His Fair Lady (2 page)

His stomach again threatening, Royce clamped
down on his emotions, determined to not embarrass himself or his
station. Diverting his gaze from the carnage, he scanned for the
enemy host but found none. ‘Twould seem they’d long departed, their
devastation complete.

Moments later the lane ended, opening onto
the heart of the village — the central green. To one end stood a
substantial stone church and to the other, the manor house of the
resident lord, it too of stone, encompassed by a wall and situated
back toward the river. No doubt ‘twas the Yonne that flowed there —
the same river that accompanied the pilgrim road to Vézelay,
coursing ever near.

Royce hardened his jaw as he surveyed the
village green and the wreckage there. Bodies scattered its length,
the peasants cut down as they’d fled for the protection of the
sanctuary.

Of those who’d survived the attack, many now
moved amongst the dead, wailing in utter despair. Others attempted
to fight past the smoldering buildings lining the green, striving
to reach neighbors who’d fallen beyond. Still more cowered in the
doorway of the church, shock carved in their features and rooting
them there.

Royce kept his roncin to a steady trot
behind Sir Hugh as the troops filed onto the green. At the sight of
the armed soldiery, the villagers began to shriek and disperse in
every direction. But a handful halted, spying the red crosses that
adorned the warriors’ garments, and called the others back.

Recognizing the Crusader emblem, the
villagers stayed their retreat. Relief shone on their stricken
faces. With hands outstretched, tears of desperation spilling over
their cheeks, they rushed to embrace their deliverers. Royce found
himself quickly enveloped, as did the others in the retinue, as the
peasants pleaded for help and sobbed out their doleful tale.

Sir Hugh sought to calm the crowd but to
little effect. Just then a snowy-haired man, bent with age, grasped
Sir Hugh’s booted foot, thanking God for sending His chosen
defenders, however late.

“Who hath plagued you this night, old
father?” Sir Hugh demanded as the man continued to cling to his
boot. “What foe besieged this place and wreaked such havoc?”

The old man looked up with haunted eyes and
shook his head. “Could not tell, could not tell,” he jabbered.
“‘Twas a surprise raid, a large company of soldiers. They wore no
livery to identify them, only garments of black to shroud them in
the night.”

Sir Hugh’s brow deepened. “Did you see who
commanded them? Did you recognize any amongst them?”

“No, no. But the main force rode for the
manor house.” The man released his hold on the knight’s boot and
lifted a bony finger toward the structure. “‘Twas as if they knew
Lord Hamelin was in residence, returned these two days past to
accept the rents.”

Worry slashed the man’s weathered features
afresh, his voice quavering. “I fear what has befallen our lord and
his family. The raiders purposed death to all here in Vaux. Of that
I am certain.”

Sir Hugh swore sharply then barked orders
directing a portion of the troops to attend to the survivors and
learn what they could of the attack. Motioning for the others to
follow, he rode toward the manor house. Without hesitation, Royce
followed and within minutes passed through the manor’s stone
enclosure wall and into the courtyard.

Royce sucked his breath at the sight of the
ground, thick with slaughter. What killing fury had visited this
place? he wondered as he drank in the horror spread there. What
dark enemy had this Lord of Vaux?

His gut twisting, Royce guided his mount
behind Sir Hugh as they picked a path through the bloody tangle of
corpses, everywhere spines broken, limbs severed, heads gashed and
lolling. Again his stomach lurched, on the brink of revolt, but he
clenched his jaw tight and pressed on.

Arriving before the steps of the manor,
Royce dismounted on uneasy legs, his knees gone soft as curd. Grim
reality awaited once more — a half-dozen guards sprawled lifeless
upon the stairs, having made their final defense here. Their
obvious failure did not bode well for those within.

Working his way around the fallen men, Royce
climbed the steps behind Sir Hugh, dreading that the manor now
served as a tomb. At the top, the massive entrance door stood ajar,
all dark within.

First to gain the landing, Sir Hugh seized a
torch from one of the iron brackets that flanked the entry. His
sword in hand, flashing with firelight, he bid his men forward and
entered. Instantly, the soldiers surged after him, jarring Royce
aside where he’d hesitated before the portal. Swallowing deeply,
Royce tightened his hold on his spear and forced himself across the
threshold.

Smoke stung his eyes and a stench assaulted
his nostrils as he stepped into the hall. Covering his lower face
with his hand, Royce squinted through the haze and sought Sir Hugh
and the other knights. As before, no foe met their steel. Only the
dead remained.

Glancing to the hearth, he located the
source of the smoke and loathsome odor. There, several of the
lord’s great hounds had been cut open and tossed upon the fire.

Revolted, Royce backed away, his steps
faltering as he moved toward Sir Hugh. Turning his attention to the
heart of the hall, he guessed the nobles had been enjoying
late-evening entertainments when the attack occurred. Tables, which
had yet to be dismantled for the night, now lay overturned, a
gaming board and playing pieces scattered in the rushes.

On the floor nearby stretched the body of a
woman, gowned in ivory silk, a ruined lute beside her. Her filmy
veil twisted about her, torn and disheveled, exposing gold-spun
hair, matted with blood at her temple. Surrounding her lay four —
nay, five — men in blue-and-silver livery. A personal guard
perhaps?

Royce compressed his lips, finding it odd
that their attire differed so markedly from those of the defenders
who lay without. Mayhap she was the lord’s wife, he reasoned,
though among the slain he spied another woman crumpled in the
rushes across the room, her garments no less fine.

Royce continued toward Sir Hugh then halted
as his foot connected with something substantial, immovable.
Dropping his gaze, he discovered a large bulk of a man in velvet
robes edged with fur. Royce gaped at the hole in the man’s chest, a
bloody pulp. ‘Twas the lord of Vaux, stabbed countless times, his
eyes put out.

Royce staggered back a pace, a cold sweat
breaking across his forehead and coating the palms of his hands.
Spots sprang to life, mottling his vision, while the room began to
move beneath his booted feet. Dimly, he heard one of the soldiers
call to Sir Hugh from across the room.

“They are all dead above stairs, sire — the
children, servants, everyone.”

“Craven whoresons be they who did this!” Sir
Hugh swore in a burst of temper. “God’s teeth! Would that we had
time to give pursuit.”

Swearing fiercely once more, he pivoted in
place and started forward. Abruptly, he halted in his footsteps as
his gaze alighted on Royce.

Surprise fired the knight’s eyes. Or was it
confusion? Royce could not read his shifting expression. Perhaps
he’d mistakenly expected to find his former squire and didn’t
readily identify him. But as Sir Hugh’s brows collided over his
nose, his eyes darkening with displeasure, panic unfurled through
Royce, head to toe.

Should he not have accompanied the knights
after all? Skimming a glance about the chamber, Royce realized with
a start that no other squires stood present within save himself
alone. Heat swarmed into his cheeks. Though he stood to the height
of most knights’ shoulders, Royce felt he’d just shrunk to the size
of a gnat.

His heart thudded heavily as Sir Hugh turned
brusquely aside and signaled to the man nearest him. In an instant,
Beuvan appeared in the corner of Royce’s spotty vision.

“Take de Warrene and search outside,” Sir
Hugh growled in a voice not to be challenged.

Royce opened his mouth to speak, shaken that
the knight he served should order him from his side. Had he erred
so greatly? Did Sir Hugh think to dismiss him altogether for this
lapse?

“Now!” the knight snapped, then gave Royce
his back and moved off.

Beuvan moved to stand before Royce, studying
him closely. A moment later he expelled a breath and turned on his
heel. “This way, lad. Have a care where you step.”

Stinging with embarrassment, his stomach yet
roiling beneath his belt, Royce followed Beuvan to the back of the
hall where the service rooms lay. They passed along a narrow
passage between the buttery and pantry and came to a short flight
of steps leading down to a small chamber.

Here an oaken tub stood, half-filled with
water, much of its contents sloshed over the stone floor. Woodenly,
Royce observed that someone had recently bathed here. A slab of
soap melted in one of the many puddles pooling the floor. Like life
itself in this place, the water had gone cold.

Proceeding outside and into the yard, Royce
drew deep of the fresh air, clearing his lungs. Unfortunately, it
did naught to soothe his touchy stomach.

“By the saints!” Beuvan spat suddenly.

Royce traced his gaze to the sheep fold
where the animals had met the same fate as all the other livestock
in Vaux, here the entire flock destroyed.

“‘
Twould seem someone wished to
annihilate the very village itself, eh, lad?” Not waiting for a
response, Beuvan looked toward the river and gestured to the mill
complex situated beyond a stand of trees. “Come, lad. Best we
inspect that too. No telling what it might yield. Keep alert. I
doubt the raiders left it untouched.”

With his spear firmly in hand, Royce
followed Beuvan, challenged to keep pace with him. Though he felt
drained and unsteady, he was thankful to distance himself from the
manor and the devastation that surrounded it.

Passing the stand of trees, they continued
toward the complex that appeared to be two separate mills of
differing sizes with an adjoining house, all backed to the river.
As they approached the buildings, they spied several lumpish forms
in the grass, illuminated by the moon’s glow.

Beuvan sprinted forward and closed on the
shapes. Royce joined him moments later, panting for breath.
Instantly, he froze as his gaze lodged on what remained of the
miller, his wife, and two daughters, all mercilessly cut down, the
man’s brains spilled out.

Royce’s fragile hold over himself broke
completely and his stomach convulsed. Dashing for the river’s edge,
he scarce gained the bank when he dropped to his knees and began to
heave. A blackness swept through him and again he retched. At last
his stomach emptied and his sight began to clear.

Shame flooded him. He was a weakling,
an
enfant
, not fit to serve
as squire to any knight. He wanted to crawl into the nearest
hole.

“First time is it, lad?” Beuvan moved to
stand behind him. “You’ve yet to see battle, have you? This is your
first taste of such bloodletting, then?”

Royce nodded, humiliated.

“You’ll toughen up,” the older man assured
with gruff confidence. “There will be far worse to see in
Jerusalem.”

Royce hung his head. How would he endure it?
How could he serve Sir Hugh? All his high dreams and aspirations
for himself and the future crumbled in his mind’s eye. What a
worthless candidate he was for knighthood. How could he hope to
uphold the Code of Chivalry if he be ever on his knees, unable to
cope with the sight of death?

“Will you tell Sir Hugh?” Royce rasped
out.

“Tell him what?” Surprise tinged Beuvan’s
voice.

Miserable, Royce swiped a hand across his
mouth and looked up to the knight. “That he’s made a sorry choice
for a squire. I’ve shamed myself, and therefore shamed him. How can
I attend Sir Hugh at the field of battle if I cannot control my
stomach here?” He dropped his head again, wholly dispirited.
“Surely he’ll wish to leave me behind and choose another.”

For a moment Beuvan did not speak.
Then he squatted beside Royce and cocked his head to one side.
“Here now,
lad. Do you not know why Sir Hugh sent you
from the hall just now? ‘Twas apurpose.”

Royce lifted his eyes to Beuvan.
“Apurpose?”

“Aye, to save face —
your
face before the other knights.
I’ve no need to tell him what he already knows. He could read the
sum of it in your ashen face.”

Royce looked away, his disgrace biting deep
to his soul.

“Ah, lad, all the brotherhood have stood —
or knelt — where you do now, spewing out their insides. Knights are
not born, young Royce, they are made. None ever becomes fully
immune to the grim realities of our profession. But they do harden.
So shall you. No one goes to war but he does not come back changed.
No lad can go on Crusade and not help but come back a man.”

Beuvan gave a reassuring clout to Royce’s
back and rose. “For now, wash your face and take a moment to steady
yourself. I’ll search further along the bank.”

Beuvan started off then turned back to
Royce. “Sir Hugh has no intention of dismissing you, rest assured.
I will tell you this — you are skilled, lad. You have passion and
heart, though not in greater measure than a dozen others.”

“Then why did he choose me for his squire?”
Royce asked, perplexed.

“Because he saw something in you — a bit of
himself I believe. You’re sharp and clear minded, to be sure, but
also self-reliant, independent in your thinking. Those qualities
will serve you well, lad, though they may also lead you into a few
mishaps, as they did this night.” Beuvan’s lips spread in a smile.
“Now see to yourself. I’ll look about.”