Lord of Vengeance (5 page)

In an instant Gunnar felt the familiar jolt and heard the sharp crack of a lance meeting its mark. Then, for the first time in his life, he felt his world tilt wildly...and realized he was falling from his saddle. He grasped at his destrier's mane, but his leather gauntlet prevented him from getting a firm grip on the beast, which was kicking and trying frantically to get away. Gunnar hit the ground hard, his breath leaving in a wheeze.

The stallion pawed the air, then ran to the side of the lists while Gunnar scrambled to his feet. Quickly drawing his sword, he stood ready as d'Bussy's man prepared to charge him. The knight jabbed his war-horse cruelly with his spurs, making the beast scream and rear before it barreled toward its target, snorting and huffing as clods of dirt sprayed in its wake. The white slash of a sneer showed under the knight's nasal as he leveled his lance. Gunnar knew without question this man meant to kill him and wondered for the briefest moment if this was how his father had felt in d'Bussy's tourney so long ago.

The thought scarcely had a chance to form before the horse and knight were upon him. At the last moment, Gunnar jumped out of the way of the snarling pair, swiping his sword at the destrier's hindquarters as it passed. The great steed shrieked and careened to the side, throwing its rider to the ground. The knight quickly gathered his wits, drawing his sword and charging Gunnar with a ferocious battle cry.

Sparks flew as steel met steel with an angry clang, then again and again, as each man swung his sword and met the other's strike. Gunnar's opponent soon began to tire, slashing wildly from side to side, hacking at the air in a blind attempt to hit him. Sensing the man's fatigue, Gunnar redoubled his efforts, meeting his opponent's blade and holding it with his own.

Each man pushed against the other, their blades poised vertically between their noses. While keeping the knight's focus on his blade, Gunnar hooked his leg around the man's calf and shoved with all his strength. He hit the ground on his back and Gunnar was on him in a trice, his blade pressing into the knight's mail-clad chest. “Do you yield?” he growled.

A tense moment passed and he pressed the blade deeper.

“
Do you yield?”

“Aye,” the knight growled at last. “Aye, I yield.”

Gunnar relaxed his hold and stepped away from the man, leaving him to come to his feet on his own. The knight rose and removed his helm, indicating his surrender and revealing his identity.

Raina's attacker from the day before clenched his teeth and warned, “This is hardly the end of it.”

Cheers went up from the crowd, but Gunnar's victory was yet to be had. He remounted, steeling himself for the final confrontation with the demon of his past. Hatred raged in his veins as he approached the stands, his unflinching gaze fixed on the baron as he began his descent from the loges, his daughter clinging to his arm.

Gunnar watched with dispassionate calm as the elderly baron made his way down the center of the stands. He realized suddenly that Raina was not so much grasping her father's arm to steady herself but to assist him as he carefully picked his way down the stands on hesitant, almost feeble legs.

Gunnar felt a twinge of humiliation bleed through the heavy shroud of rage and hatred he had cloaked himself in for so long. This rotund, bowed creature was the demon who had haunted his dreams for the past thirteen years?

But Gunnar refused to feel pity, refused to feel anything.

When the baron reached the bottom of the stands, he lifted a jeweled chalice in the air, encouraging the applause of the spectators. He turned to Gunnar, inclining his head to acknowledge his victory, then passed the chalice to Raina. She took the ornate cup and extended it for Gunnar to drink of it.

“Lauds!” the baron exclaimed, clapping his hands together in hearty applause. “Lauds to you, good sir! An excellent show of skill.”

Gunnar accepted the goblet from Raina, nodding solemnly. Briefly distracted by the ruby- and sapphire-encrusted chalice, he wondered under what terms--at whose expense--d'Bussy had come to possess it.

“A lovely prize in itself,” the baron said proudly. “A treasure befitting a king, no?”

Gunnar twisted the chalice between his fingers. “'Tis worthless to my mind.” Ignoring Raina's affronted gasp, he returned his attention to the baron and spoke loud enough for all to hear. “The boon I seek this day is much greater than this petty trinket.”

The baron's mirth left his expression instantly. Gunnar met his stare, unflinching. Suddenly, the baron's brows rose high on his forehead, and a broad smile lit his features. He laughed aloud, a hearty guffaw, then turned to the sea of stunned faces behind him. “By the Rood! Here stands a man after my own heart!”

“That I am, d'Bussy,” Gunnar muttered under his breath. “That I am.”

He drained the chalice and tossed it negligently to the ground at his horse's feet. His right palm itched, resting on the hilt of his sword as d'Bussy's laughter echoed in his ears. His fingers curled around the leather grip of his sword, and he drew the blade from its scabbard, the metallic song bringing d'Bussy's attention slowly back to him.

The baron's mouth was open still and laughing, before realization dawned in his features and his mouth fell agape in surprise and shock. Time slowed to an exaggerated crawl as Gunnar swung his arm back, his eyes trained on d'Bussy's fleshy neck.

But as his blade began its descending arc, he lost sight of his mark. A flash of sky-blue sendal whisked his mind back to a day he longed to put to rest....

Surprise and fear had rendered Gunnar immobile when d'Bussy drew his sword, poised to kill. A blinding spark of sunlight kissed the blade as the baron raised it over his head. In the space of a heartbeat, the light was eclipsed. Gunnar cried out...but it was too late. His mother lunged forward, throwing herself between him and the falling sword. She screamed for d'Bussy to stay his hand.

And then she was silent.

Gunnar could still hear the blade as it bit into her slender neck, could still feel the startling warmth of the blood that splattered his face from the blow.

Could still taste the bitterness of loss...

A soft voice brought him back, stilling his hand in midair. Raina now stood in front of her father, arms spread wide to shield him, her neck in place of his. “Nay,” she cried, her eyes wide with terror. “Please, nay!”

Gunnar lowered his sword, unwilling and unable to strike the woman to get at his target.

Damn the wench.

She stared at him in horror, shaking her head mutely, her fearful sobs having stolen her voice altogether. Gunnar's blade hovered with lethal steadiness at her throat.

“What the devil is the meaning of this?” D'Bussy railed, stumbling from behind her to face their attacker.

From the periphery of his vision, Gunnar saw several men closing in on him from the sides. He pressed the blade closer to Raina's neck, his glare conveying a lethal warning to the baron. D'Bussy raised his hands to still the advancing guards.

Heart pounding with unspent rage, Gunnar snarled, “You may have escaped my sword this day, but mark you, d'Bussy, your crimes against me will not go unpunished.” He then spoke to the crowd. “This ignoble bastard murdered my father out of greed and killed my mother before mine eyes when she refused to become his whore.”

“My face holds no recall for you, Baron? 'Tis been some years, I credit, nigh a lifetime. Mayhap you require a name to refresh your memory.”

“I require only that you leave before I see you drawn and quartered,” the baron growled, and Gunnar chuckled, for the beast he knew the man to be was now beginning to rouse.

“Perhaps,” he said with malevolent calm, “you thought by wiping the name of Rutledge from this earth you might also remove it from your mind.”

“Papa?” Raina interjected, her voice filled with confusion. “Papa, what is he talking about?”

Gunnar willed his gaze to remain on the baron's, watching with satisfaction as those rheumy blue eyes narrowed to lethal slits. “By all that is holy, you are mad. Insane!” the baron sputtered. “I have murdered no one, and I've never before laid eyes on you.”

“Thirteen years have made you forgetful indeed, Baron,” Gunnar drawled coolly. “Careless, too, to let your lovely daughter wander out among the wolves.”

D'Bussy's face blanched and he moved his daughter farther behind him.

“Twice since just yesterday I've been close enough to pluck her from your grasp,” Gunnar continued, “but I've come for you alone. You cannot hide behind your daughter's skirts forever, old man. The moment you turn your back, you can be sure 'twill be my face you see, the steel of my blade you taste. Let this day serve as reminder and warning that I will return and vengeance will be mine.”

With that he withdrew his blade and wheeled his charger about, leaving the lists in a cloud of dust with several of d'Bussy's men on his heels.

Stunned and trembling with fear, Raina collapsed into her father's arms and watched as the man who, in the space of a day, had been first her rescuer and now her enemy, thundered out of her life. She prayed she would never lay eyes on him again, but in her heart she knew he meant what he had said.

He would return.

And heaven help all of them when he did.

Chapter 3

In the fortnight since the tournament, d'Bussy's numerous holdings had suffered nearly as many attacks in so many days. Village grain stores were burned, trade wagons were robbed, keeps were looted, and men had died. There was no question as to the identity of the raiders, for with each attack came the message that peace would be had only if the baron agreed to meet with their leader on the field of honor.

Each request went unanswered.

The baron received the news of the near daily attacks with an uncustomary lack of emotion. When his men rallied, ready to meet the marauders on the field, d'Bussy gave orders to stay, refusing to leave Norworth. Refusing to fight back.

One by one his political supporters turned their backs on him, unwilling to help a man who would not help himself. His dreams of power were now laughable, absurd at best.

The most recent report of attack came from one of the baron's holdings just a league away from Norworth. D'Bussy sat mutely in his chair on the dais at the front of the emptied hall that served as his court between the daily meals. Nigel stood before him with the messenger from the neighboring castle.

“Milord, we must take a stand. These raids are growing more frequent, and with each passing day they draw closer to Norworth.” When the baron did not respond, Nigel leaned in, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You need but ask and your men will follow you to battle. Say the word and we can rid ourselves of this nuisance for good.”

The baron said nothing, idly tugging an eyebrow, his unfocused gaze trained on the d'Bussy banner, which hung on the far wall of the great hall.

“Milord,” Nigel implored, raking a hand through his hair in evident frustration, “each day we are losing valuable stores and money.”

At last Nigel gained his attention. “'Tis
my
money, and
my
holdings. How I choose to handle the attacks is my own decision.”

At Nigel's bold tone, d'Bussy pivoted slowly and turned a narrowed gaze on him. A long moment passed in silence before the baron heaved a weary sigh. “Let the devil take what he will.”

He then departed the hall with his guards close at his sides.

* * *

Raina knocked lightly on her father's solar door. When no answer came from within, she pressed her ear to the rough oak panel. “Papa? Are you in here?” This time she rapped harder and the door creaked open enough for her to peer inside.

Her father sat slumped in his ornately-carved, cushioned chair, staring out the open window. He did not turn when she entered; indeed he hardly seemed aware of her presence at all. In his lap, he held an object--a book. Her mother's Bible, she realized as she drew closer. The same book Raina herself used to pore over when she was feeling particularly lonely and missing her mother.

“I'm sorry if I have disturbed your reading, Papa, but when you didn't answer me--”

Her voice seemed to rouse him from his thoughts and he looked up at her suddenly, his eyes sleep-weary and ringed with dark circles.

“Are you unwell, Papa? Since the tourney, you've been acting so strangely. You spend most of your days alone in here, and I know you are not sleeping as you should.” She touched him tenderly on the shoulder. “I am worried about you.”

Clumsily, he reached up and patted her hand, though if he heard her concern, his attention seemed focused elsewhere. With trembling fingers, he caressed the edge of a gilded, illuminated page in the book spread open in his lap. “How she loved this Bible. Beauclerc himself commissioned it for her when she was but a babe, can you imagine that? She was beautiful even then, my Margareth. Beautiful enough to enamor the king on first glance.”