The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (38 page)

William was only steps from Cathryn, yet they seemed leagues apart, and the battle that Lambert had initiated with his entry into the hut had lasted no more than two dozen heartbeats. It seemed to William that they were caught on the threshold of eternity. Lambert had swung back his ringed hand and cuffed Cathryn as casually as a man would cuff a begging dog. The sight of her dazed expression burned into his mind. He would not forget. Lambert would not live long enough to remember.

William drew free the knife that hung from his belt with swift and deadly silence. He turned and jabbed downward toward the open and vulnerable point where mail did not quite cover throat.

Guichardet fell dead, his windpipe severed.

Beuves backed up a step, releasing his hold on William. This man was more than he had planned for. Guichardet was dead. To be dead was not what they had discussed when planning to retake Greneforde.

The look in le Brouillard's eyes when he turned from Guichardet, the blood a vivid red line on his blade, caused a mortal heaviness within Beuves. This man would kill him. There was no fury, no rage, no blood lust in those gray eyes. There was just cold death. His death.

Beuves turned to run, running not from the act of dying—all men must face that, and there was no escape—but from death personified in that cool and solemn face before him. Only the dark and fathomless eyes showed any sign of life: the tormented life of the damned. Le Brouillard's face was enough to drive him into insanity.

Before even one frenzied step was completed, Beuves fell dead, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his neck. Rowland appeared behind William through the open wind hole, the bow in his hands.

"Your pardon, William. I strayed too far afield."

He did not say more—indeed, he had said that much on the run—and William did not bother to answer. They both raced to where Cathryn lay near the portal of the hut, Lambert straddled over her, her skirts akimbo. He had struck her once, the side of her face already showing a swelling darkness, but it was Lambert who was howling in pain. Cathryn, certain only that he would not kill her, was taking her revenge.

Her thumbs were pressed against his eyes and she applied pressure relentlessly. Lambert had thought to pry her off. He could not. He had thought to beat her off. She was not to be dissuaded for so paltry a price.

It was William who ended their battle. With killing ferocity, he kicked Lambert off of his wife, robbing him of breath in the doing. Following, holding his sword ready, William waited until Lambert lay still and dazed. When Lambert could see and understand his death in William's face, William did what no knight did to another: he gave Lambert no chance at gallant battle. William slashed downward with his sword, beheading Lambert where he lay.

Rowland stood to block Cathryn's view of what was happening. It was well he did.

With cold disdain, William kicked Lambert's lifeless head into a far-off corner, and then, the gleam of that brutal ring catching his eyes, he hacked off Lambert's hand and kicked that into the same corner to keep morbid company with its head.

Lambert was dead.

That was the last thought William would ever give to Lambert for the rest of his days.

Rowland, knowing William well, knew that Lambert would no more occupy William's thoughts than a dead mayfly. Cathryn and her welfare would consume him, and so it should be. Rowland lifted what remained of Lambert of Brent and tossed the body out of the wind hole. With calm detachment, he located the hand and head and got rid of them in the same manner. Once outside, he would gather the parts and bury the man who had reached once too often for Greneforde. The other two nameless knights would be buried with him, unshriven and unconfessed. They would be joined together throughout eternity, whether they wished to be or no.

William was only dimly aware of Rowland's movements in the hut. His entire attention was focused on Cathryn. She had gone far inside herself to cope with this latest abasement. He was greatly afeared that he had lost her forever. She lay now as one in a heavy swoon. She had not stirred when he had kicked Lambert from her. If she had noted his death, she made no sign. Blood ran in a slow line from her mouth, and she made no move to wipe it.

He was completely unaware that he bled from two small wounds to his rib cage. His thoughts were all for her.

She was gone from him; he could see it. There was no recognition in her dark and lovely eyes. There was scarcely any sign that she lived, except for the heavy rise and fall of her chest. She had battled, this wife of his, battled her greatest and most feared foe. She had done well. She had heard him in her fear, for it was when he had commanded her to fight that she had fought.

She had heard him.

William felt the beginning of hope flower in his mind. If she had heeded him before, she would heed him again. It would be so.

But how to reach her?

Lightly,
he almost thought he heard the God of all whisper softly. Yes, he must not smother her with care or she would die with the weight of it. There was one way in which to reach Cathryn, one way that had proven itself time and again.

"Up, wife!" he commanded in gentle reproof, "you must learn not to roll in the dirt the day before you meet England's new king."

Cathryn sat up before the words had completely left William's mouth, and then their meaning registered in her mind. Up, she must get up. William had said so. And why? Because Lambert was dead.

Lambert was dead. She had fought him. William had killed him. William le Brouillard had not relinquished her, as he had promised her countless times that he would not.

She believed him; after all, he was a man who had no history of losing.

Slowly a smile wrinkled her eyes and turned up her mouth. She wiped the blood with the hem of her bliaut and touched with tender fingers the swelling near her eye. She was covered in dirt and bruises and dried blood, but she was looking at him with all the richness of her character shining out of her dark eyes. She had never looked more beautiful to him.

His Cathryn was back from that dark place inside herself where she hid when threatened. She had gone far, but she was back.

"I will vow," Cathryn said, raising herself to her feet by slow degrees, "that the king did not know how fastidious you are when he sent you to me." She stood straight and pressed her hands to the small of her back, sighing heavily before pinning William with her gaze. "I say this with all affection—your love of water is become a burden to me."

William raised his black brows in scandalous shock, loving her bedraggled looks, her sweetly barbed speech. Loving her.

"I? A burden to you?"

"But"—Cathryn smiled up at him—"your love of me is no burden at all."

William crossed his arms over his chest in a pique of royal proportions.

"You deliver a kiss with the blow," he said. "Still, 'tis a blow."

"Which warrants an apology?" Cathryn grinned.

William raised one raven eyebrow at that.

"Frankish or English?" he questioned.

"'Tis yours to choose." She shrugged.

William glanced around the hut. All signs of battle and death had been removed. The place was much as it had been when they first alit here; mayhap it would be a healing balm to her to join their bodies now.

"I would choose a blending of the two," he said seductively and very diplomatically, "to combine the best of both."

Cathryn reached behind her, thrusting her breasts out invitingly, to untie her laces. The bliaut gaped and fell down around her shoulders, her skin warm and golden even in the blue of night.

"Quick or slow, William?"

There would be no compromise.

As she shifted her shoulders, the bliaut fell to her feet to rest on the dirt floor. Her shift quickly followed. Like a gay flirt, she kicked them away from her to land at William's feet and toyed with the shining length of her hair, cloaking herself against the night air with it, caressing herself with it. She knew she would not feel the chill of winter for long.

William had only one answer to give, and he said it heavily.

"Quick."

Cathryn smiled and sauntered toward her husband, confident and at ease in her nudity and in herself. She lifted her arms and wrapped herself around him.

"You will be an Englishman yet, le Brouillard."

The End

Page forward for exciting excerpts

from the other Medieval Knights

The Marriage Bed

The Willing Wife

The Temptation

The Fall

available in eBook format

Excerpt from

The Marriage Bed

Medieval Knights Series

Book Two

by

Claudia Dain

Prologue