The YIELDING (3 page)

“Release me!” Beatrix jabbed her elbows into the man at her back and twisted side to side to loosen his hold. “Let me go to him!”

The young knight dragged her so hard against him she feared a rib had cracked.

“Release the lady, Sir Simon,” the aged knight ordered.

Her captor’s mouth touched her ear. “Be you assured, we are not done.”

When he dropped his arm from her, Beatrix scrambled off the horse. She lurched forward past the aged knight and dropped to her knees alongside Sir Ewen.

His eyes were closed, but as she leaned over him, his lids flickered and opened. “I have failed you, my lady,” he rasped. “I have failed Baron Wulfrith.”

She cupped his face in her hands. “Nay, you have not, honorable knight.”

The corners of his slack mouth strained upward. “Sir Durand…holds you in high affection. I would not have you lost to him.”

She shook her head. “Even were I lost, I am not his to be found.”

He drew a suffering breath. “So your mother requires.”

Denial rose to her lips, but she did not speak it, for it was cruel to argue with a dying man.

“My lady…” He raised his head slightly and peered down his body. “The Wulfrith dagger. Take it. Use it, if you must.”

Beatrix followed his gaze, and the sight of his torn center nearly made her gag. Quickly, she refocused her attention on the belt from which his empty scabbard hung. Alongside it was the dagger awarded to all knights who trained under the Wulfriths, its pommel set with jewels to form the cross of crucifixion.

Dear Lord, where are you?

“Take it, my lady!”

Skirts shielding Sir Ewen from the knights, she touched the hilt. Though her sister-in-law, Annyn, had trained at weapons and could swing a sword and wield a dagger as well as many a knight, the closest Beatrix had come to such was the meat dagger she used at meal.

“Now, my lady, ere they draw near.”

She unsheathed the dagger, lifted the hem of her skirts, and slid the weapon in the top of her hose—somehow without mishap since the blade was well-honed.

Sir Ewen sighed and dropped his head to the ground. “God keep you, my lady.” A moment later, he stared at the heavens.

Beatrix’s tears fell.
Dear Lord, open your gates to this man. Forgive him his transgressions.

“I leave the lady in your care, Sir Simon,” the aged knight’s rusty voice ground the remainder of her prayer to dust.

She hastened to her feet, swung around, and sought his gaze where he remained astride ten feet away. “You are leaving?”

“I must rejoin the search for your sister, my lady.” He jerked his chin at his companion who had guided his horse alongside his. “Sir Simon will serve as your escort.”

“Nay, I beseech you, do not leave me with this man.”

“Worry not, my lady, you will be safe.” He turned his gaze hard upon the young knight. “Is that not right, Sir Simon?”

It was a warning, Beatrix realized, but would it be heeded?

“Of course, Sir Hector.”

The aged knight considered him, then said, “Rejoin us as soon as possible.”

Beatrix took a step toward Sir Hector. “Sir—”

He spurred his destrier away, leaving her alone with a man who had touched her as a man should not. Though the chill February morning had warmed considerably as it moved toward the nooning hour, she shivered.

Sir Simon smiled, showing white, uncrowded teeth that might as well have been stained and overlapped for all the ill in his face. Ill that Sir Hector had chosen to overlook in his eagerness to rejoin the chase.

“It seems you are to suffer my company a bit longer, Lady Beatrix. But it cannot be all bad, eh?”

Do not cower. Annyn would not.
“Provided I not also suffer your touch,” she snapped.

He narrowed his lids at her.

Though she longed to flee, there was no hope of escape. She had Sir Ewen’s dagger but could not use it. Of course, Annyn could.

But I am not Annyn.
As much as she admired her sister-in-law, it was not in her to draw blood, even in defense of her person. But this man could not know that, could he?

When he urged his destrier forward, Beatrix swept up her skirts and drew the dagger from her hose. “Come no nearer!”

He pulled the reins. However, he must have seen in her face that her words bore no weight, for he laughed. “Best you hand that over ere you harm yourself, my lady.”

She retreated a step and came up against Sir Ewen’s still form.

“Give over, Lady Beatrix.” Brow folded with amusement, Sir Simon beckoned.

She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes landed on Sir Ewen’s destrier where it grazed alongside the ravine. Could she reach it? Make it astride? It was her only chance.

She lunged to the side and, wishing for legs as long as Gaenor’s, ran as she could not remember ever running. Somehow, she reached the destrier ahead of Sir Simon, but as she grabbed the pommel to swing into the saddle, the knight drove his mount alongside the other horse.

Trapped between the two, chest pressed hard into the side of Sir Ewen’s destrier, Beatrix swept her dagger-wielding hand back in a blind attempt to fend off her assailant, but all she caught was air. However, Sir Simon succeeded where she failed, capturing her wrist and rendering the dagger useless.

As Sir Ewen’s destrier snorted and trotted away, Beatrix turned from the ravine to face her captor. What she saw in his face made her shudder. Though she had not considered him handsome, his countenance had been pleasing enough. No longer.

“Give over, witch!” he growled.

Despite the pressure on her wrist, she maintained her grip on the dagger and strained backward.

With a yank that nearly wrenched her arm from its socket, he once more dragged her up onto his saddle, turned her sideways, and clamped an arm around her waist. “What will you do now there is no one to defend your virtue?” he taunted, digging fingers into the flesh of her wrist.

Still she held to the Wulfrith dagger. “Release me, cur!”

“Ah, but then I would be negligent in my duty to serve as your escort—among other things.”

“I vow—” She gasped as the increased pressure on her wrist made pain shoot up her arm. “I vow the king’s man and Baron Lavonne will hear tale of how you
escort
your charges—how they are made to suffer your vile attentions.”

He chuckled. “You think me blind to the way you looked at me at Stern Castle, Lady Beatrix? I know the thoughts that coursed your mind—what you want from me.”

“All I want from you is your absence!”

“How you do lie.” He lowered his head, and his mouth would have claimed hers had she not jerked her head aside.

In the next instant, she realized that though his hold on her rendered the dagger impotent, he had made no such provision for her other hand. She bunched it into a fist and slammed it into his chin.

It could not have pained him as much as it did her, but he cursed and dragged her so hard against him her breath fled. “If that is as you wish it, my lady!” His kiss—if it could be called that—ground her lips against her teeth and filled her mouth with the taste of blood. Still she did not give up the dagger. She would rather die.

When he ran his mouth down her neck, inhaling deep as if to feed his senses, she recalled that her sister-in-law had said the only thing necessary to render a man impotent was to catch him unawares. Annyn had referred to the vulnerability of the groin, which had made Beatrix and Gaenor giggle, but it was no longer a matter at which to laugh, especially as Beatrix’s proximity to her assailant denied her that vulnerability. But perhaps there was another way to catch him unawares.

She closed her eyes and went limp. It took longer than expected for him to realize something had changed, but when he did, he lifted his head and she felt his gaze hard upon her face. A moment later, he eased his hold on her.

Beatrix jerked her dagger-wielding hand free, swung her left elbow high, and drove it into his throat.

Eyes wide with disbelief, he made a terrible sucking sound, but even as he strained breath into his lungs, he reached for the dagger she held aloft.

Use it!
a part of her cried, while the other recoiled at the act of drawing blood.

Sir Simon stole the argument from her, wrenching her forearm down with such force the dagger’s pommel struck his horse’s neck.

The destrier gave a high-pitched neigh, lunged sideways, and reared.

And there was the ravine, its harsh, jagged edges seeming to rise toward Beatrix.

But she was the one in motion. Overwhelmed by the sensation of falling and the dread anticipation of the rocks below, she screamed and registered an answering shout and felt hands that never should have touched her—hands that should have let her go. Air rushed past and, when it was exhausted, all that remained were the rocks to break her fall. To break her.

Gaenor wailed and would not have ceased had Sir Durand not clamped a hand over her mouth. Staring at the terrible sight in the ravine below, she sobbed against his palm.

The knight was silent where his destrier pressed alongside her palfrey and, past her pain, she slowly became aware of his own. Dragging a deep, shuddering breath, she looked around.

Sir Durand made no attempt to avert his moist gaze, the only movement about him the convulsive bob of his throat.

Gaenor pried his hand from her mouth. “We must go to her. Perhaps she is—”

“’Tis not possible. She could not have survived such a fall.”

“But—”

“Look! Even from here you can see blood.”

She did not want to look again, but she did. Below the wooded hill upon which they had paused was a clearing where three horses grazed and a knight—surely Sir Ewen—had fallen to the sword. In the center of that clearing, as though its heart had been torn from it, was a ravine. Partway down its craggy length, the unmistakable figure of Beatrix was crumpled on a ledge. And sprawled across her was the one responsible for this heinous crime—a man sent by the king to deliver a bride to the detestable Christian Lavonne.

“She is lost to us,” Sir Durand said softly.

Gaenor longed to shout that Beatrix could have survived, that the blood belonged to the unmoving knight, but his fall had been broken by her sister’s delicate figure. It had to be Beatrix’s blood.

“We must go, my lady.”

Tears spilling, Gaenor shook her head. “We cannot leave her.”

“If the king’s men capture you, her sacrifice will be for naught.”

“Sacrifice,” Gaenor whispered. And knew it was so. When she had realized her sister and Sir Ewen were no longer at their backs, something had told her it was of Beatrix’s doing. Beatrix who was always thinking ahead of her feet. Who would not hesitate to place herself at risk to save her sister. Who believed in God as Gaenor did not pretend to do. Aye, Gaenor knew He existed, but He did not answer prayers nor place hedges of protection around those who truly followed Him—as deaf to Beatrix upon her rocky grave as He so often was to Gaenor.

“My lady?”

She nodded. “Let us be away from here—as far as you can take me.”

She would rather die than surrender it. Was that what had happened?
Had
she died?

She flexed her fingers and felt the gems through the leather of her glove. The dagger was still to hand, so she must yet live. She tried to draw a deep breath, but it felt as if a great weight pressed upon her. Taking a shallow sip of cool air, she eased her lids open and winced at the pain that raked fingernails across the inside of her skull.

She squeezed her eyes closed, but there was no escape from the ache that spread and intensified until it felt as if it knew and hated every ounce of her being.

What happened? Where am I? Why so much pain?

Darkness once more beckoning, she slid toward it. However, a vague memory dragged across her thoughts and, though she longed to let it pass, she pulled it back and saw a man’s leering face and eyes that were at once pale and dark. Then there was the dagger she yet gripped. He had tried to wrest it from her.

Why? And who was he?

She forced her lids up and blinked until the blur came into focus. To her left, rising steeply overhead, a wall of rock was interspersed with dry winter grass.

Did I fall? This the reason my head aches and legs will not move?

She eased her head up. Grinding her teeth against the pain caused by the movement, she peered down her body.

Blood soaked her mantle where a man lay across her.

She cried out and wrenched sideways, and the man rolled off her. Closing her throat against sobs that threatened to shake her apart, she dropped to her back again and peered across her shoulder at the one who had come to rest on his side facing her. His chest bled crimson, meaning the blood upon her must belong to him. But why? Because of the dagger she would rather die than release? She raised her hand and whimpered at the sight of blood coloring the blade. Had she—?

Nay, she would not have.