Claire Delacroix (135 page)

’Twas anger that kept him alive.

’Twas anger that kept his grip tight on the length of wood, anger that refused to let him fall into a slumber from which he would never awaken, anger that had him alone drifting toward Ireland’s shore. Baldassare di Vilonte had been deceived, he had been within a breath of winning all he sought, and he had been cheated of that victory.

Worse, he had been cheated by Niccolo’s own kin. Baldassare would ensure they all paid—Niccolo, Bronwyn, and all the rest of Niccolo’s kin. After all these years, justice would be served.

Baldassare di Vilonte, after all, was not the manner of man who accepted failure without a fight.

Baldassare nearly wept when his foot first brushed the sand below. He did weep when he opened his eyes and realized how close salvation lay, but that he was too weak to avail himself of it. He was yet a toy of the sea, destined to wait until the waves cast him fully upon the beach. Baldassare prayed, as he had never prayed before, that the tide would abandon him upon the coast, instead of tugging him back out to sea again.

He did not know whether it was a dream to feel sand beneath his feet, whether he imagined that his knees grazed
solid ground. When he heard the woman’s cry, Baldassare knew that could not be truth. He drifted alone, after all, a victim of the sea’s caprice.

But the woman did not go away. Though her words were indistinguishable, he felt suddenly warm. Strong hands hauled him ashore, he heard someone run.

The woman murmured to him all the while. Gentle fingertips landed on his cheek. Heat caressed his face and Baldassare opened his eyes, nigh blinded by a golden glow.

A woman with hair the color of a flame bent over him, and Baldassare wept in truth at the realization that he had not survived his ordeal. Nay, this creature could be none other than an angel, an angel of mercy dispatched to save his soul.

But even as he was lifted toward the stars, Baldassare knew that eternal bliss would not be his own. Nay, his dark soul would not be easily retrieved—for indeed, hatred yet burned within him. He had been cheated, cheated by the kin of an old foe and a knight determined to defy him, and left to die.

Yet, even knowing he was to meet his maker, Baldassare di Vilonte still wanted vengeance, not salvation.

o Bronwyn’s surprise, one tall bearded ex-slave was a cleric. His name was Mikail and it was soon established by Leon’s priest that Mikail read Latin, though he could not speak it with any clarity.

Once this was realized, Leon seized ink and parchment, and much discussion ensued. According to Mikail, the former slaves had been captured in a northern Polish principality as their homeland was rife with war. Baldassare di Vilonte had taken advantage of the chaos there and pounced upon the remote village. Many had been killed, the remainder herded aboard Baldassare’s ship, ultimately to be sold as slaves.

Bronwyn noted the shadows in many eyes as Leon’s priest translated the tale and read it aloud, and her heart ached for what these folk had endured. Their village had not only been ravaged but had been burned to the ground. No one wanted to return.

With the exception of Marika.

Mikail asked Leon to accept them on his lands, giving his assurance that all would labor hard to make this place their new home. He asked for protection and Leon swore to provide it. A ripple passed through the ranks of the ex-slaves, a glint of hope lit more than one face, and Bronwyn knew that they would find a good home here.

For Leon also had need of the labor.

Then Rowan stepped forward to negotiate on behalf of the Poles, to ensure they did not grant Leon more than his due out of gratitude.

’Twas four days before he pronounced himself satisfied, four days and nights that Bronwyn hoped to have his attention and did not. During the day Rowan sat at the board with lord and clerics, while at night he spoke with Thomas so long that she inevitably fell asleep. Though she knew this was of import, Bronwyn missed his touch and his company.

Marika alone had been adamant that she did not wish to remain.

Mikail wrote solemnly for the priest, who then translated the writing for Bronwyn. “He says that Marika has seen much pain,” the priest confided gravely. “And that perhaps ’tis best that she begin anew, without familiar faces to remind her of all she has lost.”

“What happened?”

Mikail shook his head slowly, then wrote, not waiting for the translation of Bronwyn’s question. The priest glanced over the parchment, then met Bronwyn’s gaze. “The tale, he insists, is not his to tell. He asks that you be patient with her and ensure that she is not without spiritual guidance.”

The priest smiled and laid a hand on the larger man’s shoulder. “He is a good cleric to worry over the fate of those who have been in his care. I believe that Mikail and I will have many interesting discussions over the winters ahead.” The men smiled at each other with mutual admiration.

But Bronwyn’s thoughts were full of Marika. Marika had already confided part of the tale in Bronwyn. It had to do with a child, a babe named Vassily, and perhaps a rape. ’Twould be easy to lay at least one crime at Baldassare’s feet.

Bronwyn turned to find Marika watching her, anxiety in that woman’s eyes. Clearly she knew that her course was being decided, and she wrung her hands in uncertainty.

Bronwyn resolved in that moment that she would find Marika a man who could push that woman’s ghosts into the past where they belonged—just as Rowan had done for her. Marika would have a good husband, if Bronwyn had to scour all of Ireland to find him. She smiled and offered her hand, catching the woman in her arms when Marika began to weep in gratitude.

The other ex-slaves signed their contracts at Mikail’s dictate, many of them doing so with a simple X, then a vessel of wine was uncorked in celebration.

They passed a chalice, saluting Leon, Rowan, and Mikail, and then drinking heartily. Bronwyn was proud to be associated with Rowan, to have been a part of the good deed he had done here.

Again she was struck that a man so disenchanted with responsibility should perform such obligations so well. But then, perhaps Rowan had only desired to see his obligations to the ex-slaves fulfilled.

Bronwyn wished she knew the truth of it.

’Twas just past midday, five days after their arrival, when Bronwyn and Rowan departed Leon’s abode. Thomas tagged close behind the knight and Marika’s face was streaked with tears from her farewells. They walked out the gates, the sun warm on their backs, and began the long walk toward Ballyroyal.

The road unfurled before them like a ribbon winding a course across the vivid green of the land. The wind was fresh from the sea sparkling to their right; the mountains rose loftily on their left. The range was indeed the Wicklow Mountains, as Leon had been quick to confirm, and they were less than two days’ ride from Dublin.

Ballyroyal was a day’s ride beyond or less, though, indeed, they did not ride.

’Twould not be a short journey and her feet would be aching by the end, but Bronwyn found a bounce of anticipation in her step. She was glad to be almost alone with Rowan again and looked forward to a measure of privacy for the two of them. Once again she was buoyed with optimism that she could win this man with her touch, his recent deed persuading her yet further that he tended care overmuch instead of not at all.

Their small party was well provisioned, courtesy of Leon, who had insisted upon seeing them compensated for bringing such labor his way. They each carried a pack, filled with bread and cheese, and though their garb was simple, it was clean and most welcome.

They walked in silence for a good hour before Rowan suddenly halted and frowned.

“What is that?” he demanded, gesturing to a dark figure in the fields ahead.

The distance was too great to be certain, but before Bronwyn could say anything, Rowan cast his pack to Thomas and began to run. Bronwyn cried out, the trio racing after the knight but unable to match his speed.

But as they ran, Bronwyn studied the dark silhouette, gasping when she recognized it. A steed stood grazing in that green field. It was an uncommonly large beast, no small mare or palfrey was this. ’Twas bereft of saddle and unattended, and it had one white sock.

And there was crooked white star upon its brow.

“Troubador!” Rowan bellowed jubilantly. A palfrey lifted her head at his cry, revealing her presence behind the destrier. “You feckless beast! You were swimming for England.”

Troubador surveyed the knight with indifference, his
chewing never slowing. Then he blew out his lips and bent to graze with apparent nonchalance.

Rowan began to laugh. “Ah, you impossible creature! You did this only to grant me grief, I know it well.” There was a warmth in his teasing tone, and Bronwyn knew he was relieved that his destrier had survived.

Bronwyn guessed that the stallion’s more base instincts had ultimately won out over its fear. Troubador had followed the palfrey, for whatever reason, after she had turned for shore. The pair must have reached the shore this far north.

Bronwyn wondered whether Rowan would have another steed in his retinue shortly and started to laugh herself.

Rowan was beside the destrier in no time at all, his features alight. The other three remained on the road, Bronwyn holding Thomas back that Rowan might have a moment of reunion alone. He strode around the stallion, assuring himself that the beast was unhurt. His expression turning cocky, Rowan halted before the horse while Troubador continued grazing.

“Remind me,” he informed the steed, “that your instincts are better than they might otherwise appear.”

Troubador snorted and pulled deliberately at the grass, though his tail began to flick. His ears twitched, as if he kept track of the knight’s location, but he had no intent to reveal his interest so clearly as that.

Bronwyn grinned to find that steed and knight were so similar. Rowan evidently also saw humor in this, for he winked at her before he spoke.

“Well, old friend, ’tis good to see you well.” He patted the destrier’s rump as Troubador strolled out from beneath his hand, evidently intent on a choice clump of grass a few steps away and oblivious to the knight’s presence. “Fare well, Troubador. I trust you will find another, perhaps finer, master.”

And he walked back toward the road, a whistle on his lips.

“But, my lord,” Thomas cried. “ ’Tis your steed!”

Rowan waved off the protest. “But, Thomas, the beast did not heed me. He must prefer to seek his own fate, a path I can certainly admire.”

As the knight joined them and made a show of retrieving his pack, Troubador lifted his head and stared after him. The beast looked as surprised as a horse could look by this turn of events.

The palfrey similarly lifted her head, and Bronwyn realized that something had changed between these two creatures. Where once the palfrey had taken her lead from the stallion, now she stepped forward and nipped at his hindquarters, as if urging him to do something while Rowan walked away.

“But …” Thomas began to argue.

“But naught.” Rowan ruffled the boy’s hair and smiled. “I am persuaded to live unfettered, and a destrier is no small obligation to see fed. ’Tis clear enough that Troubador sees the merit of finding another master, for he did leave me.” He granted them all a mischievous smile. “Come along, then. Dublin and Ballyroyal await.”

Rowan began to stroll down the road, apparently unaware of the destrier staring after him. Troubador’s ears twitched as Rowan began to recount a tale of his travels to Thomas. The palfrey whinnied, seeming to chide the stallion.

And he stepped forward.

Bronwyn watched from the corner of her eye, knowing Rowan well enough to guess that he only challenged the steed’s indifference. The destrier took one last defiant mouthful of grass. Rowan laughed and prompted Thomas’s chuckle, apparently unaware of the horse so close at hand, his long steps taking him quickly away.

Troubador snorted, then loped after the knight, his baleful
glance fixed upon that man’s back. When Rowan did not halt or acknowledge him, Troubador snorted noisily.

Rowan continued with his tale, though Bronwyn noted his smile.

Troubador whinnied.

Rowan walked as if he were unaware of the steed.

A rush of heavy footsteps warned Bronwyn of the steed’s advance, and she darted out of the way just in time. The destrier lumbered up behind Rowan, neighed loud enough to strike a man deaf, then seized Rowan’s tabard in his teeth.

“Oh!” Rowan feigned surprise at finding the destrier behind him. “ ’Tis
you.
” He shook his tabard free and eyed the beast, hands on his hips. “I thought you had found greener pastures.”

Troubador blew out his lips, then leaned closer and nudged the knight in the chest. His ears twitched and he eyed the knight as if to make a silent appeal.

“Oh, you great foolish beast,” Rowan murmured with affection. He scratched the steed’s ears, smiling as Troubador leaned against him with satisfaction. “I would not have left you, even though you did leave me.”

Troubador nuzzled him, as if apologizing.