True Love (34 page)

Father Aymon pushed his way through the
men-at-arms to reach Catherine's side.

“Merciful heaven.” The priest crossed
himself. “Can no one stop them?”

“Not this time, Father,” Desmond answered
him. “This is a battle to the death, one that both men think is
overdue.”

“I cannot look on and do nothing while they
kill each other.” Father Aymon rushed forward until he was
recklessly close to the swordsmen. “In the name of all the saints,
stop at once! Put up your swords.”

Braedon apparently heard him, and perhaps saw
Father Aymon's figure out of the corner of his eye, for he briefly
glanced around. Achard took instant advantage of his momentary lack
of concentration, slashing hard at Braedon's weapon, catching it
just below the hilt. The sword flew out of Braedon's hands and
Achard lifted his blade for the kill. The wild look in his eyes and
the smile on his face were terrible to behold.

Almost faster than the eye could see, Braedon
pulled a long, slender knife from his boot. As Achard's sword arm
began to descend Braedon slipped below the sword and drove his own
blade home, thrusting it deep into Achard's side.

Catherine smothered a gasp of horror, but she
could not tear her gaze from the scene. Nor did anyone else in the
hall move or speak.

Achard stood still for a moment, his
expression slowly changing from bloodlust to puzzlement. His sword
dropped from his fingers to clatter on the floor. His knees
buckled. Braedon caught him and lowered him to the floor, then bent
over him, saying something, listening intently to Achard's
response.

Then Father Aymon was on his knees beside
Achard, talking to him. Braedon rose and turned away to pick up his
sword. Father Aymon closed Achard's eyes and made the sign of the
cross on his forehead.

Braedon held his sword with both hands, the
point resting on the floor. His head and shoulders were bowed, his
tall figure rigidly still. Catherine could see that his eyes were
closed.

“Don't,” Cadwallon said, stopping her when
she would have gone to him. “Give him a few moments. It's not an
easy thing to kill a man who was once your friend.”

Captain William and his men were coming into
the hall, and Father Aymon was giving them instructions on the
disposition of Achard's body. Robert arrived to take Braedon's
sword from him and wipe the blade clean. When he gave it back,
Braedon sheathed the sword without having spoken a word to his
squire.

And then, at last, his eyes met Catherine's,
and the bleak sorrow she saw in him tore her out of Cadwallon's
restraining grasp and across the room to put her arms around her
love and hold him tight. She felt his arms around her, his cheek
pressed against her hair, and for the length of several heartbeats
she could not speak.

“Sir Braedon, you are wounded.” Aldis was
there, her hands full of clean bandages and jars of herbal potions
to cleanse and bind the sword cuts. “I do think we ought to
postpone our leaving until tomorrow.”

“We leave in one hour, as planned.” Braedon's
voice was ragged, but he seemed to have his emotions under control
as he set Catherine aside and returned to duty. “Captain William, I
want Phelan and Eustace chained before they leave their dungeon
cells. Not one word to either of them about what has happened here.
They still believe Achard left Wortham days ago. It may be to our
advantage to let them go on thinking that he is alive, and free.
Keep Achard's squire away from them.

“Robert, see that the baggage is loaded
promptly. Catherine, will you have the floor washed and the hall
restored to order before Phelan and Eustace are brought here?”

“I will see to it,” Aldis offered, handing
the bandages to Catherine. “You will want to bind Sir Braedon's
wounds.”

Braedon pulled off his tunic and sat at one
of the tables while Catherine worked on his various cuts. He
tolerated her ministrations, but she could tell his thoughts were
elsewhere.

“I am heartily sorry for what has happened,”
Cadwallon said, seating himself across the table from Braedon. “I
blame myself for believing Achard's promise that he would
behave.”

“The fault was his, not yours,” Braedon said
shortly. “Achard could have kept his word. He chose to break it.
How is the man-at-arms?”

“His hip is bruised where he fell on it,”
Cadwallon reported. “He'll be stiff and sore for a few days, but
there's no permanent harm done.”

“That's one reason to be glad,” Braedon
responded. “At least no one else died for Achard's lying promise. I
only wish it weren't necessary to kill Achard.”

“He would have killed you without regret,”
Catherine said.

“I hate killing.” Braedon's gaze still held a
bleakness that Catherine suspected would haunt him for a long
time.

“It's just too bad Achard didn't tell us
everything he knew about this nasty business before he died,”
Cadwallon said.

“He did reveal a few facts with his last
breaths,” Braedon said. His mouth grim, he pulled away from
Catherine's gentle hands and stood up. “Thank you, my lady. That is
quite enough. I have work to do.”

With his soiled tunic in hand Braedon strode
out of the hall, heading for the dungeon, where Captain William was
supervising the removal of the remaining two prisoners. He left
Catherine with a heart that ached in sympathy for his misery.

They left Wortham an hour later than Braedon
originally intended, but still with half the morning ahead for
travel. The prisoners rode surrounded by two dozen of Royce's best
men-at-arms, warriors skilled with weapons, cool in a crisis, and
completely faithful to their lord. Phelan could have no hope of
suborning the guards and, loaded down with chains as he and Eustace
were, they had no chance of escape.

All of which made Catherine wonder why Phelan
and Eustace did not protest their treatment. Eustace looked
unpleasantly sullen, but that was nothing unusual for him. It was
Phelan's tight-lipped, narrow-eyed silence that disturbed
Catherine. He looked neither to right nor to left, did as he was
told, and made no complaint.

“If I were you,” Catherine said to Braedon as
the first day of travel drew to a close, “I would put extra guards
on those two.”

“There are six men-at-arms responsible for
each of them,” Braedon responded, “and extra men as overall guards
for our company. If Royce's fighting men added to Desmond and
Cadwallon and me cannot deliver those two safely to Gloucester,
then an army could not.”

“I mistrust Phelan,” she said.

“I mistrust both of them. You needn't worry,
Catherine.”

“Why are you so cold toward me?” She expected
him to confess that he was still disturbed over the need to kill
Achard. In fact, she hoped that was what he would say, so she would
have an excuse to give way to her longing to comfort him, and to
remind him again that Achard's death could not have been avoided,
that it was a question of kill or be killed, and that Achard was a
criminal. What Braedon did say surprised her greatly.

“Unlike Achard, I am bound to keep my word
once it is given,” Braedon told her. “Before Royce left Wortham he
made me swear that I would not lie with you again.”

“He never told me that!” she cried.

“Why should he? We both noticed he had
something serious on his mind, and I am sure it had to do with more
than the activities of these men.” With one hand Braedon motioned
to indicate the prisoners. “There are pieces of Achard's plot that
I haven't learned yet, that only Royce knows. The least I could do
was relieve his mind of concern for you, so he would be free to
perform his duty to King Henry.” Sparing only a quick nod for
Catherine, Braedon pulled at the reins, slowing his horse in order
to drop back to speak with Cadwallon, who was riding near to
Phelan.

“I wonder,” Catherine said, frowning as she
thought over Braedon's last words.

“Wonder what?” asked Aldis.

“Why did my father choose to travel ahead of
us?” Catherine asked. “Why leave me with Braedon if he is so set
against Braedon and me being together? It makes no sense.” But it
did make sense when she realized that Royce was no doubt certain
Braedon would not break his word.

“Perhaps Lord Royce simply wanted to be alone
with Lady Edith,” Aldis suggested.

“No, not when he is working out a serious
problem,” Catherine objected to the notion. “Besides, he is
scarcely alone with her; not with all the servants and men-at-arms
who are attending them.”

“In that case, perhaps Lady Edith is merely a
cloak for some other activity he wants to pursue,” Aldis said.

“I do believe you have hit on the reason,
Aldis. But, what is it he's doing?”

“Gathering information,” said Aldis.

It was a definite possibility. Royce planned
to break his journey at several locations where he might meet with
fellow spies, to combine what they all knew of Achard's activities
into the report that Royce was to make to King Henry. The report
could be the subject that had been occupying his mind just before
he left Wortham.

On the first night of the journey the company
led by Braedon stopped at a manor house that Royce owned. They were
expected and the men-at-arms stationed at the manor guarded the
prisoners so all of the travelers could rest.

The second night was spent in the open
because there was no nearby dwelling available. The men-at-arms
built a large fire to keep predators away and posted sentries
around the camp. The men prepared to sleep on the ground rolled in
their cloaks, but a tent was erected for the women. After a simple
meal of bread, cheese and wine, Catherine, Aldis, and Gwendolyn
made themselves as comfortable as they could on pallets spread
inside the tent and settled down to sleep.

The moon had set when Catherine woke suddenly
to the sounds of shouts and a loud scream, as if someone was in
pain. Before she had time to gather her wits and sort out her
impressions of the noises so she could decide what was happening in
the darkness, rough hands fastened on her and she was dragged from
the tent. She kicked and scratched and yelled, and at one point in
the battle with her unseen assailant, she bit him. That earned her
a hard slap across the face.

One of her arms was wrenched behind her back
in a painful hold and she was pulled upright beside the blazing
campfire with the sharp point of a knife pressed against her
throat, forcing her to stay still or be stabbed. Her captor's foul
breath blew across her face and the smell of his unwashed body made
her want to retch. She required only a quick look around the
campsite to know that an attack from Phelan's men had been no false
fear on her part.

Phelan stood near the fire, a pleased grin on
his dirty face. Eustace was at his father's shoulder, swiping with
his still-chained wrists at the thin trickle of blood that ran down
his cheek.

“Strike off our chains,” Phelan commanded
loudly, holding out his hands. “Do it now, at once, Desmond, or
Catherine dies. We will leave you alive; we'll take the horses and
be gone from this place before that cowardly Braedon and the men
who fled with him can regain their courage and return.”

“No!” Catherine cried. Seeing Desmond
standing unnaturally still on the other side of the fire with his
sword in hand, she appealed to him. “Don't allow these traitors to
go free. You must know they won't let us live.”

“I do know it,” Desmond replied. “But if I
make a move against them, they have threatened to kill you right
now. I cannot let that happen.”

His reasoning made no sense to Catherine. She
was dead either way, and she was going to tell Desmond so, when
Phelan spoke.

“You locked these chains on us, and you
retain the key,” Phelan shouted at Desmond. “If you do not remove
my bonds, and my son's, too, and do it immediately, my men will
force you to watch while we rape and kill all of the women.”

As if to emphasize his threat, two of
Phelan's men dumped Aldis and Gwendolyn onto the ground near
Catherine in a flurry of limbs and skirts and, on Gwendolyn's part,
a string of enraged curses.

“Do you see how poorly you are protected?”
Eustace said to Catherine. “Except for cowardly Desmond, who let
himself be taken rather than fight, your guards have all run
away.”

“They wouldn't,” Catherine began with every
intention of defending Desmond's honor. She fell silent when
Desmond caught her eye. He was the only knight present. Three
men-at-arms from Wortham stood at his back but, well-armed though
they were, they could make no move because of Phelan's henchman,
who kept his knife at Catherine's throat, poised to kill her if any
man disobeyed his master. A ring of men wearing Phelan's colors
surrounded the fire.

The camp was oddly quiet. The only sounds
were the crackling of the campfire and the heavy breathing of the
man who held Catherine. Aldis got slowly to her feet. Gwendolyn
stood glaring at Phelan as if she was just waiting for a chance to
attack him with her bare hands.

“Our chains,” Phelan said to Desmond with
undisguised impatience. He lifted his arms, rattling the heavy
links. “I know you have the key.”

With an exaggerated sigh Desmond removed one
hand from his sword hilt and reached for the pouch at his belt. At
the same time, he stepped toward Phelan.

Catherine waited, certain that she was
correctly interpreting the look in Desmond's eyes and noting how
slowly the knight was moving. Braedon and the other men were out of
sight, but they had not run away and Phelan was an overconfident
fool to believe they had – or to think that Desmond was a coward
who would meekly bow to Phelan's bidding. Braedon had a scheme, a
plan that he had most likely worked out with Desmond and Cadwallon
well before the attack began. Braedon would return. He had rescued
Catherine twice before, and he would not fail her now.