Gayle Eden (17 page)

The truth shall stand and will follow them and me, to the judgment seat. I was never a heathen, or whore. I came to this country to serve my God and my King, also. I honor my oaths and vows. I have the moral burden of my husband’s life in my hands as his wife. When Baron Ryngild exploited, a field of chivalry, and turned it to a field of blood—I came betwixt him and his intent. Wither I saved my husband’s life, I do not know. I can only pray so—for if he is dead, it is by that man’s design—and of this you can prove.

I stayed his hand as only a woman without armor or without his size could. I violated the church’s principle as a female, and of that, I admit guilt. Because I was on guard for it, after I observed the Baron violated the rules, and came near injuring many, before he faced Pagan.

That his captain taunted and meant to shame and humiliate a knight who fought so bravely, by exposing his scars to the crowd for ridicule—hurt my heart. But that I saw, his intent to use it for murder, moved me to action. This trial is not about the past, it is about what occurred on that field and the actions I took. I cannot beg for my life if you deem that I acted with some malice, but I beg for his, to God, who is the only power among us who can have mercy on one that has endured enough from his own people.”

There was silence a moment, broken only by Lylie who blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Even Beroun turned away and hastily brushed his sleeve over his face.

Randulf was looking into the fire as he rasped, “What else?”

“They called a stay until evidence and witness could be recorded. The Barons argued—and there was a messenger from the king. The last I heard was that he had sent guards to transport her to a neutral location. It was decided in council that given the court was held in the Baron’s castle, and given the accusations linked to the old charges of treason, that she should be taken someplace secret, until some conclusion was reached.”

“Dear. God.” Lylie shivered. “I wish we had stormed that castle and stolen her away that first week. We could have fled, all of us. As 'tis, we have no chance—”

“Illara?”

Everyone stared down at Pagan, whose eyes peered not from a mask, but from the bandages around his head. Those eyes were wide and all knew he had heard every word. His arm rose from the blankets. He clutched Randulf to pull his body to a sitting position. His expression stark and horrified, Pagan rasped, “Get me my clothing…my horse—”

“You have been—”

Pagan pulled so hard that he ripped Randulf’s sleeve from its shoulder. “Get them, or by God I will walk out of here in nothing but bandages and scars!”

Randulf grasped his hand and their eyes locked. Their fingers held tighter. His joy that his brother lived, the fear he had felt, as if his own soul would die—and his torment at leaving Illara there—it radiated between them with Pagan’s own stark emotions.

Still clutching that hand, he promised, “I will go as you go, and I will walk in my scars also, before the king if we must. We’ve been to hell, brother, and it’s kicked us both out more than once.”

Pagan’s hand slowly slipped off and he fell back, too weak to sit longer. Nevertheless, he would not close his eyes and rest. He said, “Beroun. You and Ivo go to Dunnewicke. Tell the men to get wagons, load everything of value in them, and cover them. Leave only a guard of twelve and have every man in his best, meet us on the road. Tell them…to bring my father’s shield, and those in the tower.”

Randulf said of his own man at arms, “Send Fitzwilliam ahead to me. I too will need wagons to hold goods.”

Lylie stood as the young men were finding clothing for Ivo. She went to a satchel and withdrew the bound book. “I’m adding my account in the last pages.”

Randulf reached up and took her hand. “You don’t have to—”

“I do. And I will,” she said staunchly. “How can we do less than she, Randulf? How can I? She has accused to their faces, those who are guilty, and she will go to the gallows if need be, reciting these names. I will stand before the king, too, if I must. Or I will have my own account stand on its own—but I will not let her buy my freedom with hers.”

“She has told them we are not Thorel and—”

Pagan cut Randulf off, “It will be evident why—and I expect will be nonessential in the grand scheme of things. I will not let her go, Randulf. I will not let her die for saving me. Moreover, that she has been in hell for—”

“Nigh two months...”

“Bloody Christ…God’s mercy—” Pagan moaned and closed his eyes. “Get me up. Get me up and dressed!”

No one argued. They got him up and though Pagan staggered and weaved, within an hour he was dressed.

Pagan picked up the crushed helm that lay with his armor. He struggled to remember what had happened, but could not. He asked his brother to tell him what Illara had done.

Randulf did.

When he was finished, Pagan remembered her words, “I will fight for you, my beast…”

He whispered, “Aye, my Lady, you have fought for us all. Even those, who haunt the halls of Dunnewicke, awaiting justice, even them.”

Pagan turned to his brother. “Find the means and the persons to Cry the Tournament, we will hold it at Thresford,—when our men meet up with us, we’ll have a contingent go ahead and prepare. Meantime, we will draw the rules for the judicial duel, a pas d'armes, the appellants can be those who accused her of malice and murder—and those who accused and condemned our family who are living.

We will leave the lists open for any challengers to enter, a fight to the death—the losers to be deemed craven, as is stated in a trial by combat and judicial duel. Those who lose are perjured, and as they will be void in their right to law, can never again appear as a witness against us, or anyone else. This will clearly be an à outrance encounter, to injury or death. All opponents are considered enemy. This challenge must be clear.”

Randulf stared at him, their gazes holding whilst the wind howled outside. Finally, he nodded slowly, “Very well. I would just as soon fight them all at once. In addition, by the laws, we can set the points of combat ourselves, and lay out the weapons and penalties for the losers. What else?”

Pagan said first, “We could die, too.”

Randulf shrugged. “I would rather go fighting for honor and the truth, than being punished and dishonored for a lie—”

“As would I.” Pagan nodded. “There is one more thing. We need to discover where Illara is being held. Lylie will get word to her that she must insist on her right to challenge her accusers. It is not likely any judge would allow her to participate in combat. She can and will be championed, through me, as to her motive. But, neither was she able to face her accusers in Starlings castle, and for the courts record, she can make the plea, and the request, to be allowed to take part in the judicial duel.”

“Are you mad?” Randulf was shaking his head, but smiling.

Lylie cut in, “Nay. He is very sly.” She looked at Randulf and grinned, “By requesting, she will be able to be freed and have her esquires and the rest, just as any loyal subject. If they do not take her seriously, it will at the least amuse them. In any case, there is not a Baron or Knight among them who has not challenged accusers in this manner—and they know the significance of it. Illara is serious enough to believe in her ability with weapons, and she is pure enough in her definition of honor and fairness, that after her speech to them, I don’t think any will scoff at her.”

“I think we should hold this at Dunnewicke.” Randulf turned to his brother. “I know the reasons you want to hold it at Thresford, to remind them of Lord John, and his renown, and because it is she who is accused and it is her home. But I think since we are revealing ourselves, I would just as soon spill my blood and that of our enemies among that of our father. It’s you she saved—and our family, including me, she spoke with pride and certainty about.”

“Very well.” Pagan nodded. “Let us depart and begin the arrangements. Meantime, I am writing my personal invitation to the king. He will not show, and is likely heading to the Holy land, but it is my hope his conscious was pricked over what happened to our father and family, because of father’s great loyalty and service to him. It will be our official explanation, Randulf, and after that—we have only our prowess and skill to speak for us.”

“I am ready.” Randulf nodded with conviction. “I have been awaiting this half my life, and I am curious to see just how many line up on the side of the accusers, and how many conveniently change their testimony or flee.”

Lylie said, gathering their things, “Or how many come to our side.

Both brothers snorted, but Lylie held out hope. She had a plan of her own to put in place, and as soon as she found Illara, she was going to start on that.

They departed an hour later, Pagan often swaying in his saddle but would not listen to their urgings to stop and rest. He pushed himself as he had through worse, to reach Dunnewicke, and get all in order for the bans. The sooner he did so, the sooner it would reach the ears of those who would condemn his wife to death. The sooner he could see her, if not hold her in his arms.

He kept chanting in his mind, she saved me—

She killed Ryngild

Mentally shaking his head, Pagan had seen her skill and quickness, and from her father he knew of her spirit, before he witnessed it for himself. However, he, a scarred and all but faceless man, had been saved by hands twice as small as his own.

Pagan could not think about what she may have suffered. It hurt his guts to think anyone would ever treat her badly. He knew though, that she would endure it. Pagan believed that she would hold on and hold out hope also, for him.

Just as a knight, she has shown every trait and skill, displayed bravery, courage, and honesty, and he would never mock that in her. As a wife, she was beyond that in his mind now—and when they kissed, touched, she was everything that was passionate and woman. She was his, and no power short of death would change that. Moreover, he would fight death too; wrestle it, to keep her.

Let them either take his prizes, his lands also if they wished, but they would be free with the truth following them, or die fighting for each other.

* * * *

Illara sat in the private chambers of a rural Inn. She watched the young serving woman named Constance fill a long wooden tub with water, by a blazing hearth. Each time the woman entered, the royal guards could be seen lining the hall, and they had brought in folded clothing, a comb, shoes and a cape, as well as writing material. She had been given food and wine, a feast after existing on a little bread and tepid water.

Sitting at a small desk, she had written out words she had already claimed, this time for the king, and signed the page before sealing it with wax. She would have her account known to him as his faithful subject. She trusted none of the Baron’s court, though the Marshal had been fair and had given her a say. He had sent her a priest whom she gave all confessions to. Finished with her writing, she arose when the tub was full, the girl having left toweling, cloth, and soap on a stool by it.

Illara stripped off the sack gown and stepped out of the shoes, climbing in and setting her teeth at the feel of her first bath in weeks. Sinking under, she ignored stings and aches, and for a space shut out the world—feeling almost in the womb, where no sounds intruded.

When her lungs hurt, Illara emerged and soaped her hair, washed it, after that her body. She lay afterwards, covered to the neck, her spiked lashes closed, and her arms over her breasts. She had been told little save that the council would decide her fate, and Illara had no hope of swaying them on her behalf, because she’d admitted her guilt though disclaimed any malice.

Sometime during the harsh and cold nights, days without rest or enough food, she had come to terms with her fate, and her only goal was to leave some truth behind in her testimony, regardless if it was ever believed. It was what her father would have done—her mother also, she thought.

She rolled her head as the door opened and the girl slipped in. Under the guise of setting down oil for Illara’s skin, Constance placed a note with it murmuring, “A woman came to the back doors and left this. She waits in the kitchen. When the guards are at their meal, and think you are sleeping, I will sneak her above. She has clothing and provisions for you also.”

“Thank you,” Illara whispered and cast her a smile, grabbing up the note then and opening it. Her eyes spurted with tears.

It read simply. Pagan is alive. I must give you urgent instructions from him. Lylie.

She took the girl’s hand saying low, “Thank you. You have no idea what you’ve given me.”

The girl flushed. “You are welcome.”

When she left, Illara hastily dried and afterwards rubbed herbed oil on her body feeling the healing sooth of it on chaffed skin. She dressed in the clean clothing and put out the lamps, sitting on the bed and combing her hair in the dark. Pagan was alive! She cried, wept silent, but with so much release of grief, worry, and pain, that it all but drained her. She laid aside the comb and reclined, letting her tears come freely, as she had not in the last weeks.

It seemed a time-consuming wait before the door opened and Lylie slipped in. She set down the trunk, and as Illara jumped up, they ran into each other’s arms, weeping and holding tightly for the longest time.

Finally, Lylie held her back regarding her in the weak light and whispered, “Pagan and Randulf are at Dunnewicke to prepare for a trial by combat, a judicial duel, to settle all matters charged to the both of you. This will be most dangerous, more a melee, which means many men on the field fighting for life and death….”