The YIELDING (6 page)

“Ah, she speaks. What else does she do?” He bent so near she could almost taste the wine on his breath. Though he did not appear unsteady, she sensed he had imbibed heavily, a dangerous thing for an angry man to do—especially dangerous for her.

His eyebrows rose. “She assists her sister in escaping the king’s edict”—

Had Gaenor escaped? Though Beatrix had asked after her sister when Lavonne last visited her chamber, the man who was to have been Gaenor’s husband had not answered.

—“puts daggers to men as easily as to a trencher of meat, and survives a fall that should have seen her dead.”

A tremble, as much born of anger as fear, moved through Beatrix. Struggling to keep her breath even, she reminded herself of the goblet. If he tried to defile her, she would bring it down upon his head.
If
she could get it to hand.
If
she could harm another.

“You wish to know the reason I tended your injury?” Michael D’Arci continued. “Why I did not allow you to die as is your due?”

She did not need to be told. Her words might be slow to form, but she knew he sought revenge.

“Justice,” he said.

Revenge by a lesser name was still revenge, especially where unwarranted.

“Though you may be clever, I vow you will be judged and found wanting.”

In the past, she had been called clever. Would she ever be again—lacking D’Arci’s taint of sarcasm?

When she gave no reply, he said, “Could you, you would kill again, hmm?”

Again, her tongue loosened. “Most assuredly I would defend my person against any who seeks to violate me.” Was that her voice? Strong and even without break or searching? Whence did it come?

“You speak of ravishment?” D’Arci bit.

Though she longed to look away, she kept her gaze on his face, noting his full mouth, straight nose, broad cheekbones, and heavily lashed gray eyes—so like his brother’s she strained to hold back the panic that would have her scurry for cover.

Of a sudden, he cursed, his unholy use of the Lord’s name making her flinch. “Is that what you will tell the sheriff? That you murdered my brother because he ravished you?”

Beatrix blinked. Though ravishment had surely been Simon D’Arci’s intent, it seemed the Wulfrith dagger had stopped him. Determined to correct Michael D’Arci—to assure him she was fairly certain his brother had failed to commit the heinous act—she searched for words. However, his darkening face once more caused her tongue to tangle. Could the devil assume human form, he would surely be pleased to do so in the image of Michael D’Arci.

But for all of her fear, hope slipped in. Of that day at the ravine, he surely knew only what Baron Lavonne had shared. What if she told him the truth, even if most of the truth she could only surmise?

“I did not…” She swallowed. “I tell you true, I…”

“Did not murder him?”

“I could never murder. I but d-d-defen—”

“Defended yourself?”

How she detested his impatience! “’Twas surely hap—”

“Happenstance?”

That
word she had not lacked. “Aye, happenstance.”

“You do not know for certain?”

“I do. I just cannot…remember it all.”

“What fool do you think me, Lady Beatrix?” he growled.

“I am not a m-murderer.”

“You expect me to believe the young man I knew well was a ravisher, and you whom I know not at all are no murderer? I should have let you bleed to death.”

Anger streaked Beatrix’s breast, and her next words sprang free as if she were quick of tongue. “Your brother would have!”

D’Arci drew a sharp breath, then splayed a hand across her throat. “You lie, witch, and I shall see you dead for it.”

Though certain he meant to strangle her, his fingers did not tighten. Still, fear denied her breath. Was he playing with her? First torment, then death?

She glanced at the goblet. Providing she did not alert him, she could reach it. Providing he had imbibed as much wine as his breath told, she could escape him.

He slid his hand further up her neck. “When you stand before the sheriff”—

She was not to die this night?

—“I will savor your fear.”

She swallowed hard against his palm and reached. “Nay, you will not,” she said and swept the goblet to hand.

As he jerked his chin around, she slammed the vessel against his temple. For a breathless moment, he was still, and then he collapsed atop her.

Staring at his head on her chest and the trickle of blood coursing his brow, she quaked in remembrance of his brother who had similarly fallen across her.

Had she killed Michael D’Arci?

Nay, he breathed, but that did not mean she had not damaged him terribly. She, better than most, knew what could result from a blow to the head. Recalling her return to consciousness in the ravine when she had seen crimson on her gloved fingers, she began to shake. That day, her young life had come as near to ending as one could come without actually dying.

She squeezed her eyes closed, but when she opened them, the crimson remained. This time it bled from Michael D’Arci.

Knowing he might soon regain consciousness, she wriggled out from beneath him and dropped to her knees alongside the bed. Now how was she to escape?

Think. Think hard, Beatrice.
She shook her head.
Then pray hard, for you cannot do this without help.

Though she knew she risked much, she delayed her escape to call upon the Lord. And when she said, “Amen,” she knew what must be done. As her only covering was the chemise the chamber maid had delivered the day Beatrix awakened at Broehne Castle, and the baron had taken her bloodied gown and mantle for evidence, she would have to impose on Michael D’Arci.

She slid a hand under him and released the brooch that clasped the red mantle at his throat. Blessedly, the lining was black, which would allow her to merge with the night. She turned the inside of the garment out and dragged it over her shoulders. As she secured it with the brooch, she saw the dagger and purse on D’Arci’s belt. Beseeching God’s forgiveness, she appropriated both and retrieved her psalter. Not until she reached the door did she realize she lacked footwear, but there was nothing for it as D’Arci’s bulky boots would only hinder her.

She eased the door open and peered into the dim corridor. Unlike the first sennight since her awakening, there was no guard present. Obviously, Baron Lavonne had grown confident she would not—or could not—escape. Now if she could make it through the hall, into the bailey, and out the postern gate.

Though she had known the latter would prove difficult, if not impossible, since so much of a castle’s defenses depended on the gate being well disguised, she quickly located it and slipped through.

Not until she was outside the castle walls, driving one leg in front of the other beneath a cold sliver moon, was the hue raised. Entering the wood she had so longed for, she paused and pressed a hand to her throbbing head.

Which way? She peered through the darkness and, clutching her psalter in an attempt to pry free the icy fingers of fear, made her decision. The only way that mattered was away from Broehne, though not so far she could not watch for her family who would surely come for her.

A good plan, for Lavonne and D’Arci would never expect her to remain on the barony of Abingdale.

CHAPTER FIVE

Purley Abbey, April 1157

Beneath their noses. For more than a month she had sheltered among the ruins of Purley Abbey less than three leagues south of Broehne Castle, but for all those who passed by, none knew of her presence. Even the ones who sheltered among the crumbling walls during the thunderous spring rains gained no glimpse of her.

Beatrix raised her face to the sunlight that flooded the roofless presbytery, a place that had some hundred years past housed the high altar. As its roof was absent, few ventured near, and then only the occasional scavenger hoping to uncover a relic.

When trespassed upon, she retreated to the crypt beneath the presbytery that had been used for the safe-keeping of such relics. Fortunately, none hazarded past the false crypt that had been constructed fifty feet in front of the true crypt. The ceiling of the former having collapsed, it yawned wide and empty, offering seekers little more than a nasty tumble. As for the true crypt, were its location discovered, one would be disappointed by its spoils. But it was everything to Beatrix, its vaulted ceiling having sheltered her while she waited. And waited.

When would her brothers come? She could not remain at Purley past autumn when the chill winter so recently left behind set in again and the fear of being discovered once more denied her a warming fire. If no one came for her, she would have to seek Stern Castle on her own.

As always, the thought of making her way across unfamiliar land among unknown people was daunting. Noble or common, no woman was safe traveling alone, especially one who had difficulty expressing herself. She would be prey to many, one of whom might be Michael D’Arci.

Lifting an arm from the mantle she had taken from him, Beatrix fingered the scar beneath her hair that D’Arci’s stitches had made. D’Arci who had saved her life that he might see it taken.

The vibration started at Beatrix’s toes, swept to her heels, and shuddered up her calves. Though she knew the riders were too distant and would not likely glance at the abbey ruins amid the dense undergrowth, she slipped behind the presbytery wall.

Seeking reassurance, she glanced over her shoulder beyond the false crypt to the grassy, stone-strewn floor where the high altar had once been raised. The narrow breach in the ceiling of the true crypt lay ten feet in back of the crumbling pillars. In less than a five count she could be down it. A two count later, the false floor she had constructed of branches, leaves, and grass would be positioned over the breach. None who ventured to the easternmost boundary of the abbey would know she hid fifteen feet below.

Beatrix peered around the wall as the vibrations increased and riders appeared. Unfortunately, since they passed at great speed and were too distant, she could not ascertain whether her brothers were among them. But it had to be urgency that drove them so hard and fast.

She knew what she had to do—as she had done thrice before. Beneath cover of her stolen mantle, she would steal into Broehne Castle. Though it was a terrible risk, it would be more terrible if her family came and she could not be found.

Closing her mind to the fear that tried to dissuade her from straying from the abbey, she stepped from the wall. She halted. Was she forgetting something? She squeezed her eyes closed, but though she searched, nothing revealed itself.

With calloused hands, she wrenched the hood of the mantle over her head. And caught the scent of the man to whom it belonged.

Of my imagining
.
No scent of him could remain, especially after all the rain the garment has endured.

Determining that first she would go to the nearby village she occasionally braved in hopes of hearing of her family, she drew the mantle closed and glanced down to confirm that no red was visible. In doing so, she noted that the uppers of the boots she had bought from a village boy had further separated from their soles. God willing, she would not need them much longer.

Fear curdled the meager contents of Beatrix’s belly as she peered up from beneath her hood at the castle she had fled a month past. The talk of the villagers having yielded nothing of value, she had continued on to Broehne.

As she followed behind a wagon that rumbled over the drawbridge, she prayed no one would stop her, that it would be assumed she was with the villager who delivered milk and cheese to the baron’s kitchens. There were others who came, whether to grind grain at the lord’s mill or give service to their lord, but there was less chance of being stopped providing she stayed near the wagon. And so it was, though the momentary pause beneath the portcullis made her heart gallop.

Continuing to trail the wagon, she strained to catch the talk around her, but too many spoke at once, their voices entangling such that she caught only single words above the crunch of wagon wheels.

The inner bailey, she told herself. It would not be as riotous there, though certainly more dangerous. Passing into it, she squinted at the great donjon and was touched with faintness beget not only of fear, but too little sustenance. Though she filled her aching belly with various vegetation and had become proficient at spearing fish from the stream, failing that, she snatched simple viands from the villagers. However, it was never enough, and often she went hungry.

As she sent up a prayer that she would not collapse, her belly grunted again. What she wouldn’t give for a swallow of milk, a bite of bread—

“You there!” a woman called.

Beatrix looked to the servant who came off the steps before the donjon and was relieved to discover it was another she addressed.

“Bring the wagon ‘round to the kitchen,” the servant directed the villager.

Beatrix drew a deep breath. She had not come this far to fall into Baron Lavonne’s hands. She would learn what there was to know and be gone.