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CHAPTER ONE

Wulfen Castle, England, June 1157

 

To the death.

 

Perspiration running into his eyes, the blood of a half dozen wounds seeping through the weave of his tunic, Christian Lavonne reminded himself of what was required to best his opponent.

 

Think death.

 

Drawing back his sword, he eyed the knight’s neck that glistened with the efforts of the past half hour.

 

Feel death.

 

Lunging forward, he shifted his grip on the hilt.

 

Breathe death.

 

Smelling his opponent’s bloodlust, he arced the blade toward the exposed flesh that would assure victory.

 

Embrace death.

 

Putting from him all he had been taught of mercy and forgiveness, he slashed the blade down. And met steel.

 

“Surely you can do better!” the knight spat.

 

Christian growled, swept his blade up off the other man’s, and swung again—only to yield up the blood of his forearm.

 

“Ho!” The knight grinned. “Do I unnerve you, Lavonne? Make your heart beat faster? Blood run colder?”

 

Christian knew it was anger the other man sought. And he would have it. Heart pounding as if upon the stoutest door, he swung again. Missed. Again! Missed. Again! And finally set his blade to the knight’s lower thigh. However, he was allowed but a moment’s satisfaction before his opponent leapt at him.

 

Christian jumped back from the thirsty blade and came up against the fence. If not that the thrust of his weight cracked the wood, the knight would have had what he sought—blood for blood.

 

With a shout, Christian plummeted backward and landed hard on the splintered rails.

 

“You are had, Lavonne.” His opponent settled the crimson tip of his blade to the great vein in Christian’s neck. “Beg for mercy.”

 

Throat raw with exertion, Christian flexed his hand on his sword hilt. “Never!”

 

Fire leapt in the man’s grey-green gaze and the stench of death rose to Christian’s nostrils, only to retreat on the knight’s great sigh.

 

“Well, then”—he turned his blade down, set its tip to the ground, and leaned on the hilt—“at least humor me with a recitation of the lesson that applies to the dire situation in which you find yourself.”

 

Grinding his teeth, Christian rolled to the side and gained his feet. “That would be lesson one.”

 

“One?” With a sweep of his forearm, the knight brushed back the damp brown hair that clung to his brow. “Pray, enlighten me as to how that applies to your sound defeat.”

 

Christian glared. “I do not refer to your lesson, Sir Abel, but mine—one in which I fear you are in need of instruction.”

 

A suspicious light entered the knight’s eyes. “Aye?”

 

“Address one’s better as befits their station.”

 

Sir Abel’s gaze narrowed, but just when it seemed the tension might once more see them at swords, he bowed low. “Most esteemed Baron Lavonne, pray honor this lowly knight by reciting the appropriate lesson.” He straightened. “I humbly await your good grace.”

 

Insufferable! And only a sharp reminder of the reason he was at Wulfen Castle made it possible for Christian to give the knight what he asked. “Lesson three, neglect not one’s back.”

 

“Correct. Of course, considering you were already dead, ‘tis hardly relevant.”

 

“I was dead? You were dead first.”

 

Sir Abel snorted. “You flatter yourself, Lavonne—er, Baron Lavonne.”

 

Christian looked from the bloodied and rent fabric behind which the knight’s heart beat to the torn fabric centered on his bowels. “Were we not merely practicing at swords, Sir Abel, twice I would have done more than score your flesh. Indeed, your very life would be forfeit.”

 

“Had you a sword arm.” The knight raised his blade and pointed at the bloodied tear in Christian’s sleeve.

 

“Which would have been entirely possible with a leg cut out from beneath you.” Christian jutted his chin at where the fabric was split above the knight’s knee.

 

And so they might continue until every crimson tear was accounted for, as they had done each day these past three.

 

Though when they had first faced one another on the training field a month ago and Sir Abel’s sword skill had made Christian’s appear woefully inadequate, Christian had improved greatly. Despite the knight’s disdain for his student, he was an excellent instructor and, given more time, it was possible Christian would attain a level of mastery similar to that enjoyed by his warrior-bred opponent who would soon be his unwilling brother-in-law. And that possibility had to be as surprising to Sir Abel as it was to Christian who had not only been born to the Church but had attained tonsure and monk’s robes before gaining an inheritance of which he had only ever dreamed. Unfortunately, the cost of the coveted inheritance had been the death of his older brother, something for which he had yet to forgive himself.

 

“The lesson is done.” Sir Abel thrust his sword into its scabbard and pivoted.

 

Christian glanced at the sun that had yet to touch the treetops of the distant wood. “Done?”

 

As if he did not hear the dissension in his student’s voice, Sir Abel continued toward the walls of Wulfen Castle.

 

“Methinks ‘tis I who unnerves you, Sir Abel!”

 

The knight swung around.

 

Christian almost smiled. “I who makes your heart beat faster, your blood run colder.”

 

“Flatter yourself if it so pleases you, Lavonne,” Sir Abel once more dropped Christian’s title. “As for me, I shall be content in knowing that, as long as mastery of the sword eludes you, I am in no danger of forfeiting my life.”

 

“Your blood tells otherwise.”

 

“Ha! Mere scratches.”

 

Why he felt impelled to argue with the insufferable man, Christian did not understand, especially as their mutual animosity had lessened considerably since his arrival at Wulfen. But before he could advance the argument, Sir Abel said, “Do you wish to know the reason you have yet to truly master the sword, Baron?” With half a dozen strides, he retraced his path across the parched grass and halted before Christian. “Regardless of how angered you become when we meet at swords, regardless of how many times I mark your flesh, you cannot wholly commit to the taking of life.”

 

A retort sprang to Christian’s lips, but he did not loose it, for what Sir Abel said was true. Though the knight took every opportunity to remind his student of what was required to defeat an opponent—to think, feel, breathe, and embrace death—and several times Christian had nearly succeeded in reaching such a place within himself, he could not fully accept that death should be the end result of all clashes between men. As for attaining that place while at practice, that was the most bewildering of all, for how could one truly seek another’s death without actually committing the act?

 

Sir Abel took another step toward him. “Thus, unless you wish me dead, you will never defeat me, Lavonne.”

 

Suppressing the urge to repay aggression with aggression, Christian said, “Need I remind you that we are not truly at battle?”

 

The knight shrugged. “Whether that is so or not, a warrior must believe that the only thing that stands between him and death is the taking of his opponent’s life. Even when merely at practice.”

 

Christian stared at the man who stood nearly as tall as he. “If what you say is so, it follows that few squires would attain the rank of knight, for all would lie dead.”

 

“Those who train at Wulfen—”

 

“—learn to control the moment between life and death. Aye, this you have told me many times.”

 

The knight’s face, flushed with the exertion of their contest, darkened further. “When you and I are at swords, all I think of is your death.”

 

“And when we are not at swords?”

 

When Sir Abel finally answered, the anger that had spat words from him was nearly wiped clean. “It is true I am opposed to my sister wedding you, and that your death would resolve the matter, but do I truly wish it? Nay, Baron Lavonne”—titled again—“outside of practice, I do not wish you dead.”

 

Not for the first time amazed at how quickly the knight cooled his emotions, Christian drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm his own roiling. “I shall take comfort in that.”

 

Sir Abel started to turn away, but halted. “Heed me well. Though you have much improved since your arrival, when next you face a true enemy—and you shall—you must wish his death. Can you do that?”

 

Though Christian had taken lives in battle following the attainment of his title, he had never done so with a desire to see an opponent dead. It was not bloodlust that drove him, but the mere—and potent—need to survive. And survive he had barely done.

 

“If you cannot, you will make a widow of my sister. Now tell me, can you or can you not do it?”

 

It was not the first time the knight had issued the challenge, and would not be the first time Christian was unable to offer reassurance.

 

Sir Abel broke the silence. “Born to the Church you may have been, but it is no longer who you are. Indeed, as evidenced by your refusal to bow your head at prayer or enter the chapel, it is obvious you have given God your back.”

 

His words jolted, not only because they were so near the truth, but that Christian’s absence from mass and his inability to show proper respect at the blessing of meals had not gone unnoticed—and by this seemingly ungodly man who told that a knight must seek death to prevail.

 

“Do not make God your reason for not doing what is required of you, Baron Lavonne. If you cannot protect my sister, your people, and your lands, that title for which you demand respect will be lost.” Sir Abel swung away.

 

Feeling every beaten ridge and furrow of his sword hilt, Christian watched him disappear around the castle’s northern wall.

 

As much as he would have liked to deny it, it was good he had peeled back his pride and accepted the invitation to train at Wulfen Castle. If it was necessary to seek another’s death to prevail, he might eventually fail, but with the skills acquired beneath Sir Abel’s grudging instruction, there was less chance than before. He would protect his people and lands, as well as the woman with whom King Henry had commanded him to speak vows—Gaenor Wulfrith who had fled with her sister nearly five months past to escape marriage to a Lavonne.

 

Easing his grip on the sword, Christian scanned the walls of Wulfen Castle that had been the Wulfrith sisters’ destination all those months ago. Though it was believed that Lady Gaenor had made it here to her family’s stronghold, a castle exclusive to men and dedicated to the training of boys into knights, her younger sister had not. While being pursued by the king’s and Christian’s men, Beatrix Wulfrith had met with ill. Thus, if not for Christian’s physician, a man with a powerful reason to hate her, she would be dead. Instead, a fortnight hence she would wed Michael D’Arci, the man who had saved her life. And at that wedding, Christian would finally meet Lady Gaenor who was told to bear little resemblance to her petite and comely sister.

 

Christian grimaced. Not that he cared what the woman looked like. Rather, he resented being made to wait so long to meet her. Though he had thought he might encounter her during his training here, it seemed she had been removed to one of the family’s lesser castles. As for talk of her having been present here, a woman among so many men, there was none—as if she had never come. And perhaps she had not, though it seemed the surest place to secrete her.

 

He eyed the men-at-arms visible between the battlements of the stronghold, then the immense donjon that rose at the center of the enclosure. Ominous. No surprise that King Henry had not brought an army against his vassal to sooner bring about the alliance required of the warring Wulfriths and Lavonnes. Indeed, if not for the bargain Christian had struck with the oldest brother, the Wulfriths might yet defy the king’s edict. But Christian had delivered what he had promised and, providing the Wulfriths delivered what they had promised, soon he would wed.

 

Resolved to meeting his betrothed at her sister’s wedding in July, Christian wiped his blade on the hem of his tunic and returned his sword to its scabbard.

 

Only a fortnight longer, he reminded himself, and the darkness of these past years would begin to recede. Except for that cast by his father, of course—the aged and ailing Aldous Lavonne who vowed he would not seek his grave until the death of his beloved son, Geoffrey, was avenged. Geoffrey, whose passing had made Christian heir to all of Abingdale.

 

Once more stabbed with guilt, Christian set off toward the castle with a heavy tread intended to grind all thoughts of his brother underfoot. It worked. For a while.

 

# # #

“Accursed cur!”

 

Everard looked over his shoulder at his younger brother whose arrival on the training field was evident well in advance of his appearance. Noting the numerous rips in Abel’s clothing, Everard attempted to suppress the smile begging at his mouth.

 

Abel ground to a halt. “You think it funny?”

 

Trying to gain control of the larger smile that sought to crack his face wide, Everard turned back to the squires who had paused in their hand-to-hand combat to await further instruction.

 

He nodded for them to continue and returned his attention to Abel. “I do think it funny, little brother. Though, in the interest of brotherhood, I would prefer that I not win our wager, it seems I have done so yet again.” He tracked his gaze down Abel, tallying the number of times Christian Lavonne had found his mark. “At least a dozen strikes, and your instruction lasted half as long as it should have.” He held out a hand. “I have won.”

 

Abel glared at his outstretched palm. “Ill gotten gain,” he grumbled, then dug into the purse on his belt and slapped two pieces of silver in his brother’s palm.

 

“’Twas your wager.” Everard rubbed the coins together. “I but accepted, and reluctantly, if you recall.”

 

“Reluctant as a groom on his wedding night,” Abel scorned.

 

Though Everard was not one to make free with his emotions, he nearly laughed, for it was true he liked to wager, especially this brother who was determined to best him at every turn. Indeed, any moment now—

 

“A new wager!” Abel propped his hands on his hips.

 

“Methinks you ought to sleep off this one ere wagering more coin you can ill afford to lose.”

 

Abel gave his purse a shake. Satisfied with the jangle, he said, “On the morrow, Lavonne will land less than a dozen marks.”

 

“A mere dozen when this day he proved capable of such—and in half the time?” Everard shook his head. “A fool’s wager to make against a man who is progressing as well as he.”

 

Abel considered him, considered him some more, then blew a breath up his face that caused the dark hair on his brow to lift. “Aye, a fool’s wager. The knave has improved far better than expected. If he but set his mind to the taking of life, he might prove quite dangerous.”

 

Abel and his talk of death! If not that Everard shaved his head, he might drag a handful of hair from his scalp. “You know Garr does not approve of such means, Abel.”

 

“Godly Garr whose knees are surely worn out from the amount of time spent kneeling at prayer.” Abel glanced heavenward. “Not that I do not believe in showing the respect due God. It just seems unproductive to expend so much time conferring with the Lord who is more inclined to listen than respond.”

 

Everard narrowed his lids. “You think?”

 

“No more than you.” Abel looked pointedly at the knees of Everard’s breeches, the material of which was far from worn.

 

“I suppose I should be grateful you do not seem to mind the manner in which I train those given into my charge—at least, the end result.”

 

Though Everard longed to deny it as he knew Garr would have him do, he could not, for there was a fierceness about the squires trained by Abel—one that made it difficult for other squires to best them. But never would Everard admit it.

 

Knowing it best to leave the subject be, he returned to the matter of the man whom the king was determined to make their brother-in-law. “What word would you have me send to Garr?” he asked for the dozenth time since Lavonne’s acceptance of the invitation to better his sword skill—a self-serving invitation to allow the Wulfriths to more closely observe the baron and determine whether or not to defy the king’s order to hand over Gaenor.

 

“Send word that, with much loathing, I concur that Christian Lavonne does not appear to be the same as his father or brother.”

 

It was as Everard had concluded from his own observations this past month. “You are surprised?”

 

Abel shrugged. “As you know, I was present when Baron Lavonne came to Beatrix’s aid.”

 

Mention of the attempt on the life of their youngest sister caused Everard’s insides to coil. Though it was true he had not been present, charged as he was with overseeing the training at Wulfen Castle since Garr had wed four years past, he knew what had transpired.

 

The worst of it was that Christian Lavonne’s illegitimate brother, Sir Robert, had done their father’s bidding to work revenge on a Wulfrith. If not for the dagger Christian had thrown with surprising skill, Beatrix would be dead. Instead, it was Sir Robert who had fallen. But just as Christian could not seek death now, neither could he then. Thus, the wounded Sir Robert languished in a London prison and would, hopefully, remain there until the end of his days.

 

The only pity of it was that Christian’s father, Aldous Lavonne, was too infirm to suffer the same punishment. For that, Everard and his family feared for Gaenor. The old man might be confined to bed, but when their sister went to live at Broehne Castle as Christian’s wife, Aldous would surely take every opportunity to work ill on her. Meaning something would have to be done about the old man. Given a say in the matter, Everard would have him removed to one of the barony’s lesser castles.

 

“It seems Gaenor is to wed,” Abel spoke across his brother’s thoughts.

 

Everard slid a hand over his shaved pate. “At least her groom is better able to defend himself at swords.”

 

“Well enough, I suppose. Of course, if there was some way to make him forget all that was poured into that monk’s head of his, he might do better than merely defend himself.”

 

Everard clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Then it is good, little brother, that you have a fortnight in which to remedy what ails your student.” Providing that Lavonne remained at Wulfen until the journey to Stern Castle to meet Gaenor at Beatrix’s wedding.

 

Lids narrowing, teeth baring, Abel said, “A month I have given him that should have been used for the betterment of my squires. I am done. If he requires further training, it falls to you.”

 

Though Abel surely expected an argument—indeed, was looking for one—Everard had already decided to relieve him of the task. “As you would have it.” He strode toward the squires whose hand-to-hand combat had progressed to the far side of the enclosure, his brother’s surprised silence following him.

 

“Everard!” Abel shouted.

 

Everard looked around.

 

“You”—Abel jabbed a finger in his direction—“are worse than Garr.”

 

“Aye. Anything else?”

 

Abel pivoted, causing a cloud of dust to rise in his wake.

 

Everard allowed himself a grunt of laughter, then glanced at the donjon visible above the castle walls. Wondering if today’s contest between Abel and Baron Lavonne had boasted an audience beyond those who patrolled the castle walls, he returned to his squires.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

He should not be here—should not have allowed Sir Abel to provoke him to do something for which he was not ready. But he had come and had only to step within to renew a relationship he had allowed to sour upon attaining the title of Baron of Abingdale four years past.

 

As the priest intoned the morning mass to the gathered knights, squires, pages, and men-at-arms, Christian considered the chapel’s threshold and wished he could be like those within who had likely given little thought to crossing it.

 

He was not like them. He had been nearer God in the long, cool hours of monastery life—grudgingly, it was true, but he had found a measure of fulfillment in serving the Lord despite his resentment and yearning to be a warrior and lord the same as his brother, Geoffrey. However, he did not want to think there, for there lay the sin and shame that had caused him to give God his back as Abel Wulfrith had so coarsely put it on the day past.

 

Remembrance of their exchange made Christian’s pride recoil at giving the man the satisfaction of knowing his words had found their mark, and he nearly turned away. Setting his jaw, he stepped inside.

 

As the entrance was at the rear of the chapel, only a few of those nearest looked around. Curiosity flashed in the young men’s eyes, as it did when Christian appeared at supper, which was usually the only time he came amongst them. Certain they wagered over his identity and the reason one of obvious rank and nobility had come to Wulfen Castle, a stronghold devoted to training boys and young men, Christian eyed the back rows.

 

Left and right of the aisle, the squires and pages stood shoulder to shoulder, not a gap between them, meaning he would have to traverse the aisle to find a place. And likely draw the attention of the Wulfriths who were at the fore of the chapel. Reasoning that one need not number among the many to join in the mass, he chose the back wall that stood in shadow.

 

Though, over the next half hour, a few of the priest’s words slipped through the cracks of Christian’s barricaded soul, most went left and right of him. As tempted as he was to return belowstairs where a simple meal would be set out for breaking fast prior to the commencement of pre-dawn training, he forced himself to remain.

 

When the priest finally blessed those present and their endeavors, it took all of Christian’s will to not be the first to exit the chapel. During that struggle, he acknowledged what was happening—that he was under attack by the enemy who did not wish him here, who was content for him to remain outside of God’s will, who preferred the back turned to God over the face Christian sought to lift that he might once more find favor with the Lord. The enemy could not be more displeased with what Abel Wulfrith’s taunting had wrought.

 

Christian watched the others file out of the chapel from front to back and was grateful when neither of the Wulfrith brothers picked him from the shadows.

 

It did not take long for the chapel to empty, but even when the last of the squires had crossed the threshold, Christian remained unmoving. He watched the priest extinguish half the candles on the altar, then two of the three torches set in wall sconces.

 

Smoothing pudgy hands down his robes, the priest turned toward the door and, halfway across the chapel, paused. As if sensing Christian’s presence, he peered into the shadows, only to chuckle, shrug, and hasten forward. A moment later, he pulled the door closed behind him. The man’s lack of regard for his suspicions would have angered Christian if not that he would likely have done the same when his lot had been to pray, rather than fight.

 

All was different now. As he had learned these past years, if he was to protect his people and lands, he could not ignore such warnings. He must always be prepared for the blade at his back. Or another’s back, for which he had been prepared when his illegitimate half brother sought to slay Beatrix Wulfrith—Beatrix, whose death would have imperiled the cessation of hostilities between the Lavonnes and Wulfriths. Despite Christian’s intervention, until the Wulfriths entrusted their oldest sister to him, he could not be assured of reconciling with that family whose people had suffered much at the hands of his brothers and father.

 

“’Twill be done soon,” Christian murmured and settled his gaze on the altar. Prominently displayed there, despite the simplicity of the material from which it was fashioned, was a crucifix—a reminder of the one to whom he had turned when he was a man of God. More, a reminder of the one he had forsaken.

 

Was there a way to cross back to the other side of the divide he had placed between himself and God? Though a part of him longed to return to the relationship that, as a youth, he had forged out of adversity, the other part urged him to stay his course. Or was it the enemy?

 

Regardless, it was less burdensome to rely on one’s self rather than wait on the Lord who was not always forthcoming—and when He was forthcoming, did not always provide the answer one wished. Of course, had not God cruelly proved that only He knew what was best for those who followed Him? Was Geoffrey’s death not evidence enough?

 

Despite all of Christian’s arguments against what he knew must be done to ensure that the life he made with his wife and children would be blessed, he bowed his head. “I yield, Lord. Take me back.” And he would have walked the aisle and prostrated himself before the altar had the door not creaked open.

 

Closing his hand around his sword hilt, he peered out of the shadows at the figure in the doorway.

Seemingly as hesitant as he had been to cross the threshold, the hooded man finally stepped inside and closed the door.

 

Wondering if he should reveal himself or wait to determine the reason the intruder sought the chapel in the absence of those who had begun their day’s training, Christian flexed his hand on his sword.

Something was afoot, he determined as the tall man advanced on the altar. However, he was far from prepared when the hood was lowered to reveal a fall of dark blonde hair. Not a man, but a woman at Wulfen where women were forbidden. All except one who should no longer be here.

 

# # #

 

Gaenor Wulfrith stared at the cloth-covered altar. As it was always difficult to humble herself before the Lord, she imagined Jesus stretched on the crucifix before her.

 

Once more wrenched by His sacrifice that was said to forgive her of her sins, she lowered to her knees and bowed her head. Dutifully, she prayed for England, her family, her people, and those in need and hurting. Lastly, and with great apology, she prayed for herself—she whose prayers God seemed loath to answer.

 

She opened her eyes and considered the hands she clasped so tightly that the knuckles shone white. “I do not know why I even talk to You,” she whispered and lifted her gaze to the crucifix.

 

Months past, when it was believed her sister, Beatrix, had given her life that Gaenor might escape marriage to a Lavonne, Gaenor had refused to attend mass. Not until she learned her sister had survived had she returned to God, and only then to bargain with Him.

 

Beatrix, accused of murdering a knight, had once more faced death, and Gaenor had promised the Lord that if he delivered her sister free, she would return to Him. He had answered her prayer and, now absolved of the crime, Beatrix would wed the man she loved—unlike Gaenor who was tempted to fall away from the Lord now that she once more faced marriage to her family’s enemy. And revelation of her sin.

 

She shuddered. With each passing day that drew her nearer Beatrix’s wedding where she would meet her betrothed, the temptation to abandon God grew stronger, for it did not seem likely He would intervene.

 

Christian Lavonne had saved her sister—surely by trickery—and gained her family’s gratitude. Despite Gaenor’s protests, it was doubtful they would make any further attempt to keep her from wedding the baron. The Wulfriths would have their peace and she would suffer her husband’s abuses. Abuses he would surely justify once he discovered…

 

“Answer one more prayer, Lord, this one for me. Deliver me from this marriage. Preserve me for a man of integrity and honor, a man unlike the brother of that beast, Geoffrey Lavonne.” Beseechingly, she touched the base of the crucifix. “You know who I would have. You know where my heart lies, though his does not lie with me. Pray, grant me this.”

 

Christian stared at the woman’s back. Her softly spoken prayer having reached him in the great silence of the chapel, he curled his hands into fists. He knew she did not want him and might even hate him, but he had not considered that another might have claimed her heart—a man for whom she would yearn when she spoke vows with Christian, when he came to her, when she closed her eyes to imagine it was he who touched her.

 

For some reason, the ache went deep, and he rebuked himself, for he had no cause for jealousy when all he sought from their union was peace between their families.

 

Gaenor Wulfrith rose and swept around, affording him his first glimpse of a face that was told to be as distant from her sister’s as the dark of night was from the light of day. And it was, though not as expected. She did not possess Beatrix’s fragile beauty, but neither was she uncomely as he had been told. Dark blonde hair fell in waves about her warmly complected face to frame heavily-lashed eyes, a well-shaped nose, compressed lips that looked as if they knew no tilt or bow, and a firm chin. Severe, but possibly pretty.

 

As she neared, he looked closer. However, draped as she was in a long mantle, it was impossible to determine if she possessed a pleasing figure. Overly slender, he guessed, likely little to distinguish her from a tall boy. Not that her figure was of import beyond her ability to bear children. Providing she was not narrow-hipped, which would making birthing difficult or even impossible, she ought to bear him many children.

 

He uncurled the fists he had made of his hands. Peace and children. That was all he required of Gaenor Wulfrith and, regardless of where her heart lay, he would have them.

 

She gripped the door handle and lowered her chin. Though the fall of her hair denied him her face, he sensed she wept, and a pang went through him that he did not wish to feel. In the next instant, she swung around. The eyes she narrowed on the altar were bright, but her face was dry.

 

“Regardless of Your answer,” she said, “I shall endure.” She wrenched open the door, paused, and frowned over her shoulder.

 

Christian tensed as she delved the shadows in which he stood. He had made no sound, but it was as if she felt him the same as the priest had done. However, also as the priest had done, she ignored her

senses.

 

When the door closed behind her, he considered the altar before which he had thought to prostrate himself prior to Gaenor Wulfrith’s appearance. He had asked the Lord to take him back, but now he found he was not ready. One day he would return to his faith, but this day he would aspire to seek another’s death. And considering the great roiling within, perhaps this time he would succeed.

 

# # #

 

“What is this?” Christian looked from the heavily-stocked cellar before him to the knight at his side.

 

“Your new training field,” the second-born Wulfrith said.

 

Struggling toward patience, Christian said, “You will have to explain yourself, Sir Everard.”

 

Candlelight and shadow warring on the canvas of the knight’s austere face and shaved head, he said, “As Abel has done all he can do for you, ‘tis for me to impart the last of your training.”

 

“In a cellar?”

 

“There is no better place. Here you shall learn how to engage an opponent without benefit of light and open spaces, how to negotiate unseen obstacles, how to pick sounds from the silence, and how to discern the voice within that will one day save your life.”

 

It seemed a child’s game of hiding and seeking, but thus far Christian had not been subjected to any attempt to humiliate him as he had expected upon his arrival at Wulfen.

 

He inclined his head. “Proceed, Sir Everard.”

 

The knight set the tallow candle atop a barrel alongside the stairs, snuffed the wick, and spoke out of the darkness, “Make ready, Baron Lavonne.”

 

Christian stood unmoving and, when he finally stepped away from the stairs, felt a rush of air as if a sword swept past.

 

“No hesitation,” Sir Everard growled. “Make ready!”

 

It had been a sword. Grateful for the chain mail the knight had insisted he don, though Sir Everard had not done so himself, Christian drew his sword from its scabbard and jumped back to avoid the next swing. Twice more he was forced to retreat before he set his own sword in motion.

 

“Listen for me!” Sir Everard instructed.

 

As Christian strained to catch the sound of movement, he heard a footfall. In anticipation of the next blow, he swung his sword up. And steel met steel between them, causing sparks to fly.

 

“Better!” Sir Everard grunted. “Now again.”

 

Their blades crossed, but this time Sir Everard’s found the rim of Christian’s ear.

 

“Hit!” the man declared.

 

Anger spurting in concert with the blood the knight gained off him, Christian swung again and encountered empty space.

 

“Seek me, Baron!”

 

Christian snapped his head to the left whence the voice issued. It was hiding and seeking, but no child’s game. If not for the chain mail, he might emerge from the cellar mortally wounded. Of course, the mail was also a hindrance, as its shifting links kept the knight apprised of his opponent’s whereabouts, an advantage Christian did not share. Though tempted to throw off the mail, he held. And listened.

 

There—a sound to the right. Either Sir Everard had crossed the cellar, a rodent scuffled amid the barrels of wine and sacks of grain, or the knight had tossed something to cause Christian to turn in the opposite direction.

 

Disgusted with his inaction, Christian stepped to the left, and the toe of his boot connected with something solid and unmoving. He reached with his free hand and discovered a wall of stacked barrels. Though his ire stirred, he continued to listen as he felt his hand across them in search of a path that would lead him toward Sir Everard. When the wall ended and a sweep of his hand confirmed emptiness, he stepped forward.

 

Silently berating the iron links that rang softly as he moved, he strained to hear Sir Everard and caught a faint sound. Was it in response to his own movement?

 

He smiled at the realization he was something of a walking trap. Despite the disadvantage of alerting his opponent to his movements, the mail forced a response from Sir Everard. Whether he was retreating or merely readying for their skirmish, it could not be known.

 

Again, Christian faced a wall of barrels, but he quickly found a way around it. When the soft scuffling came from the far right, he paused, determined it must be a rodent, and resumed his search to the left. An instant later, the air stirred before his face.

 

He swept his sword up and was forced back when his blade met Sir Everard’s.

 

“Listen for my breath, Baron!” The knight pushed off and swung again.

 

Christian knocked aside the blow intended for his shoulder, causing Sir Everard to grunt.

 

“Smell the sweat of my body!”

 

Christian did smell it. Or was it his own?

 

“Look for the lighter shadows amid the darker!”

 

More sparks as their blades clashed overhead.

 

“Turn your senses toward me, toward danger, toward death.” Sir Everard dragged his blade off

Christian’s and once more slipped away.

 

The game went on for what seemed hours, during which Sir Everard drew blood from a half dozen places unprotected by Christian’s mail and Christian had the satisfaction of also finding his mark, though only a few times and after much expenditure of effort and frustration.

 

When Sir Everard finally pounded up the stairs and threw open the door, flooding the darkness with light, Christian wanted nothing more than to seek the cool stream in the wood beyond the castle.

Though, physically, the training had not been strenuous, the straining of his mind for things beyond his sight made him feel raw.

 

“We shall try again on the morrow,” Sir Everard said.

 

Christian squinted up at the knight. “That is it? No lessons you would have me recite?” As Abel would surely have required.

 

“I but offer advice.”

 

Christian wiped a hand across his moist brow. “That is?”

 

“When you take my sister to wife, Baron Lavonne, you would do well to proceed as cautiously with her as you did with your sword amid the dark of this cellar.”

 

Christian was surprised, for previous to this day, no word had passed between them regarding Gaenor Wulfrith. Of course, most of his time had been spent with the youngest brother, but Abel had also avoided talk of his sister.

 

Wondering if either brother knew to whom she had given her heart, Christian asked, “And what other advice would you offer regarding Lady Gaenor?”

 

The knight arched an eyebrow. “None that comes upon me at the moment.”

 

Disappointed to have gained no further insight into the unwilling woman he was to wed, Christian said, “I thank you.”

 

The knight disappeared down the corridor.

 

As Christian followed, Sir Everard’s advice rolled through him. “Proceed cautiously,” he murmured while mounting the stairs.

 

Though he had told himself that peace and children were all he required of his wife, he knew more was needed if he and Gaenor Wulfrith were to make a life out of the darkness of the past. He must be patient, must not allow her love for another to stand as a wall between them, must find a way to draw her to his side. But how to proceed when all he knew of her was her hatred for his family and her love for another man?

 

Christian paused in the doorway. Might she return to the chapel on the morrow?