The YIELDING (8 page)

She startled at what he named the sanctuary that was all the comfort she had known this past month.

“My leg is broken!”

Wishing compassion did not grip her so, she peered closer and picked out the peculiar bend of his left leg.

“Witch! By my own hand I shall light the fire that spews you to hell!”

His threat freeing her from her misplaced concern, she pushed to her feet. “You will light no…fire,” she called down. “As you say, ‘tis done.”

His shouts pounded her back as she crossed to where she had dropped his red mantle and swept it up. This day she would begin her journey to Stern Castle, for she did not doubt D’Arci would soon follow.

Unless he dies down there.

Her feet faltered as compassion reached for her again. Surely someone would miss him. Someone in passing would hear his shouts.

And if no one does?

“I care not!” She stretched her legs farther. All that mattered was that she leave, and the sooner she was gone from here, the better her chances. In fact, given a horse—

Somewhere in the wood was D’Arci’s destrier. However, the thought of mounting the great animal made her shudder and opened wide a memory of urging her palfrey to greater speed, an arm slamming around her waist, pale eyes, and cruel laughter.

She remembered Sir Simon overtaking her and pulling her onto his mount, but surely that had not beget this fear of horses. There had to be more, but though she strained to recapture what it was, the door remained closed. Regardless, that day had been the beginning of her end. So much she had lost that might never be hers again.

Tears wet her eyes. Though the simple act of expression continued to trip her tongue, albeit not as greatly as during her imprisonment at Broehne Castle, inside she was nearly the same. Inside she knew the intricacies of numbers and letters. Yet to hear her stumbling words and searching silence, one named her witless.

“Dear God,” she whispered, “I tire of being a fool. Pray, heal my mind and deliver me home that I might find myself again.”

She pressed onward, determined to find D’Arci’s horse and leave its master behind.

CHAPTER SIX

A pox upon the witch!

Michael shook with an anger that was becoming increasingly familiar where Beatrix Wulfrith was concerned—first, when news was brought of his brother’s murder, next when she claimed Simon had ravished her, then when he regained consciousness at Broehne Castle. Now he suffered a broken leg and a dark pit into which he had allowed himself to be led. And he had named
her
a fool!

As scalding pain shot knee to thigh and spread hip to hip, he ground his jaws so hard he thought he heard a tooth crack. “’Tis not done!”

Anger shook him harder, though he knew it was more than that. It was shock such as he had seen during the wars between King Stephen and Duke Henry when they had battled for the throne of England. Though Michael’s days had been spent fighting for Henry’s cause, often his nights were devoted to tending the wounded and dying. Time and again he treated broken limbs and the resultant pooling of blood beneath the skin as his stepmother had taught him to do. Thus, he had seen what often followed shock, but—curse all!—
he
would not lose consciousness.

Knowing he must act immediately if he was to walk again without hitch or hobble, he stretched his useless leg out before him and felt his hands down his calf. The leg was broken below the knee. That it was slowly numbing likely meant the bone ends pressed on an artery.

He grasped his calf and, with a shout that echoed around the crypt, forced the bones together. Perspiration coursing his brow, perception flickering, he drew slow, deep breaths until the darkness receded.

As he would need a splint to prevent further damage from the jagged bones, he swept his gaze around the dim, but the only thing available to him was his sword and its hard leather scabbard. Though it was a disgrace that a man’s blade be reduced to a splint, he pressed the flat of it to the outside of the leg, the scabbard to the inside, and bound the two with strips torn from his mantle.

“Devil take!” He fell onto his back and stared through the breach at the clouds gathering over late afternoon. He cursed himself for not accepting Canute’s offer to accompany him, cursed himself again for not sooner seeing the rope. He
would
lay hands to Beatrix Wulfrith. And the next time she would not escape.

Wincing as D’Arci’s pained shout sounded around the wood, wishing her conscience was as lost to her as words, Beatrix stared at the golden destrier where it grazed near the stream. Or perhaps it was not conscience that refused to let her flee.

She looked back the way she had come, then right the way she ought to go. Perhaps fear of the horse held her here. But if that were so, she could simply walk away. God-given conscience, then. Still, she fought it, telling herself He would not wish her to risk her life.

She glanced at the darkening sky. Would the rain bring any travelers to shelter at Purley? It had not during the last rainfall, and previous to that it had brought brigands who had trod the false floor beneath which she lay. If one of ill repute answered D’Arci’s call, it could mean his death, but if she remained, of what use was she to him?

She dropped to her knees, bowed her head, and prayed for guidance. Unfortunately, the guidance that fell heavy upon her was not the guidance she wished.

“’Twill mean my death,” she whispered into the Lord’s ear, but still she could not leave D’Arci.

She straightened. What was she to do? Just as she could not send for help, neither could she go into the crypt to tend her enemy. He was too much alive for that, though for how much longer?

Her writhing thoughts nearly made her cry. Wishing she could smooth them flat and look upon them without rent or wrinkle, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes in hopes the darkness would free her from distractions.

Food and drink. That she could provide D’Arci. She lowered her hands and looked to the man’s destrier that eyed her as it chewed a mouthful of grass. Struck by its beauty, a thrill of old rippled through her.

If she sent the animal from the wood, might it lead D’Arci’s men back here? If so, the sooner she could begin her journey to Stern—providing she stayed alert and ready to flee. Even so, D’Arci would surely be fast to her path.

She groaned, causing the destrier to turn one ear forward and the other back.

First the leather packs tied to the saddle, Beatrix decided. As she stepped forward, the horse snorted and jerked its head.

Though perspiration crept her neck, Beatrix continued forward. As she neared, she saw D’Arci had not tethered his mount, apparently confident it would await his return.

At ten feet, the destrier tossed its head. Great eyes staring, it followed her approach.

Beatrix swallowed. All she wanted were the packs and the skin that hung from one—hopefully full of wine that D’Arci could use to cleanse any open wound. A broken leg, he had told, which could mean the bone had come through the flesh. She prayed not—

Dear God, why must I care?
Wishing He did not reside so full within her, she took the last steps to the destrier and only realized how near she was when she stood before it. Ears twitching, it continued to regard her.

“Be still, steed. I vow I shall not mount you.” Feeling as if about to reach a hand to a flame, she took a step toward the packs.

The destrier snorted and tossed its head again, causing its white mane to ripple like silk.

“Upon my word, I shall not try to…gain your back.”

He sidled and shook his head.

The protest striking her as exceedingly human, she smiled. “You do not believe me?”

Again, it shook its head.

A bubble of laughter parted Beatrix’s lips and, for a moment, made her fear someone was in the wood with her. When was the last time she had laughed? It had been far too long.

She snapped a handful of grass from the earth. “I tell you, true, I shall not.” Wishing her hand did not quake so, she proffered the grass.

The destrier leaned forward, noisily inhaled the scent, and plucked the offering from her hand.

Beatrix reached for more grass and felt a muzzle against the sleeve of her mantle—D’Arci’s mantle. Did the animal smell his master on her as she so often did? Hoping it would make the beast more agreeable, she turned a palm up and jerked when the destrier swept its head to it. Would he allow her to trespass?

“Your packs only,” she murmured. “Your master is in need.”

When the destrier swung its head away, Beatrix stepped nearer and laid a hand to its shoulder. Another step and she was alongside. She reached to the first pack and loosened its saddle ties. It came free, and with it the wineskin.

The destrier looked around. Fortunately, both ears were forward, indicating it had passed from uncertainty to curiosity.

It was hard to resist the urge to make do with just the one pack, but Beatrix reached for the second. Shortly, it also lay over her arm. She stepped back. “Now be gone.”

The destrier shifted its weight.

“Be gone, I say!” She slapped its hindquarter and the animal trotted away.

Hoping it would return to Broehne Castle and lead Christian Lavonne’s men to the abbey ruins, Beatrix ran. As she approached the true crypt, she searched out the rope. It was where she had left it. Though no further sounds issued from below, D’Arci was down there.

Upon gaining the breach, she dropped the packs to the ground, dropped to her knees, and peered into the dim. Why did he not call out? Even if he had not heard her approach, surely the thump of his packs announced her presence. Unless he had lost consciousness.

Past his pain, Michael stared at the woman above. Why had she returned? To murder him as she had murdered his brother? He flinched as the muscles around the broken bone spasmed. She was mistaken if she believed he would be the easy prey Simon had proven. He had fought too long and survived too much—first, as a young knight whose lord had turned on him, then when he had assumed the life of a knight errant and fought for Duke Henry. Of course, the witch
had
bested him twice now. But that would not happen again.

“I wonder, Lady Beatrix, who is more the fool?”

She gasped.

Had she thought him dead? Such disappointment.

After a long moment, she said, “That would be you, Lord D’Arci.” Her voice was as crisp as a barely ripe apple.

His spasming muscles nearly dragged a groan from him. If he
was
the fool, it would not always be so. “For what have you returned?”

She drew back. Then to taunt him was all she wanted? New rage hurtled though him, but what sounded like rummaging turned it aside.

Shortly, a bundle fell through the breach and landed beside him. Disbelief shot through him. His destrier would not have allowed her so near—unless Sartan was dead.

“Where is my horse?” he shouted as the wine skin also landed.

“Returned to…Broehne Castle, I expect.”

There she was wrong.

The other pack fell, the clatter announcing it contained his physician’s tools. Too, there would be bread and dried meat providing she had not taken them for herself.

She reappeared. “You have food, drink, and…” Her mouth worked and brow pleated.

“Medicinals,” he ground.

She stood. “I shall find you something with which to…splint your leg.”

Then, amid the shadows in which he rested, she could not make out the sword and scabbard with which he had bound the bones. But why did she do this? Surely she boasted no conscience, and she would be ten-fold the fool if she thought to turn him from seeking justice.

The sound of her footsteps evidencing she went toward the small chapel to which she had fled in leading him to the breach, he grunted as another spasm shook him. Unfortunately, those to follow would come harder before the muscles eased. He pushed onto an elbow, the resulting pain causing moisture to run into his eyes.

Forcing deep breaths, he opened the pack containing the foodstuffs and his physician’s tools. The first vial that came to hand was not what he was looking for—he knew it by the shape and weight—but the third…

Aye. However, as he started to unstopper it, realization struck. The preparation of bitter mandrake might render him deeply asleep, thus making him three times a fool to Beatrix Wulfrith. He clenched the vial as another spasm thrust up his leg and radiated through his spine. He would simply have to suffer.

When droplets of water landed on the back of his hand, he glared up at the billowing clouds that portended a downpour.

“A scourge upon you,” he muttered as he thrust the vial to the bottom of the pack. Without the succor of mandrake, he would have to drag himself back from the opening if he was to avoid becoming drenched. And the pain would be nearly intolerable.

The rain beginning to fall harder and seep through his mantle, he pulled the packs onto his lap and levered onto his outstretched arms. As he dragged his injured leg across the floor, biting down on the need to shout out his torment, the dark of the crypt swallowed him. Finally, some twenty feet distant from the opening, he backed up to a column.