returned from the stables.

Wincing at the burn in his calf, he traversed the corridor. The hall ahead was dim, torchlight having hours past cast its light upon the dark. He halted at the end of the corridor and searched out Lavonne’s man. As hoped—and expected of the draught that had sweetened the wine at supper—the man-at-arms had fallen asleep where he leaned against the wall to the right. That left only one other who ought to be awake amongst those who made their beds in the hall.

Michael considered the alcove where Sir Justin watched over Lavonne’s man—as well as Maude’s knight errant, Sir Piers. The impenetrable dark revealed nothing, which was as it should be.

Though tempted to go abovestairs and rest before the journey, Michael crossed to the alcove, but when the breath of acknowledgment he should have received as he passed near was not heard, he turned back. A moment later, his searching hands found Sir Justin where he had slid down the wall onto his knees.

Silently cursing himself for being so arrogant to believe his defenses were impenetrable, Michael dragged the knight from the alcove into the torchlight and pressed fingers to his neck. Sir Justin’s veins yet coursed and he had his breath. Someone had landed a blow to his forehead.

Michael jerked around and picked out the pallet on which Sir Piers had stretched an hour past. Though the blanket was turned up, no form was beneath.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The knight who had taken the name of Sir Piers stepped back and released Squire Percival to the landing. No harm done, he determined as he looked upon the young man’s slack features—at least, not as much harm as what had been done to the man D’Arci had set in the hall to watch over his unwelcome guest.

By the waning light of torches, the knight returned his dagger to its sheathe and looked up the winding stair over which the squire had stood watch. She was up there, and before middle night was half past, he would have her away from here.

He drew his sword. Watchful lest another stood outside her chamber, he took the steps two at a time. The dim stairs were empty, as was the landing before her door. He returned his sword to its scabbard.

Counting it a boon that the door was unlocked, he stepped inside the chamber.

The coals in the brazier cast a weak glow, spreading light as far as the bed. A bed that did not sleep Lady Beatrix.

He turned his hand around his dagger hilt and peered into the darkened corners that refused to betray what lurked there.

One did not fuel the brazier of an unoccupied room, and yet, despite the door’s creak, its betrayal had not provided adequate time for anyone within to seek cover. And surely only Lady Beatrix expected him?

Perchance D’Arci had taken her from Soaring, even now rode to Lavonne? He frowned over that and remembered the night she had been mistaken for a servant. What had happened between her and D’Arci had presented as peculiar, and from D’Arci’s reaction and the castle folk’s, it was obvious Beatrix’s presence in the hall had been unfamiliar until that eve.

He had thought, perhaps, she had escaped her prison, but it made no sense she would come to the hall that brimmed with folk, nor that the man whose brother she was said to have murdered would invite her to join him at table. Of course, these past days of watching one watch the other had presented the unforeseen and unwelcome possibility that something had happened between D’Arci and Lady Beatrix. And he had told his lord as much in a missive dispatched on the day past. So
had
something happened? Beatrix was a beautiful woman, and she surely stirred
him
—

“I thank you that you would r-risk so much to aid me,” her voice came out of the dark, “but I shall not go with you, Sir Durand.” In the corner beyond the bed, she rose from where she had sat watching him. Waiting for him.

“Beatrix,” he murmured, only after speaking her name realizing he did so without title, something he had no right to do. Especially now.

“Pray, deliver…tidings of my family, then leave ere you are discovered.”

He eased his hand from the dagger. “The first I can do. The last, I cannot.”

She stepped into the brazier’s glow. “My sister?” She held her hands at the waist of a homespun garment that had replaced the fine gown she wore belowstairs.

The mere thought of Gaenor unsettled Durand as it had done every day since he had escorted her to Wulfen. Turning memories of her away, he looked to the sister for whom he felt so much and whom he had believed lost to him that night in the wood when Gaenor had wept on his shoulder.

As when Durand had first seen Beatrix again in D’Arci’s hall, he was struck by how lovely she was. And yet how different she seemed from the young woman with whom he had fled Stern Castle. And it was not merely her faltering speech. There was a hard light in her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was forceful and resonated with purpose. Then there was her stiff bearing that contrasted with the carefree figure he had known.

As often happened with those who survived great adversity, she had aged such that the memory held of her all these weeks found little nourishment in the woman whose face did not light and who did not rush to accept his deliverance.

“My sister?” she asked again.

“I delivered her safely to your brother, Sir Everard, at Wulfen.”

Relief lowered Beatrix’s shoulders. “And where is she now?”

“She is yet at Wulfen, my lady.”

Beatrix frowned. “As women are not allowed within W-Wulfen’s walls, I expected my brother would seek to secure her elsewhere.”

It was a reasonable expectation since the only woman to ever fully penetrate Wulfen Castle was Annyn Bretanne, now Baron Wulfrith’s wife, when she had sought revenge against his family in the disguise of a squire.

“Your family has determined it is the surest place to prevent King Henry from laying hold of Lady Gaenor, not only due to its fortifications but because few at Wulfen are aware of her presence.”

After a long moment, Beatrix nodded. “Tell me of my eldest brother.”

“Baron Wulfrith fares better now that ’tis known you live.”

“I am surprised he did not come for me himself.”

“He wished to, as did your other brothers. Unfortunately, they have trained far too many boys into knights to go unrecognized.”

“I had not c-considered that. What of my mother and sister-in-law?”

“They are well, my lady. The news you had survived the fall lifted the great pall beneath which all have been laboring. Now there is only the trial to deal with, and for that I am here.”

She momentarily lowered her lids. “How does Squire Percival fare?”

He was not surprised that she concerned herself over the young man who had stood watch over the stairs. “He shall be sore when he awakens. That is all.”

“I thank you, Sir Durand. And now I ask you to return to Stern Castle and tell my brother that I go to…trial willingly that I might defend my innocence.”

Willingly? After all she had endured to escape Baron Lavonne? Durand stared at the woman before him. Mayhap the head injury had done more damage than thought. “I fear I cannot do as you ask, Lady Beatrix,” he consciously returned her title to her. “I have a promise to keep, and it requires that you come with me.”

She shook her head. “Go.”

“Lady Beatrix—”

“I am staying!”

God’s tooth!
In relieving Squire Percival and the knight of consciousness, he had thought the greatest obstacles overcome, but now this small woman loomed just as large. Unfortunately, as much as he preferred to reason with her, there was not the time to do so.

He strode around the bed.

She stepped back. “Upon my word, I shall scream, Sir Durand!”

“And reveal me? Nay, you will not.” At least, the Beatrix he had known would not. Hoping some of her remained, he reached for her.

She lunged, lit upon the mattress, and clambered toward the other side.

Landing his knees on the bed, he caught a handful of her homespun gown.

She shrieked, flailed as he dragged her back from the edge, and nearly unmanned him.

Durand tossed her onto her back and clamped a hand over her mouth. Praying her shriek had not made it around too many turns of the winding stairs, he pushed his gaze to hers.

Her eyes were wild, and he knew that were his legs not pinning hers, she would try again for his manhood.

“Hear me, Lady—”

He felt the scrape of her teeth. Fortunately, his palm was too calloused for her to catch hold of.

“Enough!” Struggling to control his frustration, he said, “Listen to me. I am taking you from here—”

The sound of footsteps made him snap his head around. A moment later, a sword hewed the doorway, followed by Michael D’Arci.

Durand cursed. Had he not been distracted by Beatrix’s struggle, he would sooner have heard D’Arci’s advance and had his sword to hand.

Even as Durand rolled to the side and reached for his hilt, he knew it was too late.

Michael paused only long enough to assess the situation, but it was enough to boil his blood and render his sword arm a taste for killing. He lunged toward the one who had pinned Beatrix to the bed and would have severed the knave’s head if not that Beatrix lurched after him.

“Nay!” She threw herself on the knight.

Staying his blade, Michael groped for an explanation of her shielding of the man. And nearly lost the advantage when Sir Piers reached for his dagger.

Michael grabbed Beatrix’s arm, thrust her aside, and swept his blade to the knight’s neck.

The man’s hand paused above his dagger. Then, with grudging surrender, he splayed his fingers. “Come, Lord D’Arci, let us take to arms and decide this now.”

“’Tis decided. You die.”

Beatrix reached to Michael. “He is not—”

“Stay back!” He knocked her hand aside.

The momentary distraction was all Sir Piers needed. He rolled and gained his feet—and sword—on the opposite side of the bed.

If not for Michael’s laming, he could have been upon the knight before the sword hissed from its scabbard.

“Now we decide,” Sir Piers said and started around the bed.

Remembering the miscreant pinning Beatrix to the bed, eager to begin the letting, Michael stepped forward. “Come, then.”

Beatrix leapt off the mattress. “Hear me! ’Tis Sir Durand—”

The brazier’s glow streaked the blade of Sir Piers—now Sir Durand—and Michael answered by deflecting the blow.

Steel upon steel resounded around the room, the force of the meeting causing both men to stagger. They pushed off each others’ sword, circled, and like starving dogs warring over a bone, met at the center of the room.

Michael turned his wrist and thrust his blade high, forcing his opponent’s blade to follow. The man disengaged and fell back, then came again.

Grunting at the weight he was forced to give his healing leg, Michael fended off the man’s attack. Though there was not enough light in the dim room to trace a sword’s path, he met each thrust and turned aside blow after blow as the walls of the room rang with battle.

Above the din, he heard Beatrix’s protests, though the roar in his ears was too loud to know what she said. Once…twice…he glimpsed her fearful face as he sought to give his full attention to the skilled knight who meant to take what Michael would not give.

Sir Durand—did he know the name?—swept his sword low to deflect Michael’s attempt to cut his feet out from under him, then advanced and swung upward.

Michael turned hard on his injured leg and knocked aside the knight’s blade. As intended, the move opened a path to Sir Durand’s sword arm.

“Cease!” Beatrix cried and lunged between them.

Michael jerked, slowing his swing, but it was not enough to stop it. The tip of his sword caught the sleeve of her gown and found the flesh beneath.

“Nay!” he shouted. But it was so, as evidenced by the blood that rimmed his blade.

Beatrix stumbled back against Sir Durand.

“My lady!” The knight clasped her shoulder.

She looked to the crimson that seeped through her sleeve, clapped a hand over it, and swung her stricken gaze to Michael.

He stepped toward her. “Beatrix, I—”

“Whoreson!” Sir Durand yelled. Lips curling, eyes seeking to impale, he swept his sword to the ready. “Get behind me, my lady,” he said and thrust Beatrix to the side.

Michael ground his teeth. If it took the knight’s death to gain Beatrix, so be it. However, before their swords could cleave the air, Beatrix closed her blood-smeared hand around the hilt of Sir Durand’s dagger.