The YIELDING (39 page)

“I know of what you speak,” Beatrix said. “Michael has told me all, and I believe him to be as wronged as I am in being accused of murdering Sir Simon.”

“And if it is deceit he works upon you?” Abel asked.

“He does not. He loves me.”

“Perhaps,” Garr said, “but will love be enough?”

She met his gaze and knew he had returned to the matter of godliness. “God grows in Michael. That is enough.”

Abel sighed, sank deeper into the chair, and thrust his legs out before him. “Let us pray you are right.”

Of Beatrix’s three brothers, he was the most curious of all, one moment a reflection of Garr, the next of Everard, then their father, and sometimes their mother. Somewhere behind all those reflections, resided Abel himself, but he showed himself too rarely to be truly known. And, strangely, he seemed content with the arrangement, as if it was a game he quite enjoyed.

“You are prepared for the morrow, Beatrix?” Garr asked.

“I am.”

He dropped to his haunches beside her. “If you are found guilty, I shall deliver you free of Broehne.”

“As Michael himself has vowed, but ‘twill not be necessary, for I will deliver myself.” She had to believe she could or she would falter when she stood at trial.

Garr’s nostrils flared. “Already a jury is chosen. A jury likely disposed toward Aldous Lavonne.”

“Then I must needs dispose them…otherwise.”

He rose and turned toward the bed. “You need sleep for the morrow. Abel and I will stand watch.”

“I would like to wait on Michael.”

“It could be hours ere he returns. Sleep, Beatrix.”

Her lids
were
heavy. But though she did not believe she would gain much rest, she agreed. However, she was still awake an hour later. And Michael had yet to return.

Curse King Henry! Curse the Wulfriths! Curse D’Arci! Curse them all!

The shaking of the bed evidencing how hard he trembled, Aldous pulled himself back from the silent rantings that filled his head to screaming pitch. If he was not careful, this writhing would crack open his heart and he would be denied what he most needed—to leave this world knowing the Wulfriths felt the loss and pain he had long suffered.

If those accursed brigands had not failed him, if D’Arci had not known what was intended and set men to the woods, if the traitorous physician had not conspired with the Wulfriths to outnumber those who were to have seen the Wulfrith whore dead…

He lifted a hand to drag it down his face only to pause on his disfigured fingers that had once been straight and tapered, that had gripped a sword strong and true, that had clasped the hand of the woman who had grown to love him as it was good for a wife to do.

He squeezed his eyes closed, but the memories followed him to the backs of his lids. With panting breath, he opened his eyes and stared at the door that had yet to admit D’Arci.

How he longed to suffer life no more. If not for the greater need to give back what the Wulfriths had dealt him, he would not. But now that they were within his walls, they would not emerge unscathed, nor that perfidious scum, D’Arci. That vile, loathsome, godforsaken—

Aldous saw a flash of white, felt something in the confines of his skull stretch taut, then heard—would swear he heard—something snap.

Shuddering, he focused on his bent and burned fingers. And smiled as the last vestiges of the man who had sacrificed his very skin to save ungrateful wretches slid away. It did not matter that his soul also slipped away. After all, souls were burdensome, ever holding a man back. Inducing him to compromise. Fabricating excuses for those who were lacking. Disposing him toward honor and civility when the edge of a sword was far more effective. Turning him from justice where justice was due. It did not matter. What mattered was a life for a life—more, if possible.

By the time the door admitted the physician, Aldous was strangely calm. “Ah, D’Arci.” He let his voice smile where his lips could not. “Come.”

Never had Michael been received by Aldous in such a manner. Indeed, the old baron had only ever been morosely mute or abrasively demanding. Michael redoubled the vigilance with which he had entered and swept the shadowed room for any who might be lurking. Determining that he and the old man were alone, he approached the bed.

“Nearer.” Aldous beckoned.

Reminding himself of his dagger that could be brought to hand in a moment, Michael halted alongside the bed and looked down on the one who would continue to seek Beatrix’s death. And was tempted to yield to this fire that would have him free the world of such wickedness—wickedness that became more evident when Michael looked into eyes that would have held the devil in awe.

Despite Aldous’s strangely calm exterior, he fomented over his failed brigands. And yet there remained something in his depths that had once been in greater evidence—torment. A bare flicker, but still present.

As always, Michael felt a pang for the old man’s suffering, though this time it was against his will.

Aldous waved him nearer. “Surely you do not fear a withered old man near death,” he grunted out so low that Michael had to strain to catch the words.

As Aldous intended he should do, he bent low.

The words Aldous’s moist lips delivered to his ear revealed the truth of him. “My revenge begins with your whore.” He sniffed loudly. “Indeed, the smell of her burning flesh is upon the very air we breathe.”

Michael’s sympathy fled, and he knew he would never again be in danger of its return. Anger again tempting his hand to the blade, he curled his fingers into his palms and put his mouth near Aldous’s ear. “Nay, ’tis the death of your brigands you smell. And, God willing, your own.” That last he could not contain. Straightening, he looked down upon the old man.

A corner of his mouth convulsing, Aldous stared at Michael. “Unless you intend to murder me as the Wulfriths murdered my son—and your brother—I will never yield up this life until justice is done.”

“Justice,” Michael scoffed. “Cling to your justice as long as you will, old man, but never will your evil touch Lady Beatrix. On the morrow she goes free.”

Aldous’s lashless lids spasmed, but he recovered. With a smile that was little more than a flat line warped at the corners, he said, “Free from this world but not hell.”

Knowing that if he remained, his conviction to keep from putting Aldous through would fail, Michael turned away. “On the morrow,” he said as he crossed to the door.

When he stood in the corridor with the door at his back, he drew a deep breath and several more before deeming himself calm enough to approach Wulfrith with Christian’s proposal.

Would the baron’s terms be acceptable or wanting? Michael wondered as he advanced on the chamber where Beatrix’s brothers watched over her. Though she was determined to free herself, he prayed Wulfrith would hand over one sister to better the other’s chance of gaining a verdict of innocence. And no guilt would Michael feel for his desire to improve Beatrix’s chances, for still she would be allowed to defend herself as promised.

He paused before the door behind which he had several times passed a night at Broehne and frowned. Beatrix could not be told that her sister was the price paid for Sir Hector’s witness, for she would oppose the bargain, regardless that King Henry would eventually force the Wulfriths to surrender Lady Gaenor, regardless that marriage to Christian would not be such an ill union as feared. The baron had shown a stripe of ruthlessness that had threatened to undo Michael, but it was not yet as deep and wide as his father’s. As the wife of Christian Lavonne, Lady Gaenor might never be loved, but neither would she be ill-treated. There was consolation in that. Now if the Wulfriths could be convinced.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A quarter hour into dawn and still no word from Wulfrith.

Christian stared at the empty space between him and the door and silently cursed the thwarting of his plan. He had been certain his offer would be accepted, albeit grudgingly, but the Wulfriths did not even deign to send word of their rejection. Arrogant knaves!

“I do not think they are coming, my lord,” Sir Hector said from the opposite side of the table that claimed nearly a quarter of the lord’s solar.

“So it appears.”

“Then?”

Christian knew what he asked, just as he had known on the night past what he would answer. “As Lady Gaenor will eventually be my wife, still you will bear witness for her sister.”

No surprise rose on the aged knight’s face, for he knew his lord better than Michael D’Arci. And Christian resented him for it.

When a rap sounded on the door, he called, “Enter!”

His squire stepped inside. “My lord, Baron Wulfrith—”

—“calls,” Wulfrith growled, pushing the young man aside, as did the Wulfrith knight who followed.

As Sir Hector stepped forward, sword to hand, Christian rose and gripped his own sword hilt, but when Wulfrith’s sheathed sword remained at his side, Christian also left his blade sheathed. With a slight shake of his head intended to restrain Hector, he asked, “There is something you require, Baron Wulfrith?”

The man halted before him. “A discussion of your proposal.” Wulfrith acknowledged Sir Hector with a glance—Hector whose guard was divided between Wulfrith and the knight who took up a position near the door.

Accustomed as Christian was to looking down on other men from his ample height, there was something exhilarating about meeting this man eye to eye. Indeed, though Wulfrith’s reputation as a warrior was well known, Christian almost wished the man would set upon him.

He looked to the uncovered windows. “It is past dawn, Baron Wulfrith.”

Wulfrith’s grey-green eyes revealing his anger, the red-veined whites witness to his sleepless night, he said, “Dawn enough.”

Christian raised an eyebrow. “I do not see what discussion there is to be had. Either you accept or you do not.”

“I have my own terms.”

Christian looked to his squire who stood inside the doorway glowering between the two men who had pushed past him. With a thrust of the chin to indicate the young man should withdraw, Christian returned to Wulfrith. “Speak.”

“Ere I accept your proposal, I would know to what Sir Hector intends to testify in my sister’s defense.”

“That will be revealed at trial.”

“You think me so fool to agree to hand over my sister based on your word that this knight’s witness will be of use?”

“As King Henry has commanded that your sister and I wed, I do not require your agreement to deliver her. Be it a sennight hence, be it a year, she
will
come to Broehne.”

Something drew Christian’s gaze to Wulfrith’s knight, and he saw the man’s face was flushed and teeth nearly bared. Indeed, he seemed to seethe as much as his lord. Interesting.

Christian looked back at Wulfrith. “I but wish to avoid further delay and strain between our families that will reflect poorly on the Wulfrith’s loyalty to King Henry.”

The baron’s nostrils flared, and Christian knew he struggled with things beyond his control, just as Christian had done much of his life. “Do you accept or do you not?”

“Not as the proposal stands. I will deliver Gaenor only if I deem Sir Hector’s witness is of use at trial. Now, do
you
accept, or do you not, Lavonne?”

Though Aldous Lavonne would have rejected such terms, it was near enough what Christian wanted. He would have to have faith, were faith yet possible for him, that Wulfrith was honorable as was told. Fortunately for them both, Christian knew what kind of man Geoffrey had been such that he would not allow his brother’s death to sway him in the direction their father had gone.

“I accept,” Christian said, though it chafed that he should be the one to accept the proposal he had set in motion.

Wulfrith leaned forward and surprised Christian with a brief kiss on the cheek. “
That
,” he said low, “is to remind you that whatever you do to my sister, Gaenor, I shall do to you.”

Hands aching from the ferocity with which he closed them into fists, Christian met Wulfrith’s gaze as the man stepped back. “Providing you are honorable enough to abide by our bargain,” he said, “your sister has nothing to fear from me, nor you, nor any others of your family, nor your people.”

The arrogant man smiled. “Then we understand each other.” He strode to the door where his knight remained unmoving, the man’s wrathful gaze upon Christian.

“Sir Durand,” Wulfrith clipped, the name causing Christian to frown and the knight to jerk as if surprised to find his lord so near.

As the knight followed Wulfrith from the chamber, Christian realized this was the one said to have used the name “Sir Piers” to gain entrance to Soaring—and who had then led Wulfrith to the abbey to avert the attack. But there was something else about the name—

“Sir Durand seems as displeased as his lord,” Sir Hector said, stepping before Christian.

“Curious,” Christian murmured, only to recall the other reason the name was familiar. Sir Durand was the knight who had escaped with Lady Gaenor. Was the death of his fellow knight at Sir Hector’s hands responsible for his animosity? Or something else?