The YIELDING (37 page)

Hand flexing on his hilt, he said, “I can, but only for so long. I do have other vows to keep, Beatrix.”

“Garr!” the younger brother protested.

Wulfrith lifted a staying hand. “It is done, Abel. Now let us be of good care that I not regret it.”

Beatrix ran into Michael’s arms. When he did not enfold her as he longed to do, she lifted her face to his.

“Michael?” She winced as her gaze swept the broken flesh that ran from his brow to his hairline. “You are hurt.” She reached to his face.

He caught her hand. “I am well.” His voice was tight with the anger he fought to suppress.

“If my in-interference has wounded your man’s pride, I am sorry, but you asked of me what I could not do. I will not stand meekly aside while…bloodlust grows between two men I love.”

He searched her face, agonized over the fear he had felt that he might lose her, wondered how he had ever come to care so deeply for another, questioned why someone like him should be gifted with the love of a woman like her.

Was it God at work—opening a door to which Michael was hardly worthy, making him yearn to be worthy regardless of what might be required of him? He closed his eyes and, as he found himself doing of late, turned his thoughts heavenward.
Lord, fill me as You fill Beatrix. I am Yours.

“Michael?”

“I understand,” he said, and there, before all, he tipped up her face and closed his mouth over hers. As she leaned in, it was as if there was no rain, no ruins, no others.

“Night is nearly upon us!” the sheriff intruded. “It bodes ill to remain without castle walls while brigands run the wood.”

Michael released Beatrix. “I have something for you.” He pulled the small, black object from beneath his chain mail.

She stared at it. “My psalter.”

Gotten from the chapel into which he had driven the brigand. “I am sorry for having denied you its comfort.”

She smiled. Then, seeing her treasure was in danger of becoming a sodden mess, she hurried it beneath her mantle.

Michael sheathed his sword and turned her toward her brothers who waited alongside their destriers.

“D’Arci,” Wulfrith said as they neared.

Michael halted before him, while beside him Beatrix tensed. “Wulfrith.”

The warrior stepped forward and, in a voice that would not carry, said, “Sir Durand tells me you received word to expect such an attack.”

“I did.”

“From whom?”

Michael drew an arm across his drenched face. “A friend.”

“You will not tell who this friend is?”

Time aplenty to learn to trust Wulfrith. “I will not, though I will say that the tidings that Beatrix was not to reach Broehne was intended for one of Soaring’s knights—Sir Robert, who is among our escort and who sought to facilitate his liege’s yearn for revenge.”

“His liege being Baron Lavonne,” Wulfrith growled.

“Nay, not the baron.”

Wulfrith’s brow furrowed. “Make yourself clear, D’Arci.”

“This is not something Christian Lavonne would do—”

“Ha!” Abel guffawed.

“He is not such a man,” Michael said, “but his father is, and though Aldous Lavonne is infirm, he yet commands much of what happens upon the barony.”

“How is that possible?” Wulfrith demanded.

“By way of men who remain loyal to him—men like Sir Robert, Aldous Lavonne’s eldest, albeit illegitimate, son.”

A glimmer of surprise was all Wulfrith allowed. “I see. And what of Christian Lavonne’s place in all this?”

“Unfortunately, for reasons to which none are privy, he allows his father his mischief.”

“The little monk is a coward, then,” Abel muttered.

Michael nearly laughed to hear Christian described so. The baron was a bigger man than either of the Wulfriths, which was saying much, and though Christian had yet to find his stride as lord of all he possessed, none who knew him would name him a coward.

“Continue,” Wulfrith prompted.

“Though ‘tis true Christian knew of the raids on your lands, and in the beginning may have condoned them, it is his father who ordered them. Christian simply…” Michael shook his head. “…allowed his father to work revenge for the death of his son.” No coward, but a man torn.

“And what of the brigands who set upon us? You are saying Christian Lavonne had naught to do with them?”

Michael was struck with the realization that though Christian may have been privy to his father’s plans, he had sought to subvert them by sending Sir Hector and other loyal knights with the sheriff. This time, he was not allowing his father what was no longer his to command. There was comfort in that.

“That is what I am saying. Though he surely suspected what his father intended, he did not condone or hire the brigands.”

Wulfrith’s eyes locked on his, and Michael felt as if the man delved far beyond his dilated pupils. “So once more, the baron of Abingdale simply stood back.”

“Nay, he sent knights loyal to him to escort your sister to Broehne—among them, Sir Hector, who saved her life.”

“It was Sir Hector who laid down the brigands? The same who slew my man, Sir Ewen?”

“The same.”

Wulfrith looked to where the older knight sat his horse, and Michael knew he struggled to reconcile the one who had slain one of his knights with the one who had delivered Beatrix. “I see. Then Aldous Lavonne fears my sister will not meet her end at trial.”

“Aye, the justice who has come to Broehne seeks absolution for her.”

Beatrix gasped. “You did this, Michael?”

“I did not, though I would not oppose it were you granted a privilege often afforded those who are noble.”

“But I do not want absolu—”

“This I know, Beatrix.” To fight the impatience endeavoring to undo him, he clenched his hands. “But Aldous Lavonne does not. For this, he sent the brigands.”

“And shall be surprised when my sister and you arrive alive and whole,” Wulfrith said.

Then, despite his distrust of Michael, he had been aware that Beatrix was not the only one who should have met her death among the abbey ruins.

“Let us not make him await his disappointment longer than necessary,” Wulfrith said. “Mount up!”

Drawing Beatrix nearer his side, Michael stepped past the Wulfrith brothers. Though fury tempted his hand to his sword as he neared Sir Robert and those who conspired with him, he did not pull it. There would come a better time. The ache in his calf turning his uneven gait to a limp, he was grateful when Squire Percival led Sartan forward.

“Lord D’Arci,” Sir Robert called, “by measure of your limp, it appears you have further injured yourself.”

Though Michael could not prevent his hand from gripping his hilt, he did not unsheathe the sword but met the eyes of the knight who gazed out of heavily creased lids. “And it appears you are none the worse, Sir Robert.” He looked to the man’s companions who contrasted sharply with the others who wore the sure marks of battle.

Though none were near the years of their youth, neither were their bodies broken such that they could not wield a weapon—especially Sir Robert whose sinewed bulk defied his weathered face.

“Indeed,” Michael added, “one might question whether you, or Sir Charles, or Sir Philip raised a sword.”

The knight’s face colored.

Michael looked to the sheriff whose tunic was splattered with blood. “What do you think, Sheriff?”

“Most curious.”

It was good he had seen to their protection himself, Michael brooded, and looked to those he had caused to ride the wood. But not all were present. Nor were they expected to be, for the brigands had known their swords well. Still, Michael’s anger stirred. Every one of his men he knew, especially those he had convinced to abandon the mercenary life of knight errantry by promising them better at Soaring. Hopefully, Michael’s dead were not among the few who had taken wives and sown children.

Michael looked to Squire Percival. “How many lost?”

The young man’s mouth grimmed amid a cut and abraded face. “Of Soaring’s men, my lord, three.”

Three who would have lived if not for the venomous Aldous Lavonne. Three who might have lived if not for the perfidious knights set to watch over Soaring.

Though Michael knew now was not the time to determine which of his men had fallen, he swept his gaze over those the night attempted to conceal from him. Sir Dominic was absent—unwed. Sir Martin was absent—unwed as well. Sir Thomas—widowed, his wife having died birthing a girl child who would now be two summers old.

Michael tried to cap his anger, but habits too far from being called ‘old’ surfaced. “Curse Aldous Lavonne!” He released Beatrix and swept his sword from its scabbard.

“Michael!” She caught his arm. “Do not!”

Though he longed to shake her off that he might feed this yawning ache to avenge his men and a little girl who was left with naught, he met Beatrix’s beseeching gaze.

“Not here. Not now,” she pleaded. “Wait on Him, Michael.”

“I wager they do not bear so much as a scratch!” he seethed.

“Even so, trust in Him who delivered you from the brigands and sent Sir Hector to my side.”

Michael followed her gaze to the aged knight who sat upon his mount to the left of Sir Robert—a man to whom he owed more than he could repay. A man who had once served Aldous Lavonne. A man who, though he spoke not a word against his former liege, had transferred his fealty to the youngest son. And for it, Beatrix lived.

Michael thrust his sword into its scabbard, then lifted Beatrix into the saddle and settled behind her. As he turned Sartan toward the road, he caught Sir Hector’s gaze and nodded him forward.

The knight drew alongside.

“I owe you much, Sir Hector.”

“In that you are wrong, Lord D’Arci. Not only was it my charge to watch over the lady, but I had a debt to repay.”

“What debt?”

“The lady knows of what I speak.” Sir Hector spurred his horse and became a shadow in the night.

“Of what does he speak, Beatrix?”

She looked up at him from beneath her hood. “That day at the ravine, I…beseeched him to not leave me alone with Sir Simon. Though Sir Hector”—

Her next words escaped Michael as a memory returned of the day he had answered the summons to Broehne Castle and found Simon laid out in the hall. Sir Hector had been there. Sir Hector who had said little. Sir Hector whose regret had slipped away each time he glanced at Simon.

—“to fear,” Beatrix finished.

“What was that last you said?”

“Though Sir Hector assured me I w-would be safe, ’twas as if he knew that I had reason to fear.”

Michael clenched his hands. Though he had finally accepted what Beatrix accused his brother of having tried to do, the possibility it might not have been the first time Simon had trespassed upon a woman made him ache deeper.

Pieces. Always more pieces. But would there be enough to construct an adequate defense to free Beatrix? Was there something to which Sir Hector might testify that would aid her?

Those questions and others would have to wait, for it was growing darker and Broehne Castle was yet distant.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Beatrix halted just inside the doors and looked around the hall that had been shadow-fallen the night of her escape from Broehne. Even now there was not much light, their arrival having been delayed well past the supper hour when the castle folk bedded down for the night. However, the three torches lit upon their arrival allowed her to pick out the benches and pallets on which many made their beds.

“Lady Beatrix,” a familiar voice called from across the hall, and two figures rose from the lord’s table.

Michael squeezed her elbow. “I stand at your side.”

She looked up at him. “This I know.”

Baron Lavonne, accompanied by the sheriff, stepped from the dais into the dim light. “I pray you will forgive my state of dress,” he said as he advanced, a robe belted about his tall figure. “I had just retired to my chamber when word was brought of your arrival.”

Word that had been delivered more than a quarter hour past when first the sheriff and Sir Hector, then Sir Robert, entered the donjon and Beatrix and her escort had been made to wait outside. Feeling the presence of her brothers at her back, knowing they would not be content to remain there, she stepped forward. A few moments later, she and the baron faced each other at the center of the hall.

Christian Lavonne looked down at her from his lofty height, and in his gaze was anger. However, a moment later he turned it on Michael. “D’Arci.”

“My lord.”

Not for much longer, for surely the baron would not tolerate his vassal’s support of her. It made her ache.

“I am told you were waylaid by brigands.” The anger in his voice deepened.

Beatrix did not have to look at Michael to know contempt curled his mouth. “It could not have been Sir Robert who told you so, as I would have wagered my life he was largely unaware of the attack.”