USA Today Bestselling Author of Medieval Romance

CHAPTER ONE​

 

Stern Castle, England, February 1157

 

By trickery they were had.

 

Beatrix looked from her mother who gripped the missive with trembling hands to her sister who stared at the king’s man with trembling mouth.

 

“Surely there is some mistake,” Beatrix’s mother protested.

 

The king’s man widened his stance, causing the dog sniffing at his boots to sidle away. “No mistake, Lady Isobel. We are to escort one of your daughters to Broehne Castle upon the barony of Abingdale where she will wed Baron Lavonne.”

 

Past a throat so constricted it hurt, Beatrix dragged a sustaining breath. She knew what this was—King Henry’s attempt to end the feuding between the Wulfriths and the Lavonnes. And she knew why. Though the two families had once been allies, the relationship had become strained following the accident that forced the old baron to pass his title and lands into the hands of his inept eldest son, Geoffrey. When Beatrix’s oldest brother had defiantly wed Lady Annyn Bretanne, whose betrothal the future King Henry had given to Geoffrey, it had gone from bad to worse. And worse yet when Geoffrey’s assault on Annyn resulted in the loss of his own life. Thus, for the past three years, the Wulfrith lands had been plagued with raids and pillagings devised by Geoffrey’s embittered father and younger brother as retribution for what they deemed an unjust death. And this was the solution—that the Wulfriths yield up a sister in place of Annyn. How King Henry must gloat to thus repay Garr Wulfrith for his defiance!

 

The king’s man cleared his throat. “’Tis for you to determine which of your daughters will join with

Christian Lavonne, my lady.” He glanced at Gaenor, dismissed her with a lift of his eyebrows, and settled an appreciative smile on Beatrix.

 

She curled her hands into fists at his blatant disregard for Gaenor’s feelings.

 

“My youngest has chosen the Church,” Lady Isobel said, stepping to the edge of the dais.

 

The man inclined his head. “Aye, but she has yet to make her profession.”

 

Though Beatrix felt her mother’s disquiet deepen, Lady Isobel’s voice was deceptively level when next she spoke. “It is decided.”

 

After a long moment, the man sighed and once more looked to the oldest of the sisters. “Then ‘tis Lady Gaenor we shall have the privilege of escorting to Broehne Castle.”

 

Guilt flushed Beatrix. True, eldest daughters usually wed first, but she ached for Gaenor who had no say in whether or not she was the sacrifice King Henry demanded of the Wulfriths. And what a sacrifice!

 

Beatrix’s anger deepened at the thought of what Gaenor would endure wed to Geoffrey Lavonne’s brother, a man surely as cruel and vindictive as his infirm father.

 

“We shall avail ourselves of your hospitality this eve,” the king’s man said, “and depart at first light.”

 

Beatrix could stand it no longer. With a snap of her skirts, she stepped from the dais. “’Twas planned! King Henry summoned my brother to London that our sister might be stolen away and wed to that…miscreant!”

 

“Beatrix!” her mother hissed.

 

Years ago, Beatrix would have heeded her—indeed, would not so much as thought to challenge a man—but that was before Lady Annyn won Garr’s heart. Since, Beatrix had learned by her sister-in-law’s example that women did, indeed, have the right to question wrong.

 

Imagining what Annyn would do if not that she was laid abed abovestairs, Beatrix halted before the king’s man. Too late realizing she should have remained on the dais that had placed her nearer his height, she strained her neck to look up at him. “Is it not true that King Henry planned this, Sir Knight?”

 

He narrowed his lids, causing the torchlight reflected in his eyes to dim. “I cannot speak to the king’s intentions, my lady. I but carry out his orders, and this order is that I deliver one of Baron Wulfrith’s sisters to Baron Lavonne for the purpose of marriage.”

 

Beatrix looked to the man’s entourage. It was comprised of a dozen men, half of whom were said to belong to Christian Lavonne. As with each time she turned her eyes in their direction, her attention was drawn to a young, fair-haired knight whose gaze bore into hers with unsettling intensity. Though he was pleasing of face, something dark dwelt in his pale eyes.

 

“We shall require food and drink,” the king’s man said, “and pallets upon which to pass the eve in your hall.”

 

Lady Isobel nodded. “Of course.”

 

Beatrix swung around. “But, Mother, surely you will not allow—”

 

“Enough, Daughter! Our guests require hospitality, and we shall accord it as your brother would have us do.”

 

Beatrix drew a deep breath. “As you say.” She looked to Gaenor who had fixed her gaze on the rushes strewn before the dais. Feeling her sister’s churning and seeing it in the hands she balled in her skirts, Beatrix stepped toward her.

 

“While I see to our guests’ needs,” Lady Isobel said, “accompany your sister abovestairs and assist with her packing.”

 

Beatrix would have protested again, but the glimmer in her mother’s eyes told that she had a plan. King Henry would soon learn it was no easy feat to steal a daughter from this woman, even though it was by marriage only that she laid claim to the Wulfrith name.

 

Beatrix ascended the dais and laid a hand on her sister’s arm. “Come. There is much to do ere morn.”

 

Gaenor allowed herself to be guided across the hall that, if not for the arrival of the king’s men, would now be settled by the castle folk who made their beds here.

 

As the sisters neared the stairs, Beatrix peered over her shoulder at where her mother directed the servants to erect the trestle tables that had been put away following the evening meal. Praying Lady Isobel’s plan did not run aground, Beatrix started to look forward. As she did so, her eyes once more met those of the fair-haired knight.

 

He smiled—if that crooked, leering twist of the lips could be called such.

 

So affected was Beatrix by what it told of his impure thoughts that she stumbled on the first stair. If not for her grip on her sister’s arm, she would have dropped to her knees. However, Gaenor seemed too deep inside her thoughts to notice the few moments she supported her sister’s weight.

 

Once out of sight of the hall, Beatrix stepped in front of Gaenor. “Do not fear—”

 

“Do not?” Gaenor stood taller and thrust her shoulders back. “‘Tis easily said by one who has naught to fear herself. Look at you—you who are of pleasing face and height and form, you who would be better wed to a man than I. And yet, never will you be chained to a man’s whim. Nor his cruelty.”

 

Beatrix was acquainted with Gaenor’s feelings about her ungainly height, which had caused several suitors to look elsewhere, but never had she shown such resentment. But then, never had she been forced into marriage with a Lavonne.

 

Beatrix gently squeezed her sister’s arm. “Do not despair. Mother and Annyn will know what to do.”

Though Gaenor tensed further as if she might reject the attempt to console her, a moment later her shoulders eased. “Let us pray so.”

 

Aye, pray—at which Beatrix had become proficient these past years since the commencement of her training for the Church. When the abbey that her brother raised five leagues from Stern Castle was complete a year hence, she would go there. And perhaps one day she would be named its abbess as was her mother’s desire.

 

If I am worthy.

 

Beatrix leaned forward and touched her forehead to her sister’s, possible only because Gaenor stood a step down. “We ought to visit the chapel.”

 

Gaenor’s lids narrowed and mouth tightened, evidencing how ill at ease with Church and God she was, but she nodded. “Mother would approve.”

 

Most highly. In fact, if they lingered long enough, Lady Isobel would surely join them there. Yearning to place Gaenor’s troubles at the Lord’s feet, Beatrix entwined her fingers with her sister’s and drew her up the stairs. They entered the candle-lit chapel, traversed the aisle, and knelt side by side before the altar.

 

Dear Lord, Beatrix beseeched behind steepled hands, deliver Gaenor from King Henry’s plotting and Baron Lavonne’s hatred. She glanced at her sister who stared sightlessly at the altar. Use me as You will.

 

# # #

 

“Sir Durand and Sir Ewen await you in the wood at the barren rock,” Lady Isobel said as she drew the mantle’s hood over Gaenor’s head. “Stay low as you cross the meadow lest the king’s men have set a watch.”

 

Gaenor nodded and Isobel looked to her younger daughter who had already pulled her hood over her head to ward off the chill of night that painted their breath upon the air. Though Isobel had argued against Beatrix accompanying her sister to Wulfen Castle where Isobel’s second son would shelter her until Garr received word of the king’s plans, Beatrix had insisted and Gaenor had pleaded. In the end, Garr’s wife, Annyn, had convinced Isobel it was best that Beatrix also flee lest the king’s man attempt to deliver her to Christian Lavonne instead. As for Isobel, she would remain at Stern Castle with Annyn who had recently delivered her second child and was slow to recover from birthing so large a son. God willing, the king’s men would not dare lay hands on either of them.

 

“We should go,” Beatrix urged, her teeth beginning to chatter.

 

Lady Isobel stretched to her toes and kissed her oldest daughter’s cheek. “Godspeed, my dove,” she whispered and turned to Beatrix. However, her youngest child had already stepped through the hidden doorway set in the castle’s outer wall.

 

As Isobel watched her daughters merge with the dark night, all she could think was that she should have called Beatrix back, that she should have pressed her lips to the impetuous one’s cheek, that she should have wished her “Godspeed.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

“We have paused long enough.” Sir Durand rose from the log he had rolled to the stream’s bank and offered a hand to his charge.

 

Shielding her eyes against the brilliance of the newly risen sun, Beatrix tilted her head back. As with each time she looked near upon the knight, she regretted the admiration with which he regarded her. Convent-bound though she was, she was not so unlearned in the ways of men and women to be ignorant of his feelings for her, but she knew it was best not to acknowledge them. After all, the only bridal garments she would ever wear were those reserved for a bride of Christ. Which was just as she wished it.

 

“My lady?”

 

She placed her gloved fingers in Sir Durand’s and let him draw her to her feet. When he was slow to release her, she pulled free and eased back a step.

 

Sir Ewen snorted.

 

Beatrix looked to the mounted knight who grinned as if he enjoyed Sir Durand’s fascination with their lord’s sister. Mounted beside him was Gaenor, the soft smile hanging about her own mouth transforming her features. Though tall for a woman and somewhat plain of face, she had but to turn up her lips and call her dimples into being to become what she declared she could never be—lovely. Unfortunately, smiling was something she mostly reserved for their three-year-old niece and newborn nephew.

 

“Mount up,” Sir Ewen called.

 

Pulling her mantle close to ease the chill that seemed to have settled into her bones throughout the night-long ride, Beatrix stepped to where Sir Durand had taken the reins of her brown palfrey. Once more, he touched her hand to assist her into the saddle, and once more Sir Ewen snorted.

 

Beatrix scowled. “Have you something lodged in your nose, Sir Ewen?”

 

“Nay, but I believe my friend has something lodged in his eye.”

 

His heart? She looked to Sir Durand and gained a glimpse of the high color that swept his face before he pivoted, strode to his mount, and swung into the saddle.

 

Feeling for him, Beatrix narrowed her gaze on Sir Ewen. “Do you wish to lead, or shall I?”

 

He jerked his chin toward the other knight. “Methinks Sir Durand has already determined to do so himself.”

 

True enough, the humiliated knight had set off ahead of Gaenor.

 

With Sir Durand in the lead, Sir Ewen bringing up the rear, and Gaenor and Beatrix in between, they began the second half of the journey that would see them at Wulfen Castle before nightfall.

 

To counter the chill buffeting her face and wending the weave of her clothing, Beatrix bent low over her horse, huffed warm breath up her face and down her chest, and silently urged the sun to more quickly temper winter’s grip—a difficult task considering the grueling pace with which their mounts parted the air and the spray of frost their hooves loosed from the brittle grass.

 

After what seemed hours, the sun climbed high enough to return feeling to Beatrix’s fingers and toes. Savoring the warmth in the small of her back, she sighed, winced as her cramped muscles resisted their unfolding, and eased herself upright. Ahead, Gaenor and Sir Durand had also straightened in their saddles.

 

Beatrix glanced over her shoulder, and the half smile Sir Ewen slanted at her confirmed that the hardest part of the journey was past. Though Wulfen Castle still lay many leagues ahead, it was increasingly unlikely any would prevent them from reaching it. This night, Gaenor would be safe within its walls and Christian Lavonne would have to look elsewhere for a bride.

 

“Thank you, Lord,” Beatrix whispered and drew a deep breath that smelled of pine and loam and the leaves of Autumn past. And, doubtless, beyond the din of their ride arose the song of birds that braved England’s inhospitable weather and the chitter and chatter of small woodland creatures. Now if only Gaenor would open her own heart to the beauty and benevolence that the Lord—

 

A shout shook Beatrix out of her musing. Searching for the source, she landed on Sir Durand where he rode at the fore and saw he pointed west.

 

“Please, nay,” she whispered and looked around.

 

A dozen riders. Though yet distant, one would have to be a fool to believe they were anything other than the predator to the prey.

 

“To the wood!” Sir Ewen bellowed.

 

Trading speed for the wood that, blessedly, boasted an abundance of evergreens capable of providing cover, they veered right and slowed only enough to accommodate the trees and undergrowth.

 

Dear Lord, Beatrix prayed as they passed single file among the trees, deliver us.

 

“My lady!” Sir Ewen warned.

 

Beatrix opened her eyes in time to duck a low-hanging branch that would have unhorsed her. Resolved to praying with her eyes open, certain God would not fault her, she glanced over her shoulder. Heartened by the sole presence of Sir Ewen, she urged her palfrey after Gaenor and Sir Durand as they increased their speed and veered toward a rise.

 

Thank you, Lord, for shielding us from our pursuers—

 

Distant bellows broke through Beatrix’s prayer, and she snapped her chin around. Though their pursuers had yet to reappear, it could not be long now.

 

“Deliver Gaenor, Lord,” she whispered as her sister and Sir Durand disappeared over the rise. “I ask it in Your name.”

 

“They are near upon us!” Sir Ewen shouted.

 

As Beatrix picked out the blur of riders beyond him, a whimper cleared her throat. Given a few moments more, she and Sir Ewen would also have been over the rise and out of sight. Of course, given the speed at which the king’s men covered ground and the facility with which they handled their mounts amid the wood—skills Beatrix and Gaenor could not possibly match—it would not have been long before they once more had their prey in sight.

 

In the next instant, realization landed like a slap, and Beatrix caught her breath. She had become a liability to Gaenor, but that could be undone, providing Sir Ewen followed her lead.

 

She jerked the reins and turned her palfrey aside. Blessedly, the Wulfrith knight came after her—as did the king’s men.

 

Pressing her mount harder than she had ever done, she fought her fear with the reminder that each thundering hoof beat increased the distance between the king’s men and her sister. Barring a miracle, she and Sir Ewen would be overtaken, but Gaenor and Sir Durand would further distance themselves and, God willing, escape.

 

“Just try and force wedding vows from my lips, you vile red-bearded beast of a king,” Beatrix muttered. “Soon you will learn my blood is as Wulfrith as any of my brothers’.” And for just this one excitingly fearful day that was unlike any day she had ever lived, she believed it.

 

Shouts and the whinny of horses once more drawing her regard, she peered beyond Sir Ewen where he continued to protect her back and saw the king’s men rein in their horses. Why? They had been so near they were not even minutes from overtaking her.

 

A moment later, two of their pursuers broke from the others and resumed the chase while the greater number rode opposite. Obviously, the difference between the figures of the two sisters had become clear the nearer they drew. Thus, the king’s men now directed their greater effort toward bringing Gaenor to ground. Might Sir Durand have gained a large enough lead to hide her?

 

Beatrix bowed her head and squeezed her eyes closed. “Pray, let it be so.”

 

“Do not slow!” Sir Ewen called, the desperation in his voice evidencing their pursuers were gaining on them. Because of her.

 

She set her teeth, leaned low over her palfrey, and urged the animal to greater speed.

 

Still, the din of pursuit did not lessen as they sought paths between the trees and over muddy ground that sorely tested the footing of their mounts.

 

“Go right!” Sir Ewen shouted.

 

She obeyed and, moments later, burst onto a clearing, the center of which was divided by a rocky ravine.

 

The Wulfrith knight drew alongside her. “Ride, my lady,” he commanded, eyes wide and fiery. “Do not look back!”

 

She did look back and saw him turn his horse, draw his sword, and charge the riders. However, only one crossed swords with him while the other turned his mount aside and lunged past to intercept Beatrix.

 

She looked forward again. “Faster!” she rasped, vigorously applying heels to her mount. “Pray, find wings!”

 

Too soon the knight drew alongside. It was his eyes that first made him known to her, those pale orbs out of which darkness shone. Next, his mouth with its leering smile that bespoke such ill it made her skin feel as if she were already a corpse to the vermin that would one day visit her earthen bed.

 

When the knight reached for her, she lashed out with hooked fingers, but he evaded the rake of her nails by sweeping his arm high and and slamming it into hers.

 

Pain coursed Beatrix’s forearm, and she snatched it to her side even as the impact knocked her opposite and presented her with a view of the blurred ground that yawned wide to receive her. Something struck her back, clawed at her side, and wrenched her from the saddle. For a dizzying moment, she dangled between the horses, and then she was thrust hard onto the fore of another saddle.

 

“You are had, Lady Beatrix!” The knight gave a triumphant laugh and turned his mount.

 

He had saved her, but for what? If not for the ring of swords and shouts of anger from Sir Ewen and his opponent where they clashed astride their horses, Beatrix would have resumed her struggle. Instead, she prayed her brother’s knight would prevail as the huffing horse carried her and her captor toward the ravine alongside which the two men fought.

 

“Your man is just this side of dead,” said the dark-souled knight, his moist breath in her ear making her cringe even as anger shot through her.

 

She jerked her head around and met his gaze amid the fair hair fallen over his brow. Though she thought herself prepared for the darkness in his eyes, up close it was more fearsome, and she knew what it said of him even before he slid a hand up her waist and groped her chest.

 

“Nay!” She strained away.

 

He chortled and redirected his hand to her thigh.

 

She opened her mouth to scream, but a terrible shout silenced her.

 

“Ah, nay,” she breathed and sought out Sir Ewen.

 

He sat unmoving in the saddle, face downcast as he stared at the blade piercing his center, then he looked up, met Beatrix’s gaze across the distance, and toppled to the ground.

 

“Lord!” Beatrix cried, unable to believe God had not brought her protector through this trial as he had done the aged knight who gazed down at Sir Ewen from atop his destrier. Unlike the one who held her, the man’s face reflected regret. But regret would not breathe life back into Sir Ewen who had risked all to see her safely away from these men.

 

“Release me!” Beatrix jabbed her elbows into the man at her back and twisted side to side to loosen his hold. “Let me go to him!”

 

The young knight dragged her so hard against him she feared a rib had cracked.

 

“Release the lady, Sir Simon,” the aged knight ordered.

 

Her captor’s mouth touched her ear. “Be you assured, we are not done.”

 

When he dropped his arm from her, Beatrix scrambled off the horse. She lurched forward past the aged knight and dropped to her knees alongside Sir Ewen.

 

His eyes were closed, but as she leaned over him, his lids flickered and opened. “I have failed you, my lady,” he rasped. “I have failed Baron Wulfrith.”

 

She cupped his face in her hands. “Nay, you have not, honorable knight.”

 

The corners of his slack mouth strained upward. “Sir Durand…holds you in high affection. I would not have you lost to him.”

 

She shook her head. “Even were I lost, I am not his to be found.”

 

He drew a suffering breath. “So your mother requires.”

 

Denial rose to her lips, but she did not speak it, for it was cruel to argue with a dying man.

 

“My lady…” He raised his head slightly and peered down his body. “The Wulfrith dagger. Take it. Use it, if you must.”

 

Beatrix followed his gaze, and the sight of his torn center nearly made her gag. Quickly, she refocused her attention on the belt from which his empty scabbard hung. Alongside it was the dagger awarded to all knights who trained under the Wulfriths, its pommel set with jewels to form the cross of crucifixion.

 

Dear Lord, where are you?

 

“Take it, my lady!”

 

Skirts shielding Sir Ewen from the knights, she touched the hilt. Though her sister-in-law, Annyn, had trained at weapons and could swing a sword and wield a dagger as well as many a knight, the closest Beatrix had come to such was the meat dagger she used at meal.

 

“Now, my lady, ere they draw near.”

 

She unsheathed the dagger, lifted the hem of her skirts, and slid the weapon in the top of her hose—somehow without mishap since the blade was well-honed.

 

Sir Ewen sighed and dropped his head to the ground. “God keep you, my lady.” A moment later, he stared at the heavens.

 

Beatrix’s tears fell. Dear Lord, open your gates to this man. Forgive him his transgressions.

 

“I leave the lady in your care, Sir Simon,” the aged knight’s rusty voice ground the remainder of her prayer to dust.

 

She hastened to her feet, swung around, and sought his gaze where he remained astride ten feet away. “You are leaving?”

 

“I must rejoin the search for your sister, my lady.” He jerked his chin at his companion who had guided his horse alongside his. “Sir Simon will serve as your escort.”

 

“Nay, I beseech you, do not leave me with this man.”

 

“Worry not, my lady, you will be safe.” He turned his gaze hard upon the young knight. “Is that not right, Sir Simon?”

 

It was a warning, Beatrix realized, but would it be heeded?

 

“Of course, Sir Hector.”

 

The aged knight considered him, then said, “Rejoin us as soon as possible.”

 

Beatrix took a step toward Sir Hector. “Sir—”

 

He spurred his destrier away, leaving her alone with a man who had touched her as a man should not. Though the chill February morning had warmed considerably as it moved toward the nooning hour, she shivered.

 

Sir Simon smiled, showing white, uncrowded teeth that might as well have been stained and overlapped for all the ill in his face. Ill that Sir Hector had chosen to overlook in his eagerness to rejoin the chase.

 

“It seems you are to suffer my company a bit longer, Lady Beatrix. But it cannot be all bad, eh?”

 

Do not cower. Annyn would not. “Provided I not also suffer your touch,” she snapped.

 

He narrowed his lids at her.

 

Though she longed to flee, there was no hope of escape. She had Sir Ewen’s dagger but could not use it. Of course, Annyn could.

 

But I am not Annyn. As much as she admired her sister-in-law, it was not in her to draw blood, even in defense of her person. But this man could not know that, could he?

 

When he urged his destrier forward, Beatrix swept up her skirts and drew the dagger from her hose.

“Come no nearer!”

 

He pulled the reins. However, he must have seen in her face that her words bore no weight, for he laughed. “Best you hand that over ere you harm yourself, my lady.”

 

She retreated a step and came up against Sir Ewen’s still form.

 

“Give over, Lady Beatrix.” Brow folded with amusement, Sir Simon beckoned.

 

She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes landed on Sir Ewen’s destrier where it grazed alongside the ravine. Could she reach it? Make it astride? It was her only chance.

 

She lunged to the side and, wishing for legs as long as Gaenor’s, ran as she could not remember ever running. Somehow, she reached the destrier ahead of Sir Simon, but as she grabbed the pommel to swing into the saddle, the knight drove his mount alongside the other horse.

 

Trapped between the two, chest pressed hard into the side of Sir Ewen’s destrier, Beatrix swept her dagger-wielding hand back in a blind attempt to fend off her assailant, but all she caught was air. However, Sir Simon succeeded where she failed, capturing her wrist and rendering the dagger useless.

 

As Sir Ewen’s destrier snorted and trotted away, Beatrix turned from the ravine to face her captor. What she saw in his face made her shudder. Though she had not considered him handsome, his countenance had been pleasing enough. No longer.

 

“Give over, witch!” he growled.

 

Despite the pressure on her wrist, she maintained her grip on the dagger and strained backward.

 

With a yank that nearly wrenched her arm from its socket, he once more dragged her up onto his saddle, turned her sideways, and clamped an arm around her waist. “What will you do now there is no one to defend your virtue?” he taunted, digging fingers into the flesh of her wrist.

 

Still she held to the Wulfrith dagger. “Release me, cur!”

 

“Ah, but then I would be negligent in my duty to serve as your escort—among other things.”

 

“I vow—” She gasped as the increased pressure on her wrist made pain shoot up her arm. “I vow the king’s man and Baron Lavonne will hear tale of how you escort your charges—how they are made to suffer your vile attentions.”

 

He chuckled. “You think me blind to the way you looked at me at Stern Castle, Lady Beatrix? I know the thoughts that coursed your mind—what you want from me.”

 

“All I want from you is your absence!”

 

“How you do lie.” He lowered his head, and his mouth would have claimed hers had she not jerked her head aside.

 

In the next instant, she realized that though his hold on her rendered the dagger impotent, he had made no such provision for her other hand. She bunched it into a fist and slammed it into his chin.

 

It could not have pained him as much as it did her, but he cursed and dragged her so hard against him her breath fled. “If that is as you wish it, my lady!” His kiss—if it could be called that—ground her lips against her teeth and filled her mouth with the taste of blood. Still she did not give up the dagger. She would rather die.

 

When he ran his mouth down her neck, inhaling deep as if to feed his senses, she recalled that her sister-in-law had said the only thing necessary to render a man impotent was to catch him unawares. Annyn had referred to the vulnerability of the groin, which had made Beatrix and Gaenor giggle, but it was no longer a matter at which to laugh, especially as Beatrix’s proximity to her assailant denied her that vulnerability. But perhaps there was another way to catch him unawares.

 

She closed her eyes and went limp. It took longer than expected for him to realize something had

changed, but when he did, he lifted his head and she felt his gaze hard upon her face. A moment

later, he eased his hold on her.

 

Beatrix jerked her dagger-wielding hand free, swung her left elbow high, and drove it into his throat.

 

Eyes wide with disbelief, he made a terrible sucking sound, but even as he strained breath into his lungs, he reached for the dagger she held aloft.

 

Use it! a part of her cried, while the other recoiled at the act of drawing blood.

 

Sir Simon stole the argument from her, wrenching her forearm down with such force the dagger’s pommel struck his horse’s neck.

 

The destrier gave a high-pitched neigh, lunged sideways, and reared.

 

And there was the ravine, its harsh, jagged edges seeming to rise toward Beatrix.

 

But she was the one in motion. Overwhelmed by the sensation of falling and the dread anticipation of the rocks below, she screamed and registered an answering shout and felt hands that never should have touched her—hands that should have let her go. Air rushed past and, when it was exhausted, all that remained were the rocks to break her fall. To break her.

 

# # #

 

She would rather die than surrender it. Was that what had happened? Had she died?

 

She flexed her fingers and felt the gems through the leather of her glove. The dagger was still to hand, so she must yet live. She tried to draw a deep breath, but it felt as if a great weight pressed upon her. Taking a shallow sip of cool air, she eased her lids open and winced at the pain that raked fingernails across the inside of her skull.

 

She squeezed her eyes closed, but there was no escape from the ache that spread and intensified until it felt as if it knew and hated every ounce of her being.

 

What happened? Where am I? Why so much pain?

 

Darkness once more beckoning, she slid toward it. However, a vague memory dragged across her thoughts and, though she longed to let it pass, she pulled it back and saw a man’s leering face and eyes that were at once pale and dark. Then there was the dagger she yet gripped. He had tried to wrest it from her.

 

Why? And who was he?

 

She forced her lids up and blinked until the blur came into focus. To her left, rising steeply overhead, a wall of rock was interspersed with dry winter grass.

 

Did I fall? This the reason my head aches and legs will not move?

 

She eased her head up. Grinding her teeth against the pain caused by the movement, she peered down her body.

 

Blood soaked her mantle where a man lay across her.

 

She cried out and wrenched sideways, and the man rolled off her. Closing her throat against sobs that threatened to shake her apart, she dropped to her back again and peered across her shoulder at the one who had come to rest on his side facing her. His chest bled crimson, meaning the blood upon her must belong to him. But why? Because of the dagger she would rather die than release?

 

She raised her hand and whimpered at the sight of blood coloring the blade. Had she—?

 

Nay, she would not have.

 

She dropped her hand back to her side. It had to have been an accident. Had it happened before they had fallen down into this place? After? As she searched for an explanation, time crawled over and around her, leaving behind a trail so gray and damp and coldly silent that she longed to scream.

 

She struggled to sitting, pressed a hand to the left side of her head, and touched a tender swelling. When she drew her hand away, blood smeared her gloved fingers. Her blood. She wiped it on her skirts and once more took in the blood that covered her mantle. His blood.

 

Breathing hard, she clawed at the ties of her mantle, released them, and threw the garment off. But still there was blood, the crimson having soaked through to her cream linen gown.

 

As sobs broke from her, she dragged her legs beneath her—legs capable of movement now that she was free of the dead man’s weight. Continuing to hold to the dagger, she crawled toward the ravine wall. Once there, she pressed her aching back to it, drew her legs up, and buried her face against her knees.

 

How long she remained thus, wafting in and out of consciousness, she did not know, but the sun still warmed the winter sky when voices sounded overhead.

 

Friend or foe? And how was she to know the difference when she could not recall how she had

come to be here?

 

She startled when the door to a memory swung open—two knights, faces familiar though she could put no name to them. And her sister. “Gaenor,” she whispered. “Aye, that is her name.”

 

Dear God, what is wrong with me?

 

As the voices drew near, she pressed herself tighter against the wall and convulsively gripped the dagger she must not release lest death find her defenseless.

 

Small rocks and clumps of dirt rained down and, though she knew someone scaled the ravine wall, she did not move.

 

As consciousness once more dimmed, she heard a gruff voice shout, “He is dead, Sir Kearse, but the lady lives.”

 

Only as long as I do not let go of the dagger.

 

A darkness darker than night swelled over her and drew her back to its breast, but still she held to the hilt.

# # #

 

“Will she live?”

 

Michael D’Arci, physician to Aldous Lavonne who had years earlier relinquished his title to his sons, first Geoffrey, then Christian, looked over his shoulder. “Do you wish her to live, my lord?”

 

Towering before the door, Christian seemed to struggle—as did Michael, who now shared a brother’s death in common with his embittered lord. He ground his teeth at the memory of Simon D’Arci laid out in the hall below, his gut torn open by the dagger the baron’s men had pried from the Wulfrith woman’s hand when they had found her over Simon’s body. And that was another thing the D’Arcis and Lavonnes had in common. The Wulfriths were responsible for both deaths. Of course, Simon’s might have been prevented had Sir Hector not left him alone with Lady Beatrix.

 

Remembering the silent knight who had said little during Christian Lavonne’s questioning, Michael clenched his hands. Despite an unwillingness to talk, there had been regret in Sir Hector’s eyes which, strangely, receded each time he had looked at where Simon lay.

 

Michael returned his attention to the unconscious lady he would have refused to tend had his lord not ordered it—she of flaxen hair, angelic face, and petite form that none would believe capable of murder. But that was Simon’s blood on her bodice. Simon’s blood on the Wulfrith dagger that the baron had shown him. How the lady and Simon had ended up in the ravine, none knew, nor did Michael care. What mattered was that Beatrix Wulfrith had killed his brother.

 

Baron Lavonne heaved a sigh. “I would have her live.”

 

Regardless if it meant Michael would burn in hell, it was not the choice he would have made. But though he would walk away and leave her to die, as would likely be her lot if he left her untended, he would do his lord’s bidding.

 

He met the baron’s gaze. “She should not have survived a fall such as your men described.” Surely

they had exaggerated, for only a miracle would have preserved her life. “Hence, though I vow I will tend her as best I can, I make no guarantee that she will live.”

 

Christian Lavonne turned to depart but paused at the door. “As I would not have the Wulfriths descend upon Castle Broehne, none are to know she lives until I determine her fate.”

 

“What of the king’s men?”

 

The baron smiled—a rarity. “’Twas my men who found her and your brother, and well they know I would not wish any interference in this matter.”

 

Then he would not inform King Henry that the lady had been delivered to Castle Broehne—an omission that could prove detrimental when the truth was learned as it must surely be.

 

“Despair not,” the baron said as he opened the door. “If the lady lives, justice will be yours.”

 

They were not idle words. Christian Lavonne was the lord his brother had never aspired to be, having earned the respect of his people who knew exactly what was expected of them and who had prospered in the absence of the rapacious Geoffrey Lavonne.

 

Michael inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

 

Christian Lavonne ducked to avoid the lintel and stepped into the corridor.

 

As the door closed, Michael considered Beatrix of the Wulfriths. The sight of her bloodied bodice gave him pause and made his stomach roil. Drawing a deep breath, he told himself she was undeserving of modesty and removed her belt. Once more, he paused, this time over the psalter on her belt. It was a sign of godliness that a lady carried such evidence of her faith, but for this woman it was mere pretense. Like so many, Michael included, God was revered only in the presence of others—a show of faith and little else. To truly live a Christian life took too much effort, sacrifice, and repentance of those things most pleasurable, such as the needs of the flesh, to which he was particularly susceptible. Though not to the extent some believed.

 

He tossed the belt aside and pulled at the gown’s side laces. Upon removal of the garment, he saw that neither had the chemise beneath been spared Simon’s blood.

 

When his brother’s murderer finally lay bare beneath a sheet, he turned her onto her side, pulled his physician’s bag near, and began cutting away the hair that would allow him to stitch up the wound above her ear. Though he knew her injury had to be a result of the fall, he did not allow himself to delve deeper. Regardless of what had happened to her, there was nothing to excuse her of Simon’s death. Simon who had only been doing his king and overlord’s bidding. Simon who would not know another sunrise or sunset. Simon whose murderer would be brought to justice. One way or another.