Risen (34 page)

He glanced up from his lonely
thoughts to see Velecent’s encouraging face, his kind eyes, his
sincere determination that Risen would be found. No, perhaps it was
not the nature of all men, he thought. It was only the nature of
the worst. Men like Velecent leveled the balance against the evil
ones who walked amongst them.

Furthermore, Ravan thought if he
could orchestrate the fall of the one who believed it would be
acceptable to sell his son into a slave army, the world would be a
much better place for it. And with Velecent by his side, he
believed he had a reasonable chance of doing it. And what sweet
retribution that would be!

It was enough to center him. The
mercenary focused on strategy now, renewed in his efforts,
determined more than ever that Risen could be found. The old livery
man produced some very worn maps and spread them right on the
stable floor. Under candlelight, they inspected them
closely.

They were rough, rudimentary images
drawn from men’s descriptions—how long it took them to ride to this
or that town on what horse, what they’d seen along the way, what
they could remember of their travels. In another time, the
liveryman might have been a fine cartographer, but for now, he
embellished his hobby as best he could.

Dark spots marked the highest peaks
of the Massif Central. To the east of the mountain range ran the
Rhone River, snaking its way south to the Mediterranean. To the
east of the river were the Alps. The map, for as rudimentary the
resources of the man who penned it, was surprisingly
accurate.

Leaning closer in the torchlight,
the mercenary ran his finger along the markings. The men who stole
his son would certainly be following the river south to Marseille.
“You say Toulon. Why? Why not Marseille?”

“It is not as it used to be. The
trade of children is uncivilized now.” It was unusual to hear these
words from a man who gave shelter to the types of men who dealt in
slavery of children.

“Then how do you justify allowing
them use of your livery.” It was Velecent who asked what Ravan was
thinking.

Dropping his eyes as though he had
shame for it, he replied, “I was a liveryman before this trade
route became widely used. I have no choice. I look the other way or
die at their hands. Who would take care of my grandson
then?”

It was sad but true. “And Toulon?”
Ravan asked.

“We are not our ancestors—perhaps
not yet civilized—but we are not as brutal as they were.” His old
eyes flitted from one face to another of the small troop of men.
“Marseille does not want the ships, not want the indecency of it.
No—you must go to Toulon. It is there that you will find the
depravity of the sort that would sell a child.” He bobbed his head
like an old buzzard considering carrion.

Ravan surmised that the man was
correct, that they were behind by several days because they were
too far north, but he was determined to make up the difference.
Their horses were traded for fresh ones, and before dawn, in the
still darkness of the night, the band of men continued on their
journey. He wished again that he’d brought Nicolette.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

†

For some reason, it seemed natural
to the group that the Englishman would assume charge of the
captives. William chose to carry Sylvie, and it surprised him how
small the girl felt in his arms. She was hoisted by another soldier
up onto his horse and struggled to smooth her skirts as she flopped
down in front of the Englishman. He thought he could feel her
terror—or disdain—for she was rigid and seemed almost to try not to
touch him. For some reason he was unable to identify, it made him
uncomfortable that she might feel this way.

Her fingers appeared so fragile and
pale clutching the pommel of his saddle, like they might belong to
a bird. Long and tangled, her hair was such an unusual color. Even
filthy, when a lock of it lifted in the breeze and lay across the
bracer of his left arm, it looked not of this world but like
something rare and exotic, spun for an angel, perhaps. He’d once
seen sap run from a wounded tree with just this color, and
eventually he noticed how, when a sun ray broke through and struck
it just right, it glistened with all the colors of the
rainbow.

She never looked up—only down—and at
one point a drop of water fell onto his glove. He squinted, scanned
the sky; it was grey now, but there was no rain on his face. He
wondered if the child cried, but if she did, her shoulders and
breathing did not betray her lament.

Today was the first time he more
clearly noticed the brace on her leg. It was a fine brace, had been
fashioned of leather and steel from a good forge. There was nothing
unskilled about it, and he wondered who, and of what means, had
contrived such a device. It was certainly nothing a common child
would have possessed. He also noticed for the first time how the
brace wore into the child’s leg on the outside of her knee, through
her stockings, where he spied the raw flesh beneath. This was
probably from her wearing it nonstop since her capture, but he
never heard her whimper for it.

It was nonsense! Madness that they’d
even taken the girl! What an utter waste of resource to have to
care for one as fragile as her. This is what he told himself, and
William thought about this for a long time. Why had Yeorathe and
Odgar been willing to take a child such as this for sale, crippled
as she was? True, the boy had been defiant against them, but they
could have easily separated him from her, killed her—put her out of
their misery—and been on their way.

Perhaps they had believed the boy’s
threat, believed that if they harmed the girl, the dark haired
child warrior would find the right moment to kill himself, and
their efforts would be for naught. Perhaps Yeorathe had seen this
in Risen’s eyes. Wicked as he was, the one-eyed tyrant certainly
knew how to profit from war.

These were simply idle thoughts to
pass the hours. Eventually William wondered about the one who’d
generously supplied the brace for the girl, and his thoughts turned
again to the boy—the one who was found lost in the woods with the
fair haired beauty. He believed the answer lay with the boy. He had
stood fearless in the woods, ready to lay his life down for the
girl—had braved Yeorathe himself. Were they siblings as he claimed?
They certainly appeared like anything but relations.

William continued to occupy himself
with these thoughts as the day wore on. Neither he nor the child in
his arms spoke, and as was inevitable, Sylvie weakened. Eventually,
she succumbed, slumping back against him. Her head flopped, and he
repositioned her so that it rested against his arm as they rode.
For the first he was able to clearly see her face, and he swallowed
hard, nearly unable to take his gaze from her.

Her eyes were closed, faint amber
lashes resting against her cheeks, so pale and with only enough
flush of pink as to deny death. Her small, perfect mouth fell open
as she slept, and William believed she looked like an angel who
wished to sing. It made him intensely uncomfortable, not the weight
of the child, for she was scarcely a fawn in his arms, but
something about seeing her sleeping—at his mercy as he held
her.

Just as William struggled with this,
Sylvie lifted one small hand, resting it in her sleep upon his arm.
He stared at it, unable to draw his attention from it, from the
dirt crammed beneath the delicate fingernails.

Another horseman—the one with the
boy bound behind him—passed them just then. William glanced up just
in time to meet the eyes of the ebony haired boy and saw within
them pleading, as though the boy begged compassion for the sleeping
girl that the soldier held.

So, William thought to himself, he
is not her brother after all. He loves this girl, and not like a
brother loves a sister.

He ignored Risen, gazing instead
again on the face of the sleeping child. William’s thoughts went
another direction entirely. As the horses plodded on and he cradled
Sylvie, there was a slip. Small at first, but definitely a slip,
and in no time he was sliding, falling so fast he could not catch
himself. He and Sylvie rode the horse only in body as the
Englishman’s mind and heart drifted a very long ways away and found
themselves on a cool, autumn day in Gwynned, Wales…many years
ago.

* * *

William stood on the north foot of
the Crib Goch—the massive, rocky ledge that drew the greatest
rainfall of all the kingdom. There was nothing else here; he was
entirely isolated, and he loved it this way.

This was his home, and today the
rains had ceased long enough for the sun to shine brilliantly
through the clouds in dreamlike rays that trussed the sky to the
earth in a glorious fashion. He was grateful, for his small cottage
sat nestled at the base of the ledge, and every morning, the first
thing he saw upon rising was the beautiful, green slopes that were
his homeland. Today the valley was like an emerald, glistening
green, its magnificence truly rare.

The splendor of the valley, however,
was nothing compared to the beauty of Eleanor. She stepped into the
doorway and lifted a hand to shield her eyes, marveling at the
glorious, new day. A smile lit her features up like the sun, a hand
resting on her belly and…their unborn child.

It was the most perfect moment,
William thought, of his entire life, and he could not tear his eyes
from her. If time had frozen just then, he could be happy for
eternity, he thought to himself.

That was the last time Eleanor was
well. The next day she was struck by that terrible scourge from the
East. What had they called it, the black plague? She first only
seemed as though she might be tired, but the illness set fast into
her lungs, and there was nothing to be done after it.

The wicked affliction took Eleanor
and their unborn child before two nightfalls hence, and along with
her…it took him.

Why? he asked. Why has she been
taken and not me? To the very end, he held her until her last
breath—breathed it with her—had prayed that the black death would
reach its fingers from her throat into his mouth, down to his
broken being, and take him as well. Wherever it was God believed
she should be, he only wished to be there as well. So why was he
spared? It was a dreadful gift, a malady worse than hers, to have
survived her—to have survived the Bubonic Plague.

Eleanor was everything to him—all
that he had—for William was an orphan and without family. His young
life had been a struggle, and when he found her, he believed he’d
stepped from a cruel world and into paradise, for he was deeply in
love. Finally he understood this thing that could make one mad with
joy, believing every morning was a dream.

Now…he was more alone than he’d ever
been. He held Eleanor, held her until he could bear it no more, and
then he burned the home with her and his unborn within. He curled
on the rocky steppe, close as he could endure, the heat of the
flames blazing against his skin. As the fire spent itself, he edged
closer and closer. In fragments, he inched into the ash until he
lay where she had. It was here, curled up in the cinders of his
wretched life, that William was first lost.

When she fell, he only wanted to
fall as well. He wanted to fall as deeply and darkly as he could,
fall so far that he would forget what had happened, forget Eleanor,
forget he lived. Nothing could drag him from this terrible wish.
William was determined to have his way, and so he did fall—through
Hell and then beyond. William sought war—any war. It was the
wretched salve that he spread on his heart, the poison arrow for
his soul, for if he could drown himself in the debauchery of death
and sorrow, perhaps he would become forever hardened, and the pain
would go away. Only then could he forget.

And it worked. He did forget…until
now.

* * *

It’d been a long time since he’d
thought of Eleanor. She did it to him…it was Sylvie who did this to
him. The eyelashes fluttered and the angel’s eyes opened. The
soldier was ripped back from his past and gazed down at the captive
child. She didn’t move, only held the stare of the man who cradled
her.

A soft whisper escaped her lips.
“Was it you?”

Her question surprised him so
completely that all he could do for a moment was look at her. “Me?”
he was at last compelled to ask.

“You. Was it you who felled my
father…at the water-shack? Did you kill my family?”

William swallowed and glanced away.
He didn’t immediately answer but finally said, “It was not.” This
is what he said, but what he thought was, It may as well have
been.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

†

The black-legged mare walked
serenely into the sleeping village. Behind her, Moira swayed on the
grey gelding, nearly coming out of her saddle at least three times
before they reached the small livery-boarding house near the center
of the tiny town. All told, there were perhaps five buildings and a
half dozen more ramshackle tents that made up the little
village.

It was late and a tedious task to
find someone to take their horses in. However, it was then fairly
simple for them to get a modest room, a very modest room. Moira
ached in places she never believed she could as she peeled her
stockings and boots off and tucked them under the end of the
straw-stuffed mattress.