The YIELDING (9 page)

Tunic clinging to his perspiring chest, he squeezed his eyes closed. By the morrow, the worst would be over. The muscles would be quieted and the bone set to undertake the long process of healing—providing he had not erred, which was possible in acting physician to one’s self.

“Lord D’Arci?”

He looked to the opening that poured rain into the crypt. At this distance, he could see nothing of Beatrix Wulfrith.

Let her wonder where I have gone,
he told himself. After all, questions often led to seeking.

The silence of rain enlarged, but just as he concluded she had withdrawn, something fell through the breach and sent a hollow clatter around the crypt.

“Splints for your leg,” she called and pulled something over the hole that turned back the rain and cast darkness all around.

Michael stared into nothingness and considered the wooden splints. Though their use would return his sword to hand, he would leave them where fallen. Another question for Beatrix Wulfrith.

Remembering that which he had carried since he had tended her head injury—which had urged him on when it seemed she would never be found—he opened the purse on his belt. From beneath the coins, he extracted the tress of flaxen hair he had cut away to stitch up her head and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger.

“Seek me, witch. Seek me soon.”

With night had come the sound of distant riders, but none had paused at Purley. Were they searching for D’Arci? Having been too fearful to allow herself more than snatches of sleep throughout the long dark, a fatigued Beatrix wove a path from the small chapel out into a morning that sparkled as if God had cast diamonds upon it.

For the moment forgetting her worries, she breathed that wonderful mix of rain, foliage, and earth, then sent up a prayer of thanks that she had been given another day. If not for the breach…

She looked to it and struggled as she had done when met with silence on the day past. How did D’Arci fare?

Fear had shot through her when she had peered into the crypt on the day past and found him absent, but she had calmed herself with the reminder there was only one way out and he must not be too badly injured if he was able to pull himself clear of the rain. Fortunately, the new day ought to throw enough light into the crypt to calm her conscience.

Lowering to her knees before the breach, she lifted the false floor. It fell back, its meeting with the moist ground causing mist to fly upon the air and fleck her tunic. She leaned forward.

Sunlight illuminated the stone floor of the crypt, as well as the wooden splints where she had dropped them on the day past.

Dear God, even I know broken limbs are best repaired immediately.
She caught her breath. Michael D’Arci had dragged himself back from the breach, but that did not mean he was hale.

Where was he? Though sunlight lit the area beyond that which shafted the floor, it did so hesitantly. Beatrix squinted and swept her gaze to the shadows. He had to be among them. As the old passage into the crypt was choked with the debris of its collapse, he could not have gotten out. But where—?

There. She strained to pick out the still shadow and decided it was D’Arci propped against a column. With uncertain relief, she said, “Good morn, Lord D’Arci.”

No answer. No movement. And yet… Did she only imagine his hating gaze?

“Lord D’Arci?”

What if he is dead?
her conscience demanded.

What if ‘tis deceit he works?
she countered.

What if he yet lives, but this moment is dying?

I do not care.

You lie.

She looked to the rope, then over her shoulder at the fallen column to which she had anchored the opposite end. Its path, crypt to column, was concealed beneath dirt and stone to assure no one discovered her sanctuary. But D’Arci had, to his detriment. To
her
detriment, she must use the rope again.

She tried to convince herself it was a risk she need not take, but he had not splinted his leg. Though she had named him a fool, Michael D’Arci was not. Never would he sacrifice the ability to walk on the chance his unsplinted leg would bring her within reach.

She removed the mantle, gathered the rope, and dropped it into the breach. With one last look to assure D’Arci had not come out of the shadows, she lowered herself into the crypt. As she worked her calloused hands down the rope, she remembered how difficult a feat it had been when she had first taken refuge here. However, once she had gotten beyond the blisters and bleeding, it had become easier. It also helped that she did not weigh much.

She returned her attention to the shadow of D’Arci. Still no movement. Upon meeting the ground, she said, “Lord D’Arci?”

No response, as if his dark figure was but written in ink.

She pulled the dagger—D’Arci’s—from her boot and retrieved the splints. “How do you fare?”

If he were halfway hale, he had to have heard her. Was he dire ill? Worse?

Clutching the splints, she advanced and was grateful when her eyes adjusted to the dim beyond the breach and picked out his pale tunic. Try though she did to catch the glitter of eyes that would show him capable of responding, she could not, but at ten feet, the sword alongside his leg took form, as did bands of pale cloth that crossed his lower leg and turned around what looked to be a scabbard. Then by his sword he was splinted—

She nearly ran, but foolishness prevailed at the thought he might yet be ailing.

Or lying in wait.

“Lord D’Arci, I…”

Words, Beatrix! First think them through.

“Is there…something you require?” She almost wished he were unconscious that she might be spared the humiliation of the stumbling speech that bothered her most in his presence. Was it because his learned mind grasped the knowledge of healing that should have been hers? In the long, cool days of abbey life she would have grown and studied herbs, concocted preparations and medicinals, tended the ill and prayed for their relief. If she did not regain her facility with speech and thought, what was left to her? How she loathed the prison walls her mind could not scale!

She took another step forward, and it was then she caught the narrow gleam of D’Arci’s eyes. She dropped the splints and spun around.

“I had hoped you would draw nearer,” his voice resounded around the crypt.

Beatrix turned. “I am not the fool you…think I am.”

“This time you are not, but there shall be other times.”

Why could she not abandon him? He sounded well, and surely someone would come. Perhaps if she left the rope down the breach he could pull himself out. But with his injury, did he possess enough strength? And what if he further injured himself?

Once more berating her conscience, she stepped into the shaft of light that shone through the breach and returned the dagger to her boot.

“Why have you not fled?” he called.

She gripped the rope. “Even you, Lord D’Arci, do not…deserve to die.”

“I shall take comfort in that, Lady Beatrix.” Were his voice of barb, she would be torn asunder. “A pity you did not show my brother the same consideration.”

She pulled her denial back, for of what use was it? “A hundred times I would do again what I did,” she said, anger ordering her words such that they flowed without falter.

“That I believe.”

“You should.” Regardless of the outcome, she would guard her virtue and life as she had done with his brother, though exactly how she had defended herself she still could not recall. “Now, have you need of anything?”

“The use of my leg and a hangman’s noose.”

That dampened her anger. “The one you shall have, but not the…other. As soon as someone happens upon you, I shall be gone.”

“To Stern?”

Immediately, she rebuked herself for her surprise. Of course he knew her destination.

“Water,” D’Arci said.

Beatrix frowned.

“I am in need of water,” he snapped.

“The…well is foul. Will you take drink from the stream?” At this distance it ran cleaner than at the upper end where it passed near the village. One unaccustomed to the dross could suffer cramping and nausea as Beatrix had first done.

“’Twill suffice.”

“Toss your…wineskin that I might bring it.”

“I know not what has become of it.”

Trickery? She glanced into the shadows where she had made her bed this past month. All she possessed was there—not only the skin used to gather water but, more importantly, her psalter.

Once more pulling her dagger, she stepped toward the pallet. Though D’Arci did not move, his pale eyes amid the shadows followed her.

Holding his gaze, she bent and felt for the skin. It came to hand, as did her psalter. The latter providing comfort she had missed on the night past, she pushed it and the skin beneath her belt and hastened to the rope.

Anything to return her to the crypt, Michael mused as he watched her slide
his
dagger into her boot. Anything to draw the flaxen-haired witch near.

As she climbed hand over hand, he was struck by the strength required to do so. True, she was light of weight—much lighter than when she had been at Broehne Castle—but one’s upper body must still be in good form to pull along the lower.

When would she return? He glanced at the skin at his side. The wine would quench his thirst far better than the tainted water for which he had sent her. And when she delivered that, he would send her for something else if he could not tempt her near. He need only be patient. Unfortunately, he bored quickly, preferring all and everyone to move with utmost speed and resenting time wasted on waiting.

With a soft grunt, Lady Beatrix transferred her hands to the edge of the breach and levered herself out of the crypt.

Michael stared at the swaying rope that promised escape. Hearing her retreating footfalls, he began to smile. However, as he started to move from the column, she returned and reeled the rope out.

Curse her!
He clenched his hands to counter the burn that shot up his leg. Though the long night had reduced the pain to a dull throb, even slight movement set him afire.

He reached for the nearest pack, removed the box of flint and tinder, and opened it to find only a half dozen pieces of tinder. Hoping fuel was to be had somewhere in the pit, as smoke might bring his or Baron Lavonne’s men sooner, he removed the flint. On the first strike, the tinder caught and jumped light around the walls.

“God’s eyes!” He clenched his hands into fists. Stone was everywhere, most conspicuously the open stairway that had long ago granted passage to this hidden room. As the steps had collapsed and broken away from the wall, there was a distance of at least eight feet from the top of the debris to the door set in the ceiling. Even if he dragged his broken leg up the strewn stairway and made it upright, his reach would fall short of the door.

The last of the tinder’s flame nearing his fingertips, he continued to peer around the crypt, taking in the pallet from which the lady had retrieved the skin, next the discarded splints. The latter would not provide enough wood to sustain a flame for long.

He blew out the tinder, drew the wine skin from his belt, and took a long swallow. It was time to return his sword to hand.

He eased forward, each jolt to the leg causing him to gnash his teeth, but at last he reached the splints. Careful to keep his leg positioned so it would not require resetting, he made the exchange.

Sword once more honorable, he considered the pallet—that woman’s sorry bed this past month that evidenced she was reduced to the squalor of the meanest villein. Still, she possessed determination, meaning no matter how blue her eyes, no matter how they illuminated her face, he must not forget it.

Deciding that even if the pallet proved infested, it was preferable to reclining against the column, he rolled onto his uninjured knee, pressed his palms to the stone floor, and slowly straightened despite his leg’s vehement protest.

Curse Lady Beatrix for this laming! Curse her for the lie—aye, most of all the lie told of Simon!

With each halting step, he swore against her until he finally reached the dimly lit pallet. He put a foot to it, turned his back to the wall, and eased himself down the rough-hewn stone.

A scent struck him. Woodruff and…fennel? He drew another breath. Aye, and other scents so faint their names could not be called to remembrance. Though Lady Beatrix made her bed in a crumbling crypt, it seemed she was not reduced to squalor—at least, not entirely.

Michael pressed a hand to the woolen blanket that encased the stuff of her pallet. The sweet scent wafted stronger, though not in any way offensive. He nearly smiled.

Wondering what, besides a skin and psalter, the lady kept, he lifted a corner of the pallet and searched a hand beneath. A purse clattered its contents as he drew it forth—
his
purse—then came a coil of rope.

He looked to the packs he had left near the column. When she returned, he would ask her to deliver them to him. And perhaps this time she would draw too near.