The Christmas Knight (31 page)

She was hungry and thirsty. Walking over to the small table beside the bed, she picked up the pitcher next to the empty basin and sighed with relief. There was water. After drinking enough to satiate her thirst, she decided to save the rest and went to sit down on the bed. Worry was not her typical approach to handling problems, but as she was powerless to do anything else, her mind began to replay all that Luc had said, especially the comments regarding Lily. She had to get out.

Standing, Bronwyn returned to the door, hoping that if she hit it enough times, whatever was wedged on the other side would give free. On the fifth body assault with no indication that it was working at all, Bronwyn took a deep frustrated breath.

Smoke.

Icy fear twisted around her heart. She had not made a mistake. Luc did not desire to starve her out or have her rescued too late to help Ranulf. He had planned to do just what he intimated—he wanted her dead.

Bronwyn could smell the smoke stronger now and was transported back in time. Crumpling to the floor, she rocked back and forth just as she had as a little girl, waiting for her mother to save her. But no one would this time. No one would even try. Her father had sworn this would never happen again, he would make sure they were safe, he promised to protect his family and…suddenly Bronwyn remembered that he had.

Jumping to her feet, she ran to the little stone cubby that held all their childhood keepsakes and started pulling everything out. Old dolls, worn blankets, favorite whittled items, one by one, she tossed them into the room. Fire had not reached the door, but heat emanated from the floor below, indicating that flames were eating through on the other side.

Soon the small area was clear. Bronwyn grabbed the tapestry and threw it in followed by a couple of woolen blankets. Then, she started to wedge herself in. The cracking snaps of the floor giving away echoed in the stone death chamber just as she was able to get inside. Her fingers curled around the leather strap her father told her never to pull unless there was a fire. She gave it a yank. Nothing happened. She yanked it again, harder, and a large stone fell into place.

She was now safe from the fire, but she was also trapped with no way to get out.

Ranulf dismounted, glad to make it back to Hunswick before the dinner hour. He tossed the reins to the eager stable boy and headed out across the courtyard toward the Keep. He had not even made it halfway to his destination when Tyr intercepted him, scowling. Ranulf recognized the pained expression. His friend had a headache, most likely caused by Ranulf dumping everything on him, including his new family.

Opting not to ask the question that might initiate an hour-long conversation regarding the agonies of responsibility, Ranulf continued toward his destination. “I’m going to see Bronwyn.”

Tyr stopped short and crossed his arms. “Not there you aren’t. She went to visit her sisters this morning, who are quite wisely staying out of my way and Father Morrell’s sight. Your wife’s still with them.”

“Thanks,” Ranulf mumbled and changed direction only to be stopped by his friend again.

Seeing Ranulf’s icy glare, Tyr shrugged unperturbed, and explained, “No woman—even one that loves you—is going to want to be in the same room with your stench. So if you are hoping to charm your lovely wife back into your arms, I suggest you take a bath first.”

Ranulf inventoried his muddied state and realized his friend was correct. Clapping Tyr on the shoulder, Ranulf gave him a parting wink and ventured into the kitchens. Two days ago, he had vowed never to enter that domain again, and yet here he was. Not many occupied the room, but the ones who were there were buzzing with activity. Seeing him, Constance gave a little yelp and nearly toppled the beans she was preparing. She quickly recovered and sent him a scathing look before resuming her task. Well, the old woman was consistent with her loyalty to Bronwyn.

“I need a hot bath to be delivered to my bedchambers, and you,” he said, looking at Constance, “go find Bronwyn and have her meet me in the Great Hall.” Leaving, he heard her mutter that she would go, but only when she was ready and not a minute before.

An hour later, Ranulf finished cinching the belt to his tunic and repeated the speech he had been giving himself. His plan was simple. First, he would hold Bronwyn and kiss her until she admitted that she loved him. Then, he would explain his own fears and she would forgive him. But most of all before the night was over, he would tell Bronwyn just how much she meant to him. By tomorrow morning, she would never again doubt his feelings.

Ranulf was just stabbing his dagger into its sheath attached to his belt when a solid single knock came from his day room. Ranulf gave a grunt to wait, but the door squeaked open regardless. Thinking only Bronwyn would be so bold, he stepped out of the garderobe with anticipation. Disappointment and then concern filled him as Tyr stood in silence with a very tense look on his face.

“What?” Ranulf asked without preamble. Whatever was bothering Tyr was not good and Ranulf had never been the type to guess.

A muscle flickered in Tyr’s already clenched jaw. “One of the villagers just ran with news that they could see flames. Syndlear is on fire.”

A brittle silence filled the room. Finally Ranulf raked both hands through his hair. He should have known Luc might try something. He should have waited for him to slip back onto his lands and confront him. “Damn, if Bronwyn wasn’t mad at me before…how can I explain this? My shortsightedness has cost my wife her home.”

“Thank God you had everyone come down to Hunswick.”

Ranulf dived back into his garderobe and came out holding a hauberk and doublet. “Gather the men and have them all meet me in the Hall.”

Within a half hour, Ranulf met with his men and began devising a strategy to draw out their attacker. Though there was no proof, Ranulf had little doubt it was Baron Craven. An accidental campfire would have caught the woods on fire and been less localized. Besides, the weather had been too damp in recent days to blame dry kindling and there had been no lightning storms in the past twelve hours. No, someone definitely had started the fire and the list of people who would gain by such an action had only one name.

“How many do you want to send north?” Tyr posed.

Ranulf twitched his mouth, thinking. “No more than a half-dozen. He wants us to be vulnerable here where it counts.”

Tyr nodded. “I’ll ride with Tory and four men of your choosing, leaving the rest to stay here. But I need to leave quickly before Edythe finds out. She loves that place and somehow the fire will be my fault. That I should have known it would be started and was unwilling to stop it.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Tyr shrugged. “Oftentimes, neither does Edythe.” He pivoted and was about to make his escape when a redheaded blur caught his peripheral vision, causing him to do a double take.

“Don’t you dare go anywhere,” Edythe ordered. Lily was right behind her.

Ranulf arched his head to see behind them, waiting for his wife to emerge. Meanwhile, Tyr’s posture became hostile. “Didn’t your apology provide you enough embarrassment for today?”

Edythe narrowed her green eyes. “Have no fear, Highlander, for I…” She paused and noticed his attire. “What is going on? Why are you dressed so?”

Tyr placed his hands on her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“Let me go,” Edythe wriggled unsuccessfully.

“No. I don’t want you to hit me when you hear the news.” Tyr swallowed and prayed for strength. “There is no easy way to say it, but Syndlear—your home—is on fire.”

A quiet filled the room. “Bad?”

Tyr nodded. “We can see the flames so I am afraid so, Finch.” He had readied himself for pummeling fists, shouts of denial, and angry accusations. He had not been prepared for Edythe to fall against him, sobbing. “Sorry, love. I know how much your home meant to you. But I promise you, Ranulf and I will find the one who started it.”

“It’s Luc,” she muttered against his tunic.

“If it is, then this time, the baron will pay with his life.”

Ranulf, still not seeing Bronwyn, stepped around the embracing couple blocking the entrance, only to run into Lillabet. “You think Baron Craven started this?” she demanded, her voice high-pitched with an element of frenzy. “Then what are you doing here? You have to get there! You have to save her!”

Hearing her panic, Ranulf reached out and grabbed Lily’s upper arms. “Save who?”

“Bronwyn,” she wailed. “She rode up there this morning and she could still be there—”

Ranulf heard nothing more.

T
HURSDAY
, D
ECEMBER
30, 1154
F
EAST OF THE
H
OLY
F
AMILY

“Face me!”
Ranulf cried out, daring Luc to leave his castle walls and meet him in one-on-one battle.

On the way to Syndlear, Ranulf’s fear had grown to immeasurable limits, and by the time he had arrived, his blood had been pounding so hard in his veins, he could hear his own pulse. Then, in an instant the world had gone silent and remained that way. For the flames that had consumed Syndlear were gone. They had nothing left to eat. Only smoldering embers and scorched stone walls remained. No one could have survived.

Someone found Bronwyn’s horse running loose nearby and brought it to him. Its charred reins and singed mane were proof the animal had been tied up close to the burning keep when it had struggled to gain its freedom and safety. There could be only one explanation as to why the horse had been left to defend itself; Bronwyn had still been inside.

Unable to look away, Ranulf had stared at Bronwyn’s grave marker and let the rage and anger fill him until only loss and loneliness remained, devouring what was left of his soul. Speculations about the fire’s cause started circulating around him, but not one idea was plausible. Vegetation was scarce next to the keep and the trees nearby were untouched. Lightning strikes required clouds that had dispersed long before, and unattended hearths would have died out or resulted in a fire days ago soon after everyone left. No, Syndlear had been destroyed intentionally. Bronwyn was dead and Baron Craven had just forfeited his life.

Ranulf could not prove his deduction, but it was not needed. He knew the truth, and it left only one choice—war. Peace be damned. The saints of Twelfthtide, the Church, his men, even King Henry—all of them…they would either understand his immediate need for blood or they wouldn’t. Either way Ranulf did not care.

With only a handful of men, it should have taken virtually no time to prep for battle, but every minute had felt like an eternity. After assuaging Tyr’s concerns by leaving just enough soldiers at Hunswick to protect Edythe and Lillabet, Ranulf had led his remaining men back across Torrens and toward the mercenary army. This time, however, the baron’s soldiers were not relaxed. They had been waiting and were prepared for Ranulf’s arrival, confirming Luc’s guilt.

The size of the baron’s hired army was far from insignificant, but even if it had been doubled, it would have changed nothing. Ranulf would have still led his nearly two dozen men through the deadly crowd, maneuvering toward the vulnerable timber castle.

“Face me or everyone here will know you are not a man but a coward,”
Ranulf taunted again. A minute later, he had his reward.

Luc appeared just above the wooden palisade, looking smug, overly confident, and easily within reach of Ranulf’s arrow. “I heard about the fire. One of my men said that your wife was rumored to be inside Syndlear at the time. I guess it always was her destiny to be killed by flames.”

Ranulf tightened his grip on the reins. “You killed her,” he accused, his voice low but penetrating.

“Something you cannot prove. And now you are left with a choice. Come after me, the king will take your home, your men, perhaps even your life. Leave and you lose your honor.”

“I will have you at the tip of my sword, baron.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Luc said haughtily with a wave of his hand, indicating the small but hostile army who had encircled Ranulf and his men. “But it won’t change the fact that Bronwyn will never again be yours.”

The reality of the baron’s hateful words slammed into Ranulf and he let loose a battle cry that could be heard throughout the valley.

Bronwyn stirred back into consciousness. Her stiffened muscles and joints burned, demanding to be moved. The fire must have died hours ago. The intense heat from the walls was gone and all the warmth had left the stones. Using the small breathing air holes as a window to the outside, Bronwyn surveyed the scene below. It was hard to make out, but based on the amount of moonlight, the sun had sunk behind the horizon several hours ago. Soon rescuers would arrive.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remain patient by recalling what she could before blacking out. After the stone door had locked her inside, the smoke had slowly seeped in, consuming all breathable air. She had pressed her lips to the small holes in a desperate effort to inhale anything that didn’t taste and smell like ash. That was the last thing she could remember.

Again Bronwyn tried to stretch. This time a little more successfully in her upper body, but crouched inside, she could not straighten her legs. Until she was freed from the small storage unit, they would be screaming for relief. Still, she was alive. Despite everything she had ever thought about her father’s narrow-minded commitment to build the fire holes, they had worked. They had kept her safe. Hopefully, they wouldn’t also cause her death.

She counted everything she could see, hummed every song she knew, but the silence remained. Where was everyone? Hadn’t the flames been visible? Maybe help had come and gone while she had been unconscious, never realizing she was inside the wall, alive.

Panic began to flood Bronwyn and the need to escape became her sole focus. Skimming the surface with her fingertips, she found the edge of the large stone blocking her way out and pushed. The effort resulted in absolutely no change. Bracing herself as best she could in the confined space, she shoved against the barrier. Again, nothing. The stone door had been designed to be removed from the outside by adults, not from the interior.

Stifling a ripple of fear, Bronwyn took several deep breaths and told herself that Ranulf would not let her die. He would somehow know she had survived and come to find her. She just hoped he did it before she starved.

After wiggling back around, the faint red break of dawn could be seen glowing through the air holes. Night was ending. Moving closer to study the landscape, Bronwyn realized her view was not of Hunswick, but the other side of Torrens—toward the Craven castle. Furthermore, it was not dawn lighting up the dark sky, it was torches.

In the distance, shadows moved and every once in a while a faint scream echoed across the valley. Bronwyn had no idea how long she stared out the holes, snatching morsels of activity, when suddenly the night sky lit up and the battle scene was no longer a struggle to see. Luc’s castle was on fire. There was only one rational explanation for the razing of the noble’s home—Ranulf had declared war. For him to make such a move meant he had already come to Syndlear and believed her to be dead. And without food or water, she would be very soon.

Tears flooded her eyes and the sick tune of Luc’s departing comments sang in her memory.
Know in the end I will have everything that was supposed to be mine.
Damn. She had been right. Luc
had
created a trap for Ranulf. Not the one she had anticipated, but one far more devious and destructive.

Ranulf had everything Luc ever desired—her, Syndlear, higher rank and power, even the king’s respect. But Ranulf’s unprovoked, unsubstantiated attack, killing dozens of men, could be the one thing to change that. Bronwyn could hear Luc oozing charm as he described her husband to the king, spinning stories of Ranulf’s lust for power, acting above the law—the one thing King Henry was rumored never to tolerate. Then add tales of her being promised to Luc and Ranulf’s defiance…it was very possible that Ranulf would lose everything, all the while believing she hated him for the accident that took away her father.

Bronwyn cried out at the injustice. It couldn’t be too late for them. She would yell and scream until someone came and found her. She had to tell Ranulf she loved him, and no matter what the king said or did, she would always be with him.

She would stay alive. She had to.

Ranulf studied the destruction surrounding him. The battle had ended several hours ago, but the war had just begun. All that remained of the baron’s castle was smoldering ashes. The men who had fought for Luc had either fled or died. The fighting had been brutal and Ranulf knew he was lucky to have only lost only two men against the greater numbers, but their deaths would haunt him for a long time. Especially because the reason they were there, the reason they had fought, the very man that Ranulf had craved to face most—had not yet been found. The baron had disappeared just at the onset of battle.

A bloodied figure moved and Ranulf knelt down by the mercenary’s side. The man gasped and it was clear he was in enormous pain and would soon be dead. Ranulf didn’t care. Any of his remaining capacity for empathy had died with Bronwyn.

Grasping the man’s shoulders, Ranulf gave him a choice. “Tell me where the baron is and I will bring you water.”

Despite the pain wracking the mercenary’s body, distaste overtook his expression. “I hate people like you and the baron, always thinking you are better than everyone else, entitled to more,” he hissed. “Keep your water and your so-called kindness and may both your souls be damned to hell.”

“Where is he?” Ranulf pressed, promised cruelty laced in each word.

The dying soldier coughed violently before finally answering truthfully, knowing it would be the most vindictive of all last actions. “Gone to see the new king. You may be the better leader, better soldier, better at everything…but the man still won. You could kill him, but he would still win.”

Ranulf released the now limp frame and stood up, hating the fact that the dead man was right. Ranulf had gone to war without permission, and the instant Henry learned of the unapproved, unilateral decision, there would be repercussions. Being the king’s friend would not help Ranulf’s cause. If anything, it would hurt him. Henry had just assumed his throne and paramount to all was establishing authority and gaining the respect of his nobles, something that could not be earned by ignoring Ranulf’s most recent decisions. Instead, Henry would be forced to make Ranulf an example by stripping him of his title and wealth—a humiliation unlike any he had ever endured, and yet he didn’t care.

He didn’t care about anything.

Tyr kicked aside an empty helmet and sheathed his sword. “That one say anything?” he asked, pointing at the lifeless man beside Ranulf.

“Nothing I didn’t already know.”

“Then the baron’s gone to London then. We pursue?”

Ranulf shook his head. “We do not. Get the men and our dead. They are not to be buried here.”

Tyr nodded, but before he went to see to Ranulf’s bidding, he said, “You know what will happen then when the duke hears of…”

“Henry can have Hunswick and the title.”

“All may not be lost. State your case. Henry’s fair.”

Ranulf shook his head. “The king wants to focus on conquering Ireland for his brother. He’s not going to be pleased that I am causing problems in the north.”

“But what if he offers the baron Syndlear as a stern warning to you? Or worse, decides to raze Hunswick? Henry’s done it before, and if you don’t tell him the truth about what happened, he might do it again.”

Ranulf glanced at the dead bodies littering the valley and riverbed. His reaction had been justified but all the killing had not helped. The pain still remained and it always would. Bronwyn showed him what it was like to be complete and happy. Without her, a sickening hollowness consumed him. And nothing, no action, no inaction even if justified, would change that. He could search for Craven, find him, and even kill him, but it would change nothing.

“If that’s Henry’s decision, then so be it. After I see to the safety of my wife’s sisters, I never want to see either Syndlear or Hunswick again.”