Lady Trent (40 page)

Rachel dropped to her knees. “Marcus,” she
breathed, observing his arm, his sleeve, the front of his shirt.
“You have lost too much blood.” She patted his face when it seemed
he would sleep. “Please, Marcus,” she pled. His eyes opened and she
quietly and weakly commanded, “Stay awake, Marcus, you must stay
awake.”

She glanced up to see the guards simply
roaming about the fort. They had succeeded in their mission. The
place had been scouted out, and those remaining men killed on the
spot. No, not one was spared. So said one of the guards who came to
them, and then another and another.

One of them brought a horse. They all
observed her livelihood.

“Milady,” said one. “Your husband is heading
this way. We will meet him and you will be reunited.”

“Sir Marcus,” another called, getting on his
knees beside of him.

“I….I do not know what happened to him,” she
said.

He was pulled up by his good arm and with a
hand behind his back. “We’ll get him on a horse. Milady, you must
ride. You will stay close to us. Lord Trent should not be far by
now.”

Marcus allowed them to pull him up, but then
shoved them away and stood on his own, staggering a few paces. “I
can ride on my own,” he told them. “She will ride with me. She will
not leave my side. No, not until I have handed her over to Jacob.”
He then observed the fort. “Some of you must stay. There is no
certainty that they are all dead. The fort is…it is deeper than it
appears. But if it be at all possible, we must take some of them
alive.”

And so it was, despite their concern that he
would not survive, and that he was not even able to ride, that his
orders were followed and he did ride. From time to time he swayed,
forcing his eyes to stay opened, although they barely stayed that
way at times. He focused continually on the feel of Rachel’s chest
against his back, and her arms around him that at times began to
slide away as if to become limp from sleep. She quickly put them
back in place, refusing to let go of him. And she would not.

They were surrounded by the majority of the
remaining guards, those who had not stayed in sight of the fort,
all of whom continually looked upon him to be sure he still sat
upright, prepared to react if anything went awry, and keeping their
eyes opened for any sort of intrusion, in the case there were more
of the rivals than they even knew of.

******

It was as Jacob rode onward, one of the
guards he’d sent out ahead of him came riding swiftly toward him.
Sir Edward, out of breath as if he’d been running. Jacob slowed his
horse while he came near and announced, “I see some of our own in
the distance approaching. Your men, milord, I am certain.”

So he and Marty rode with him to the spot he
spoke of. “Milord, ‘tis your men, indeed,” said Marty, “and Lady
Trent as well, I do believe, with Sir Marcus.”

Jacob tightened his grip on the reigns and
they all rode toward the small convoy. His heart swelled with
relief. Yes, the men did belong to him. Most importantly he
recognized Rachel, truly alive, seated behind Marcus who so far as
he could see was injured and barely sitting up straight.

At the same time, one of the guards who
travelled with Marcus and Rachel stopped his horse ahead of them
all having noticed a trio coming from afar, and having recognized
them.

One by one the others stopped at well, and
the first called out, “Sir Marcus. Lord Trent is up ahead. I see
him and Marty and Sir Edward.”

He tried to see. Even as good of vision as he
had, it was difficult to make out the scene of his friend, Jacob.
He’d never been happier to see the man in all his life.

Rachel also lifted her head and noticing her
husband felt the greatest sense of relief ever. She would not die.
Jacob would not die. Marcus…he would not die. There was hope. There
was help. He could be nursed and the physician would help him.

After having come so far, Jacob dismounted
and his men with him and hasted toward that direction. They all
stopped their horses. Marcus shoved away the assistance of the
guards; dismounting and reaching up to help Rachel do the same.

Just as her feet hit the ground, and as Jacob
stalked toward them, Marcus brought her to his side. “Milord,” he
greeted, guiding her ahead of him. “Your wife...alive...and well.”
With that, he collapsed, falling into a very deep darkness.

******

Jacob instantly embraced her. She clung to
him, thankful it was over. Thankful they were safe and sound. She
knew it now for certain.

“Rachel.” He was kissing her head, her cheek,
her lips. “My dear Rachel.” He saw the blood and panic took over
him. She shook her head while he took her face between his hands.
“It is not my blood, it is Marcus. He-he….”

She didn’t know how to say it, didn’t even
know what had happened, but had an idea he may have injured himself
in order to stage the possible loss of the made-up child.

It was when she turned she realized Marcus
had fallen to the ground unconscious. The guards surrounded him.
Jacob studied the scene a moment, very uncertain, confused—so much
confusion. He nodded at one of the guards saying, “Put him on his
horse.”

Rachel noticed men on horseback coming out
from this direction and that, and felt afraid all over again. Jacob
sensed her fear. “These are my men,” he told her. “You are safe.
We’ll go home now. We’ll go home.” And they did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The mood of the palace grounds had shifted
since Rachel’s return and as news of what’d happened spread. Hardly
anything else was talked about besides the incident that could have
possibly taken her life. Not that anyone knew the entire truth of
it—only that the caravan had been attacked, Rachel held hostage
and…well, the rest nobody could say for sure.

From those who’d returned—some injured,
others not—Zaria was most acquainted with a portion of the
invasion. She, herself, had clamored out of the carriage, claiming
the horse of a dead man and hasting back to the Great City and to
the palace to alert Jacob. Marty had soon-after followed. He could
not say a whole lot about the incident altogether, neither could
Zaria.

Servants and maidens were placed over the
well-being of the injured: Rachel, Marcus and several guards…also
Tilly who’d been recovered from Rylan and returned to the
palace.

Marty had taken a small army to the fort to
collect not only the bodies of those guards who had not survived
the attack, returning them to their families for a proper memorial,
but also of those who had made the attack. The hope was that at
least one of them could be identified. Jacob, feeling quite
frustrated with the driver, turned him over to the prison keeper
until all involved could explain exactly what had happened and be
sure he had not been involved in any way. The whereabouts of Lionel
were yet to be heard of. The driver upon questioning merely
insisted he’d taken off…to where or to do what he hadn’t a
clue.

In a week’s time, most of the injured arose,
going about their business and proceeding with their duties. Jacob
questioned them individually. It was unanimous. Nobody knew who the
attackers were. Nobody could identify them. It was assumed, though,
that they were acquainted with the king of Roark. The main cause,
an accent to the voice that some of them had heard.

Marcus eventually awakened in his quarters at
the palace. His clothing had been removed. His skin cleansed and
his arm bandaged. He was only awake for a short time. He slumbered,
very exhausted from the entire ordeal, but content that he would
actually live, and fearless enough now to purposely close his eyes
and sleep.

The next time he opened them, he spotted
Jacob sitting by the bed, an elbow to his knee, a hand to his chin,
simply staring at the floor however as if into nowhere. Marcus
watched him a while before shifting, making it known that he was
conscious. Jacob lowered his hand and lifted his head to get a look
at him. His posture straightened while his expression went from
relieved to sad and then simply sincere. Marcus thought about
Rachel, hoping she, too, had recovered from the ordeal. Not that
she’d been physical injured, but he still felt a sense of dread to
think of her suffering at all. Such an episode was sure to take a
toll on the mind.

He parted his lips, closed them, parted them
again and asked, “Is she well?”

After a short hesitation—the cause of which
one could only wonder—Jacob quietly answered, “Yes. A bit shaken is
all.”

This relieved Marcus. He leaned back, gazing
up at the ceiling for a time. Jacob studied his profile and then
his bandaged wound.

“Your arm,” he came to say.

Marcus raised the injured limb so slightly,
but automatically felt a sting in his damaged flesh. He lowered it
so as to not cause any more pain.

Jacob reached for and took up a chalice.
“Here,” he urged. “Edison has prescribed this to you. It will ease
the pain and help you rest.”

“I have likely rested enough,” he commented,
but still pushed himself up with his good arm as best he could so
as to rest his back against the pillows behind him. He accepted the
chalice. “How long have I lain here?”

“Six days altogether.”

“Six days,” he quietly repeated. “Too long
for a wound of this size.”

“You lost a great deal of blood. Edison is
determined to keep you here so long as he can.”

Marcus raised the rim of the chalice to his
lips and drank. He frowned upon the taste of the concoction,
doubting he would follow any orders to drink it.

“Perhaps strong drink would better suit you,”
Jacob decided. “I will have the maidens bring some, if you
wish.”

Marcus agreed with silence. Jacob’s eyes
swept briefly over him during a decent span of silence before he
said, “You, um, gave yourself this injury? On purpose?”

Marcus simply ogled the chalice, thinking
back to the incident and not really knowing what to say about
it…any of it. For some peculiar reason he did not want to look the
man in the eye, so he continued to focus upon the chalice, saying
nothing at all.

“Rachel has rested and recovered a great deal
from this horrible incident. She has been able to speak about it,
although with very few words. She is in shock, so to speak. She has
been given something to help her rest. So she sleeps again, even
now. She could not say exactly what occurred. She does not seem to
know anything for certain…only that you concocted some tale about
an unborn child in order to get to where she was, to become
captured yourself when you could have remained a free man, risking
your own life in the process. It seems you may have purposely
injured yourself in order to spare her life…and mine, in
return.”

Still, Marcus said nothing. Such sincerity as
this made one feel emotional…sentimental. Not in any horrible way,
but very unique. It seemed as if his friend was going to cry.

He looked away while Jacob bowed his head.
His eyes were very red when they came back up to meet his, as if
burning with the sting of tears. The grin on his face was not
genuine, but forced and fake.

“I….I was cursing you all along the way. Yes,
I…I cursed you Marcus. Meantime, this?” He extended a hand toward
Marcus’s arm. “And the gash is deep, they say. Very deep. According
to Edison, it appears to have taken not one but two attempts to
create such an injury.” He gradually stood, and hands behind his
back stared up at the ceiling. “You are even more faithful than I
knew you to be. You put your life on the line to spare ours. This
idea of finding another to replace you can no longer apply; it just
simply cannot be. You cannot be replaced at all, and I will never
trust any man the way I now trust you.”

“I reacted as any decent man would,” Marcus
said, still without looking at him. “Especially under hire,” he
added and then, “especially a friend.”

“No, no.” Jacob shook his head and began to
pace. “These are not average deeds of a hired man or of a friend or
of an ally or of any man at all. These are not average thoughts let
alone deeds. You think quickly, Marcus, and react just the same.
You…you are a different sort of man.” He finally stopped at the
foot of the bed, turning to stare down upon him. “You may leave
here. You may have your manor house and your city…who’s to say what
great things will become of it. Nonetheless, no matter where you
are, near, far, none the matter, I am forever indebted to you.”

He went on to say, “The bodies of the dead,
both of my men and theirs, have been transferred. Those of my own
have been returned to their families for a proper burial, although
I do intend to hold a memorial in their honor sometime in the
nearest future. The others have been kept as best as possible, but
have not been identified at all. I had hoped you would be able to
rise and look at them yourself. I have questioned the guards, even
individually so as to get so close to the truth as possible. Some
of them claim to have heard an accent similar to that of a native
of Roark. I am eager to hear your opinion of the matter. Their
corpses were brought to me. I, myself, cannot identify any of them.
Could you, perhaps?”

“I will arise and look before it becomes
impossible to tell. Those I did see…none of them were familiar to
me. But with or without the accent, which I heard as well, I
perceive they were, indeed, natives of Roark.”

“I remember those who warned me in
Arlington.”

“They did not warn you of a personal
attack.”

“No, but you did.” He paused a brief moment.
“Perhaps they are correct and we should invade and overthrow King
Alfred and the nobles who support him. But I could not bring myself
to mention that meeting to the emperor when I sent a message to him
in regards to this. Do you suppose I should mention it?”