A Passionate Magic (32 page)

“There’s no need to fight,” Emma cried.
“Dain, let your men-at-arms take Wade back to the castle and hold
him prisoner there till you decide what to do with him.”

“I’ll never be a prisoner,” Wade shouted,
wrestling against Hermit, who was still holding onto his sword arm.
“Nor will I be taken by magic, not while I have my talisman.”

“You are right about that,” Hermit told him.
“No one will use magic against you. Dain, let me put an end to this
man’s villainy in my own way.”

“He is my prisoner,” Dain said.

“Not so,” Hermit objected. “I captured him; I
pulled him from his horse. He is mine. Please, Dain! I must do
this.”

“You are hardly fit for combat,” Dain said,
eyebrows raised in surprise at Hermit’s vehemence. “Why are you so
determined?”

“Once I was trained to use both sword and
lance. In those long-ago days I knew the rules of chivalry, but I
betrayed them, to my eternal shame,” Hermit said. “Give me a sword
and let me fight this battle as a man ought to fight. Let me earn
the right to call myself an honest man again, before I die.”

“Hermit, no!” Vivienne cried. “Your ruined
arm—”

“Is growing strong again, thanks to you and
Agatha,” Hermit interrupted the protest. “I warn you, Vivienne, and
you, too, Emma, I want no magic employed here. It must be a fair
fight of man against man.” Hermit released Wade and stepped back,
awaiting Dain’s decision.

“Well, Wade,” said Dain, looking down from
his high seat astride his horse, “will you accept Hermit’s
challenge?”

“Him? That weak, bearded pilgrim?” Wade
responded, laughing at Hermit, who, in his wide-brimmed hat,
tattered cloak, and worn boots, appeared to be anything but a
fierce warrior. “What reward do I get when I kill him? For if it’s
a man-to-man challenge, then you cannot charge me with murder after
it’s over.”

“Fair enough,” Dain said. “Ill not imprison
you if you win the fight. If you survive, you may leave Penruan
lands a free man, provided you promise never to return. But if you
lose the fight, you lose your life.”

“Either way,” Emma cried, knowing Dain would
not change his mind now that it was made up, “you must hand over
the talisman that Lady Richenda gave you.”

“What, lose my security against magic?” Wade
exclaimed. “Ill not do it.”

“My mother gave him a talisman?” Dain asked,
looking at Emma.

“To protect him against my magic, and
Vivienne’s, so he would be able to kill us,” Emma explained. “He’d
have killed Blake, too, because the boy got in his way. He used
Blake as a hostage against me.”

“You make me wish I had not offered him the
chance to fight for his life,” Dain responded, his mouth tight.
“Unfortunately, I cannot renege on my word. For honor’s sake I must
allow the combat, so long as both men agree to it. Ill have that
talisman now, Wade.” He stretched out his hand.

“I’d rather put it in your lady’s hand,” Wade
said, his mouth curling into a grim smile when Emma gasped.

“Give it to me,” Dain ordered. “However the
battle ends, be assured I will return it to its rightful
owner.”

“If I hand it over, can you prevent those two
witches from casting spells against me?” Wade asked.

“They will obey my orders,” Dain said. “No
magic will be used. You have my word on it. Give me the stone.”

Instead of handing it up to Dain, Wade tossed
the stone and chain at him. Dain caught it easily and tucked it
into his tunic.

“Someone provide Hermit with a good sword,”
Dain commanded. “Everyone move well away from the cliff. The combat
will take place here, on the road, where the ground is level and
hard-packed.”

He turned in his saddle to look back over the
moor for a moment, to the place where Sloan was leading Penruan men
to victory against the bandits.

“You’ll get no help from your friends,” Dain
said to Wade.

“I have no friends,” Wade responded,
shrugging his shoulders to indicate that it mattered not to him
whether the outlaws lived or died. “Let’s get on with this.”

While they spoke, one of the men in Dain’s
escort had offered his broadsword to Hermit. Blake, acting as
squire, had taken Hermit’s hat and was assisting him to remove his
cloak. Hermit stood attired as Wade was, in tunic, breeches, and
boots, though Hermit was a good deal shabbier than Wade. Hermit’s
tunic was roughly patched in several places, there was an
unrepaired tear at one knee of his hose, and his long, untrimmed
beard gave him a striking similarity to the outlaws who lived
around Rough Tor.

Yet there was a quiet dignity to Hermit’s
stance, and a natural courtesy in the way he accepted the sword
from Dain’s man-at-arms with words of thanks worthy of the grandest
noble. He hefted the broadsword in both hands, testing its weight
and balance, and his teeth flashed in a pleased smile that showed
his approval of the weapon.

Then Hermit stepped to the exact middle of
the road and silence fell over the group gathered there. From the
distance, where the battle was winding down, came the faint sound
of weapons clashing, and of a man’s voice calling out an order
.

Hermit looked directly into Emma’s eyes and
raised his borrowed broadsword straight up, saluting her. He turned
a little to face Vivienne, who was still mounted, and offered the
same salute to her.

”I am ready at your command, my lord Dain,”
Hermit said.

Dain considered Wade, who stood in a languid
pose, running a finger along the edge of his sword to test the
sharpness of the blade.

“Wade,” Dain said, “give up your knife. Only
swords are to be used here.”

“What, don’t you trust me?” asked Wade, with
the unpleasant sneer that Emma was beginning to dislike
intensely.

“No,” Dain said quietly, “I do not trust
you.”

One of his men stepped forward and, with a
look of disgust, Wade gave him the knife.

“Very well, then. Begin,” Dain said.

The signal was barely out of his mouth when
Wade lunged forward toward Hermit, obviously thinking he could end
the fight without much effort.

Hermit parried the blow, the edge of his
sword slicing open Wade’s sleeve and leaving a bloody gash on his
arm.

“I forgot to tell you,” Hermit said, his eyes
never leaving Wade’s face, “lately, I’ve been practicing.”

“Much good it’ll do you,” Wade responded.

The two men circled each other, slashing now
and then, each man parrying, while the tension between them grew
stronger and the men and women watching became completely quiet,
until only the panting breath of the combatants, the clash of blade
upon steel blade, and the crunch of their feet on the surface of
the road broke the stillness. Wade cut Hermit’s hand. Hermit opened
another gash on Wade’s forearm.

The afternoon wore on. Both men were drenched
in sweat, and both were clearly tiring.

Suddenly Wade altered the pattern of circle
and slash and parry. He began to press forward, slashing wildly,
his teeth bared and his face assuming a mask of impotent fury as
Hermit warded off the attack. Then, in a series of fierce and rapid
blows, he drew blood from Hermit’s left arm, sliced open his left
shoulder, and tore a long wound in his left side.

“Now I’ll have an end to this!” Wade shouted,
and lifted his broadsword to bring it down on Hermit’s neck, a blow
that would surely sever Hermit’s head from his shoulders.

With a wrenching groan that stabbed right to
Emma’s heart, Hermit raised his own sword and thrust aside the
death that Wade intended for him. Then, before Wade could recover
and come at him again, Hermit raised his own sword one more time,
holding it in both bloodstained, sweaty hands, and struck Wade hard
across his middle.

Wade stumbled backward, clutching at the
wound with his left hand, trying to hold his ruined body together,
though he must have sensed it was hopeless.

“You’ll pay for this,” Wade gasped, taking
another backward step. “Lady Richenda will make you sorry.”

“Catch him,” Dain ordered his men, “before he
goes over the edge.”

“Don’t – touch – me,” Wade said, his words a
moan of pain and fury. In his right hand he still held his
broadsword, and he lifted it as if to ward off anyone who dared to
approach him.

“Fool,” he said to Dain, “to trust in
magic.”

“It’s not magic that’s done this,” Dain said,
“but hatred of magic.”

Still keeping his broadsword extended, though
no man made a move toward him, Wade stepped backward again,
groaning at the effort it required to force his rapidly failing
body to obey his will. Without another word he took the final step
and went over the cliff. He did not cry out as he fell.

In the protracted silence that followed,
Hermit drew himself up, standing straight and tall in his tattered
clothing.

”I thank you, my lord Dain,” Hermit said.
“Today, at last, I am a true man again. My honor is redeemed. My
loved ones are protected against evil.” He looked at Vivienne, and
then at Emma. Wonder and a wild joy filled his eyes and shone on
his dirt-streaked, bearded face.

Emma started toward him, wanting to help,
both her hands extended in concern over his dreadful wounds. Before
she could reach him, Hermit collapsed onto the road and lay there,
facedown and unmoving.

“No!” Vivienne shrieked, flinging herself
from her horse to run to him.

Her cry broke the unnatural silence that had
held them all in place, and suddenly the air rang with commands as
Dain ordered one of his men to ride to the castle for a litter and
a supply of bandages, commanded two other men to descend the cliff
path to discover the remains of Wade and return them to the castle
for burial, and ordered a fourth man to ride to the battle scene on
the moor and bring back word of the results.

“I want to know how many men are wounded, how
many dead, and how many captured,” Dain instructed.

“Please,” Emma begged, catching at his
stirrup, “send one of the men to Trevanan to inform Agatha of what
has happened and bring her to the castle. We are going to need her
healing skills.”

“Hermit’s wounds are grave,” Dain responded,
dismounting as he spoke. “I have seen men die from lesser
hurts.”

“We can’t let him die,” Emma said on a
sob.

At Vivienne’s urgent call, she left Dain’s
side and went to help with Hermit. He was unconscious, his face
bruised and cut where he’d hit the rough stone and gravel of the
road. His wounds from Wade’s sword were bleeding copiously. Blake
was already at work, following Vivienne’s instructions to bind up
the gash on Hermit’s arm using Vivienne’s white scarf, and to pull
it tight until the bleeding stopped. Emma tried to stanch the
shoulder wound with her hands, while Vivienne struggled with the
deep tear in Hermit’s side. Though her face was white, Vivienne was
amazingly calm, doing with admirable efficiency whatever must be
done to stop the bleeding.

“He will require sewing,” Emma said. “All
three wounds need to be sewn closed.”

“There will be other wounded men coming in
from the moor who will also want help,” Dain said, squatting beside
Hermit’s inert form. “He’s still unconscious?”

“I’m glad he is,” Vivienne said. “He won’t
feel the pain when we move him.”

In fact, the men who came with a litter moved
Hermit gently and carried him with great care to the castle and
into one of the guest chambers in the tower keep. By that time
Agatha appeared, having ridden pillion behind the man Dain sent to
fetch her. She watched Emma and Vivienne for a few minutes before
nodding her approval.

“He will do well enough under your care,”
Agatha said. “I’ll see to the other wounded, the men from the
battle, so you won’t have to worry about them. Who can best assist
me?”

“Hawise,” Emma said at once, “and Blake, too.
He’s had a trying day, and helping someone else will be the best
thing for him. Ask him to tell you how Wade misused him. He ought
to talk about it, and I’m too busy here to listen just now.”

“I’ll see to the boy,” Agatha promised, and
left to start tending to the wounded men.

“Sloan is wounded, too,” Dain said, hovering
just inside the doorway. “That’s where Hawise will be. What of you,
Emma? Your day has been no less trying than Blake’s.”

“I haven’t time to think of it just now,”
Emma responded, and firmly shut all thought of Wade and his wicked
plans out of her mind.

By nightfall Wade and several of the bandits
had been buried in an empty field at some distance from the castle,
and the wounded, men-at-arms and outlaws alike, were bandaged and
dosed with herbal medicines. Those who were strong enough to cause
trouble were under close guard.

Hermit was beginning to move and thrash about
in his bed as he slowly regained consciousness. He was too weak to
talk, but Emma could see that he did recognize her, and Vivienne.
They each took one of his hands, and Hermit smiled and pressed
their fingers. He obediently swallowed the spoonful of poppy syrup
Emma offered to him, and a short time later he lapsed into a state
of somnolence in which, Emma knew, there was no pain.

“Will he live?” Dain asked Emma as she came
out of Hermit’s room with a water pitcher for one of the maids to
refill.

“If his wounds don’t fester, I believe he
will,” Emma said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Dain said. “He’s a
brave man. Emma, I have a minor problem to discuss with you, if you
can spare a moment.”

“Of course.” Emma handed the pitcher to a
waiting maidservant before turning her full attention to Dain.

“I trouble you only because I promised Sloan
I’d speak to you as soon as possible, and because I hope your
answer will speed his recovery from his own wounds,” Dain said.
“Sloan wants to marry Hawise. Have you any objection?”

“None at all,” Emma responded promptly, and
discovered to her surprise that it was possible to smile at the end
of the day’s fear and pain. “I can’t imagine Hawise will object to
the idea.”