The Redeeming (32 page)

“Stay there.” He raised a hand to her as the pound of boots on the stairs warned there would soon be pounding on the door.

Gaenor turned and lowered her feet to the floor. “I would accompany—”

The heavy knock sounded. “My lord, riders have come!”

“Cover yourself,” Christian ordered as he shoved his feet into boots.

Gaenor complied, though she determined that the moment they were alone again, she would throw on her own clothes.

Christian strode to the door, glanced over his shoulder to be sure she had covered herself, and wrenched the handle. In the corridor stood his anxious squire, but before he could tell what was to be told, his lord said, “Come,” stepped forward, and pulled the door closed behind him.

Gaenor threw off the covers and stood. Whether her husband wished it or not, whatever had befallen Broehne, it was for her to know as well.

A
t last the king’s men had come—and bearing a gift. Of sorts.

Sir Mark lay on a trestle table, the fresh blood seeping through his tunic brightly contrasting with the dried blood of injuries dealt him a fortnight past. Fortunately, Michael D’arci was present, having been called to Broehne two days ago to contain the fever that had struck several of the castle guard. Armed with his physician’s bag, he entered the hall just ahead of Gaenor.

Christian ground his teeth. He had been foolish to think his wife would remain abovestairs. Leaving Abel’s side, he strode around the table and into her path. When she tried to step around him, he caught her arm. “You need not be here.”

She met his gaze. “I do.” She glanced past him to those gathered around the table. “Who is it?”

“Sir Mark. The king’s men came upon him as they rode on Broehne.”

She drew a strident breath. “The brigands did to him as they did to his men-at-arms?”

Remembering how the savagery in the back of the wagon had affected her, Christian quickly reassured her, “Nay, he is whole. He lives, and not badly.”

Her lids flickered. “Truly?”

“He but requires tending. You need not—”

“I will remain.”

“Gaenor—”

“Do you think me faint of heart?”

She who stood so tall and proud that she could look down upon many a man? Forget that she had been shaken by the atrocities committed against Sir Mark’s companions. Forget that she was womanly and near vulnerable when she lay in his arms. She was a Wulfrith.
His
Wulfrith. “I would never think that, Gaenor.”

“Then I would go to my brother’s knight.”

Christian sighed, lightened his grip on her arm, and led her back the way he had come.

As they approached the table, D’Arci looked up from where he had cut away the knight’s tunic to expose the source of bleeding. “It looks worse than it is,” he said. “Considering what Helene had to work with, he was well tended. I am fair certain infection has not set in.”

At the table, Christian deferred to Gaenor, allowing her to take the position he had earlier filled alongside her brother near the knight’s head.

“Sir Mark.” She caught up his hand.

He turned his face toward her and opened his eyes wider, though still they were not much more than slits. “I am well, Lady Gaenor. I but tore my stitches during my flight from the brigands. Soon I will be ready to return to your family’s service.”

“I do not doubt it, brave knight.”

On an expelled breath, he relaxed deeper into the table and closed his eyes.

Abel bent near him. “I am sorry to give you no rest, Sir Mark, but since you will not recover soon enough to lead us back the way you came, we must know more about the caves that Baron Lavonne might better determine our course of pursuit.”

Gaenor looked to Christian. “Caves?”

He inclined his head and said low, “The brigands’ encampment ere he escaped on the day past. There are three areas on the barony known to have caves. As the king’s men came upon Sir Mark but a league from Broehne, we cannot know at which caves he was held.”

“The ones that lie to the west,” Sir Mark said, lids remaining lowered. “Within hearing distance of a waterfall—though barely, for ‘twas only when the camp was at its most quiet that I could discern it.”

Abel peered past his sister.

Christian nodded. “I know the caves. Though the brigands have surely broken camp, ‘tis our best chance of picking up their trail.”

“Then we should ride.” Abel took a step back from the table, hesitated, and leaned near the knight again. “What of the healer? How does she fare?”

Christian almost smiled for the pride it surely cost his brother-in-law to make such an inquiry. His wife had shared with him her belief that her brother’s distress over his inability to return the woman to her son was more than concern for the boy.

Sir Mark opened his eyes enough to allow light to enter them. “If she were not of use in keeping the old baron alive, methinks the knave would not have stopped at beating her.”

Abel jerked. “He beat her?”

“Aye, and more than once after her last escape attempt.”

Christian ground his teeth. Was there no end to this disease called Robert?

Sir Mark sucked breath as D’Arci began to ply his needle. “But now that it appears Aldous Lavonne is near his end…” he said between clenched teeth.

Abel growled something that might or might not have been a word.

Though Christian felt Gaenor’s gaze, he kept his eyes on the knight. “How do you know my father is dying?” Not that Aldous hadn’t been dying for a long time, but this sounded nearer, like the roil of nausea moments before its violence is known.

Sir Mark grimaced beneath D’Arci ministrations. “Yesterday, when the healer tended me, she whispered that your father is not much longer for this world.”

Christian nodded. “Did she aid in your escape?”

“Nay, she did not lift a finger to me without being closely watched.”

“Then how did you manage to free yourself?”

Sir Mark grunted—half laugh, half discomfort. “It seems one of Robert’s men is less than eager to number among his followers. Likely, I would now be dead had he not aided me, for a half hour earlier, Robert loudly declared that my capture had proved of no benefit and he would take pleasure in leisurely relieving himself of my presence.”

Christian thought it safe to assume that whoever had aided Sir Mark was the same who had sent word of the camp’s location ten days past. “Who helped you?”

The knight shook his head. “He was at my back when he cut my bindings, and he spoke in a whisper I did not recognize.”

“What did he say?”

“That I should remain where I was until I was not watched.”

“Then there is no way to know which of Robert’s men it is.”

Sir Mark’s attempt at a humorous grunt made him wince. “’Tis possible I could identify him by his odor, for I do not think I have ever smelled a human so foul.” He shrugged. “Still, I am grateful, for not a quarter hour passed ere I was able to steal away.”

“How long before they gave chase?”

Sir Mark frowned. “I heard shouting and knew my absence was discovered minutes afterward, and yet no horses overtook me. Indeed, I did not even catch the distant sound of hooves.” He sighed when the piercing and tugging at his flesh ceased.

“I will dress the wound,” D’Arci said as he cut the thread, “then you will rest.”

“I thank you,” Sir Mark rasped and returned his attention to Christian. “As I was on foot and my injury kept me from traveling quickly, I do not understand why they did not come after me.”

Christian shifted his gaze to Abel who was flushed with a restlessness that told he was past ready for the saddle and woe to any who did not match the pace he set. “’Tis time to put your tracking skills to use.”

“Aye.” Abel gripped the Wulfrith knight’s shoulder. “It is good to have you back among us.” Without awaiting a reply, he turned and strode across the hall.

Christian looked to the king’s men whose task it was to aid in hunting his brother to ground, then back at his wife. “We will be gone a day, perhaps more.”

She turned to face him, and he saw worry in her tight smile. “I will be waiting for you.”

He lifted her hands in his. “’Twill be over soon.” They were watched, but still he kissed her, albeit briefly. Then he released her and called to his squire.

A half hour later, as he and his armored entourage of twenty strong rode from Broehne, Christian sensed Gaenor. Maintaining Abel’s pace, he looked back and saw she had left the inner bailey against his wishes and stood before the drawbridge watching him ride away. If not that there was a man-at-arms on either side of her and the castle walls were well fortified, he would have turned back and seen her bound hand and foot if that was what was required to keep her safe in his absence.

He looked forward again. “’Twill be over soon,” he repeated his reassurance to the air that rushed past. Then life could truly begin for him and his Wulfrith bride.

T
he baron of Broehne could not know that his time and effort—and that of the king’s men—would be better spent riding in a different direction. But he would know soon enough, providing the man’s wife could be got alone and was of a mind to cooperate.

Of course, once Lady Gaenor learned who was at stake, she would come willingly regardless of how it might appear to the man she had been forced to wed. At least, that was the hope of Sir Mark’s savior. If he was to do what desperately needed being done, he required Gaenor Wulfrith—now Lavonne—to keep him alive.

From the cover of the wood, he watched her husband and his men ride from sight. When all that was left was the haze stirred up by the multitude of hooves, he turned his attention to the woman before the drawbridge who was too tall to be any other than Gaenor. After a long moment, she swept around and hurried beneath the portcullis into the outer bailey.

The savior held his breath, praying the drawbridge remained lowered to accommodate villagers who had business within the castle walls.

It did not move, evidence the baron believed he had left the castle secure. And the one in the wood did not doubt it was secure, but he had not survived these past weeks that should have seen him dead a dozen times without furthering his capacity for stealth and diversion.

He felt the tug of a grim smile as he turned his attention to the beaten dirt road. He would have to bide his time to find the right opportunity to gain entrance to Broehne. It was unfortunate he did not have more time to bide.

“P
ardon, m’lady…”

Forgetting to lower her frown, Gaenor looked up from the household books that she had once more asked the grudging steward to open to her. To her surprise, the cook stood before her, his ascent of the dais—lumbering, no doubt—lost amidst her journey through column after column of freshly inked numbers.

“What is it, Cook?”

He wrinkled his long narrow nose that stood like a surprise in the middle of his fleshy face. “I would not bother ye, m’lady, but there be a problem with the cost of the vegetables you ordered from the village.”

Gaenor sat taller. “The price was agreed upon.”

“With Arnaut, aye, but he has taken ill and this other has come in his place. He says the quality of his vegetables requires more coin than what you promised Arnaut.” Cook scowled. “Says he won’t unload his cart ‘til he has had an audience with the steward.”

Whom she had sent away that she might better concentrate on the journal entries. She rose. “As I dealt with Arnaut, I shall myself set the man right.”

Behind, she heard Sir Hector step from alongside the tapestry. Though she required no escort, she would not argue it—for his sake and Christian’s.

“He is in the kitchen?” she asked as she came around the table.

With a grunt of effort, Cook descended the dais. “Nay, m’lady,” he said as she drew near. “Though he asked to come into the hall to speak to the steward, he is so foul he would sour the soup were he to pass through my kitchen. I told him to wait in the garden.”

The heat of the kitchen struck Gaenor before she set foot in it. Though it took seconds to cross to the door that let outside, moisture flecked her brow when she stepped out into a day that had advanced little more than an hour since her husband’s departure.

Settling her gaze on the man who stood with his back to her at the gate on the far side of the garden, his shabby state of dress matching his ability to sour soup, she murmured, “A very long day.”

“My lady?”

She looked over her shoulder as Sir Hector pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Cook to his domain. “I fear ‘tis going to be a very long day,” she said.

The aged knight inclined his head.

Gaenor looked back around. The villager, who demanded more coin for vegetables that were past due in the kitchen, had turned to her. There was not much of his face to be seen, as the upper half was curtained in stringy hair and the lower half covered in thick beard, but out of his shadowed face burned eyes, and they were staring wide at her as if her appearance was as unsettling as his own. But then, he had been expecting the steward.