Lord of Vengeance (19 page)

Suddenly parched and in grave need of a drink to cool his head, Gunnar grabbed a flagon of wine from one of the tables on his way out of the hall. Several people shuffled at his heels as if yet meaning to witness the squire's punishment. Gunnar turned to face them, his angry scowl stopping the group in their tracks. “Get you to your pallets for the night,” he snapped. “I've no need of an audience.”

Without sparing them another thought, Gunnar resumed his march behind Alaric, seizing a torch from its sconce in the corridor as he quit the keep then crossed the moonlit bailey to the low-slung building that served as shelter for the horses. Gunnar deliberately hung back, trying to distance himself from the young squire and the pain of the impending deed.

He breathed deeply of the night air and took a long draught from the flagon. Not surprisingly, neither held the strength to cleanse his overwhelming sense of dread and remorse. From the night four years past when Gunnar had rescued Alaric from what surely would have been a lethal flogging, the boy had been at his side, riding with him from one town to the next, foraging with him for every hard-won meal along the way. Trusting him.

Of all the people who had drifted in and out of Gunnar's life, Alaric remained true. Constant. His closest...

Dare he call him friend?

The word had an unfamiliar taste to a man who trusted no one, who could ill afford any emotional attachments. Gunnar knew Alaric was fond of him--at least he had been. Be that fondness born of obligation or gratitude, Alaric had proven a devoted page and an eager squire, anxious to earn his own spurs one day. Though he had never made mention of it, Gunnar harbored a flickering hope that he might be the one to sponsor that dream. Someday.

Tonight, however, was no time for dreams. Tonight belonged to duty and honor, and the responsibility that came with both.

His squire had disobeyed direct orders and had done so in a public forum, leaving Gunnar no choice but to discipline him. His men would expect it of him, and indeed, so would Alaric.

Anxious now simply to be done with the deed, Gunnar threw open the stable door. The light from his torch flickered, dancing off the stalls and reflecting in the nervous eyes of the horses. Alaric had already taken his position at the far end of the stable, with his back to the door as he unfastened the ties of his tunic.

Gunnar stood in the oppressive silence of the outbuilding, averting his gaze to the rafters. “In all our days together, Alaric, you have never disobeyed me.” He looked back to his squire. “Why now? What manner of explanation do you offer for your actions this eve?”

Alaric would not look at him, turning his head only slightly toward his shoulder. “No explanation would excuse what I did, milord,” he admitted quietly. “I did not seek to disobey you, truly.”

“Then why did you?”

The squire remained silent for a long moment and Gunnar could scarcely hear his whispered reply. “I felt sorry for her. She was crying, milord, weeping pitifully.”

Gunnar felt a twinge of guilt but dashed it away with a sardonic scoff. “A clever ploy, likely designed to lure you to her aid.” He took a drink from the flagon and met with Alaric's ardent gaze.

“I think not, milord. She is a gentle lady and even though she is a d'Bussy, her heart is pure. I know what her father did to you, I well understand your need to destroy him, but I could not bear to think that she might suffer at your hand.”

“Ah, Christ,” Gunnar muttered, and began to pace the stable. Did everyone think he was incapable of controlling his urges? Was he no more civilized to the world's eyes than a bloody beast?

He could understand Raina's fear of him--damnation, he nigh scared even himself in her presence--but the fact that Alaric would doubt his honor burned Gunnar in a place deep inside. What had he become in the lad's eyes? But more to the point, why should it damned well matter what the boy thought of him?

Gunnar came to a halt and rested his forehead against one of the supporting beams of the stable. “You don't understand,” he began, but Alaric spoke over him.

“'Tis the way of war, I know, but I would not have expected this of you--” The squire's voice dropped off suddenly. “I cannot deny my disappointment, milord.”

Gunnar whipped around to stare at the lad in disbelief. “
You
are disappointed?
In me?
”

Alaric would not look at him. “'Twas not my place to console her, and for that I apologize, but to hear her crying so...I was powerless to refuse.”

“A weakness for which you should bear a lifelong reminder on your back, lad.” The humor in Gunnar's voice made the threat sound more a chiding than anything else and he grimaced. Clearing his throat, he began to pace anew. “Have I taught you nothing in these four years? A knight--hell, a man--cannot allow himself to fall victim to his emotions, Alaric. 'Tis a painful lesson to learn, but learn it you must if you hope to survive.”

“Aye, milord.” A pensive look came over his features, then he gathered up the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head. His shoulder blades poked against the pale skin of his narrow back as he tossed the tunic to the ground.

Saints' blood, but Gunnar had nearly forgotten his reason for coming to the stables. Alaric, the lad so full of pride and honor, had not. He lowered himself to his knees in the straw and wrapped his hands about the beam before him.

With a frown, Gunnar set the torch in an iron brace bolted onto a supporting beam. Moving with steps made heavy from wine and regret, he retrieved the whip from where it hung nearby. A horse nickered at the disruption, stirring in its stall. Gunnar took his place several paces behind Alaric and slowly uncoiled the lash, his grip tightening and flexing as he stared at the pale canvas of Alaric's skin.

His pulse began to thunder in his temple. A sickening feeling settled in his belly. Hoping to douse his indecision, Gunnar tipped the flagon to his lips and downed a good portion of the wine, welcoming the burn in his throat and wishing he could take the lad's place again as he had four summers past.

God's wounds, but he hated like hell to have to do this. He had never raised a hand to anyone weaker than himself and had sworn he never would. Dragging his forearm across his mouth, he blinked away the remorse that pricked his eyes.

This was different. He had no choice; he had to make an example or risk losing control of all his men. “You understand,” Gunnar said in a hoarse whisper. “I must...”

“Aye, milord, I know.” Alaric's voice, though quiet, seemed stronger than Gunnar's own, and filled with resolve. “I'll not dishonor you...or myself...by begging for mercy.” Gunnar heard the squire's breath catch in his throat before he exhaled a ragged, heavy sigh. “Whenever you are ready, milord.”

Chapter 12

Raina's head lolled forward to her chest and she jerked awake for what seemed the hundredth time. Sitting on a pallet with her back against the stone wall, she had been awaiting Rutledge's return to his chamber, hoping to hear that he had changed his mind about punishing Alaric, needing to hear that the boy was all right.

But as the hours dragged on and the night began to wane gently into dawn, she realized she had been waiting in vain. Not only had Rutledge likely carried out his threat, but from the undisturbed condition of his bed, he had been at the woeful task all night.

The merciless wretch.

She rose to her feet and peered out of the open window that overlooked the bailey. Neither man nor beast stirred in the courtyard below. Nothing bespoke the events that had transpired just a few hours before; nothing to indicate their consequences.

Settling herself on the thick ledge, she breathed deeply of the refreshing northern air. It smelled crisp and wild, and made her pulse quicken, so heady was the scent of freedom. Dawn loomed hesitantly on the horizon, the sun still too shy to peer over the edge of the farthest hill. The keep, and indeed the countryside, stood quiet. Raina could almost imagine she were home, at Norworth, sitting on her window ledge greeting the day as she'd done countless times before.

Her gaze slid to the large, empty bed and she wondered what he would look like, were he sleeping there. Would he sprawl across the width of it, or rather, sleep rigidly, with the same control and self-awareness he possessed when awake?

An image of him, naked and prone on the mattress, sprang to vivid life in her mind. A shiver skimmed over her, for heaven help her, she could so easily picture herself beneath him.

And surely to think it was nigh to do it.

How could she desire this man--for desire it plainly was--how could she ignore all that he was, and indeed, all he was not? How could she feel anything but contempt for a beast like him? What manner of fool was she to crave his touch? Yet in light of all he had done...despite all he would do...she desired him.

Lord, but she should be praying for Alaric--and for her wicked soul--but here she was, wondering and fantasizing about Rutledge!

Booted footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the chamber door, sparing her from venturing farther into such treacherous imaginings. They approached quietly, as if seeking to go unnoticed. Who would be sneaking about at this early hour when all were yet abed? She rose from the ledge and faced the door as it opened very slowly.

Rutledge slipped around the panel with the sure-footed stealth of a cat, closing the door without making a sound. He turned then and met Raina's surprised gaze. She crossed her arms over her chest and shot him an imperious glare but all he did was grunt in response, casting her a disapproving sideways glance as he passed her.

She noted at once his disheveled appearance, the dark circles beneath his eyes, his drawn and weary expression. He looked thoroughly exhausted, as if he had been awake all night. His worn linen tunic was rumpled, his hair wild and tousled about his face and shoulders. Evidently, his cruelty had kept him awake for a good part of the eve.

“You look dreadful,” she said with more bravery than she felt.

“A good match for my mood.” He sat on the edge of the bed and began unfastening his cross-garters. Belatedly, he lifted his gaze and slowly took her in from head to toe. “You, contrarily, look well-rested,” he said with a smirk as he turned his attention back to what he was doing. “No worries to keep you awake, 'twould seem.”

“I did
not
sleep well, if you must know.” He scoffed and she had a notion to scold him. “I was awake most of the night, sick with worry over what cruelty you were imposing on that poor boy. Your nightlong absence from your chamber makes me wonder if you weren't at your torture all this time.”

He raised a black brow in mock surprise. “Milady, I confess I hadn't thought you would take notice of my absence. I am flattered to think you would miss me.”

Raina's cheeks warmed. “That is not what I meant and well you know it. I take it now that you have tired of abusing your squire, you've come to torment me?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nay, tempting as the prospect might be, I've come only to change my clothes.” As an afterthought, he added, “To set your mind at ease, I was not beating Alaric all night. When I finished with him I sought rest in the hall with my men.”

Raina considered him dubiously, narrowing her eyes. “You smell as if you slept in the stables.” To emphasize her point, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose.

Rutledge regarded her with the beginnings of a crooked smile. “Aye? Well, a gentleman would be loath to tell you, lamb, but you're no spring bouquet yourself.”

Raina blushed, duly stung. She supposed she wasn't in the best of form, but she hadn't given it a thought until now. Her dress had been stained and torn before her failed escape. Now it was in a truly sorry state of disrepair, the hem frayed and black with dirt, the skirt streaked from numerous falls and general abuse. She had long given up on the sleeve ripped loose when she was taken, leaving her shoulder indecently bared; the other sleeve hung on by mere threads. As for her own odor, she supposed it hadn't improved any in the days past.

She scowled.

Curse Rutledge for making her feel ashamed for something he brought upon her. He was likely only trying to distract her from an uncomfortable topic. Well, she would not prove quite so obliging. “What have you done with poor Alaric?”

“Never you mind about him. I'll not have you attempting to further beguile the lad. Besides, I doubt we'll be seeing much of him today.” Tossing one boot to the floor, he had the audacity to grin up at her smugly. “I reckon he's likely too sore to be sociable.”

Raina stared at him long and hard as he went to work on his other boot, wanting to pummel him with her fists. Arrogant, bullying lout! She refused to think that her actions had anything to do with the severity of Alaric's punishment, consoling herself that it was simply Rutledge's way to pick on creatures unfortunate enough to be smaller and weaker than he. The same way he had chosen to pick on her father, an old man who could bring no harm to anyone--would never think to bring harm.

He called her father a monster and worse, but she was surely looking at the monster now. This was simply the way it was with him; the strong feeding off the weak, the survival of the fittest and the meek be damned. His world was one of war and conquering, buying what he could and stealing what remained. She would not be party to his predatory ways.