The Longing (36 page)

He swung. He thrust. He parried. He relieved the miscreant of his flesh-seeking dagger. He gave no quarter, wasting no moment upon toying with his prey, divesting him of strength—and, ultimately, his sword.

The blade descended from the great height to which it had spun. When it met the ground, well out of reach of the panting, slick-faced Sir Morris, the knight threw his bloodied arms out to the sides and backed up against a tree.

Breathing hard, as much from maintaining control as exertion, Everard followed and pressed the tip of his sword to the man’s throat.

Sir Morris glanced at the blade and a slow smile drew up his mouth. “I do not yield.”

Everard narrowed his eyes. “Still, you are a coward. Still there will be naught left of you.”

“Then do it! Put me through that it might be said I died at the hands of a Wulfrith.”

Many did consider it an honor—the one consolation before they breathed their last. “I would not have that said of you,” Everard said, “not when your death is best left to the king’s executioner—be it on your knees with your head on a block or in the air with a rope ‘round your neck.”

Sir Morris bared his teeth, but before he could respond, Judas cried, “Do it!”

Everard shifted to the side to keep the knight in sight and looked to the boy who stood back and to the right.

Bow aloft, an eye trained down the arrow, Judas said again, “Do it, else I shall!”

“Ah, look!” Sir Morris called. “The wheezing little Judas thinks he can do a man’s work.” He laughed. “Loose it, boy!”

Everard pressed the blade harder, drew blood that caused the man to suck air. “Shut your mouth!”

“Or what? You will kill me?”

“I will do to you what you did to my squire—open you one piece of flesh at a time.”

The knight cut his gaze to Judas. “I would loose it on you, boy! You know I would.”

The next cut went deeper. As the man groaned, Everard returned his attention to Judas. “’Tis not for you to do, Judas.”

“He is a murderer!”

“That he is.” Everard struggled to keep anger from his voice. “One who deserves justice meted out by the queen. Now lower the bow so we might see to Squire Charles.”

“He is dead!”

Everard feared it was so, but he had to keep the boy from crossing the line he was too young to be so near. “We need Sir Morris alive to aid in the defense of your claim to Cheverel.”

“I do not care!”

Scraps of patience left to him, Everard said, “Lower the bow, if not for yourself, then for your aunt. She would not want this.”

The bow wavered but held its aim. However, just when Everard thought there would be no reaching him, Judas dropped his arm and released the arrow into the ground. And Everard saw his face was wet with tears.

“Milksop!” Sir Morris choked. “Weakling! Misbegot—”

Everard slammed his fist into the knight’s face, knocking his head back against the tree. Broken nose and mouth spraying blood, Sir Morris’s eyes rolled up, then he sank to the ground and slid sideways into unconsciousness.

Knowing he would be some time in returning to this world, Everard ran to where Charles lay. As he carefully turned the squire, he felt the heart that beat beneath his hand and breath upon his face. It was something.

The numerous cuts on Charles’s throat, collarbone, and shoulders were not responsible for the amount of blood that had felled him, but neither was it the great vein in his neck. The blade had caught him beneath the chin and sliced up over the jaw bone to the ear—one long, unbroken wound brimming with blood. Unless infection set in, it should not prove mortal.

Thank you, Lord.

Charles rumbled low in his throat and raised his lids. “There was honor in it, was there not, Lord Wulfrith?”

That his first words were spent upon concern over the means by which he had freed himself of Sir Morris brought further relief. “Much honor, Squire Charles. We need the miscreant alive, and the manner in which you acted made it possible.”

“How bad am I?”

“You will live, and with a fine scar to show for your bravery.”

Surprise widened his eyes, perhaps as much for the news his injury was not mortal as reference to his mettle. But then he gave a pained, apologetic smile. “Everything…” He cleared his throat. “All turned black.”

“You yielded up a good amount of blood,” Everard excused the loss of consciousness, determining it did not need to be told that shock—the belief the blade had found its deadly mark—had likely played a part.

He looked across his shoulder. “Judas!”

The boy did not move. Bow lax in his hand, his gaze was fastened upon Sir Morris.

“Judas!” Everard called again.

He lifted a shoulder toward his ear as if to block out the sound of his name.

Everard eased Charles to the ground. “Rest. I will return shortly.” He strode to Judas who immediately dropped his chin to his chest.

Everard laid a hand on his shoulder. “Charles shall recover.”

No response.

“We must needs get him on Sir Morris’s mount so you might return him to Wulfen and see his injuries tended.”

Judas flinched. “He is not dead?”

“Come see.”

His shoulder grew more tense, suddenly sank, then the fingers slung lightly upon the bow released it to the ground.

Silent tears, but Everard felt their quake. He moved his hand to Judas’s jaw and lifted the boy’s moist, flushed face.

Judas sniffed hard, swallowed hard. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “I know I should not…”

Everard bent near. “You are meant to feel this way. There is no shame in it.”

Judas’s eyes darted over Everard’s face, and he took a faltering step forward. Only the one, and then he took it back, surely telling himself he did not need one who might offer comfort as his father had never done.

Everard himself was unaccustomed to offering much beyond encouragement, praise, and the occasional shoulder grip and back slap, for that was far and away enough to move one from boyhood to manhood. But this was different. Judas de Balliol was not just one of many charges. He was Susanna’s nephew, his wretched upbringing the result of Everard’s indiscretion.

With a sigh, Everard stepped forward and briefly clasped Judas. However, as he started to set him back, the boy wrapped his arms around him and, though his tears remained unvoiced, his shoulders jerked. It did not last long, and when he pulled away, his eyes were nearly as florid as his face, but for all that, his expression was resolute.

“I shall return Squire Charles to Wulfen,” he said and snatched up his bow.

As he ran to his friend, Everard crossed to Sir Morris. The knight had not moved from his bloodied slump, but consciousness would not likely be denied much longer.

Having no rope with which to bind him, Everard used the man’s sword belt, pulling his hands behind his back and cinching them tight. Then he returned to Judas and Charles and sent the former to retrieve the horse.

Shortly, with the injured squire on the rear of the saddle, Judas on the fore, the two set off across the wood.

When they went from sight, Everard returned to Sir Morris who was beginning to rouse, once more rendered him unconscious to speed the long walk to Wulfen, and hefted the man onto his shoulder.

“Ah, nay!” Susanna cried, curiosity over the commotion having drawn her to the window, the sight that gave rise to fear holding her there.

Judas, his tunic marked with blood, the young man at his back even more bloodied, reined in before the donjon steps. As the knights and squires who had followed them into the inner bailey gathered around to aid in their dismount, Susanna swung away. A moment later, she threw open the door and ran past a startled Sir Rowan.

“My lady!”

“’Tis Judas!” she cried over her shoulder. “He is injured!”

The knight caught hold of her arm, but hardly had she begun to struggle than she realized he did not pull her back but, rather, forward down the passageway. Then they were upon the steps, and she was grateful for his steadying hand.

Before they reached the great hall, the commotion outside came inside. When they came off the steps, Judas was moving swiftly across the floor ahead of the squire who was supported by two knights, one of whom shouted for the physician. The other was Sir Elias.

Susanna pulled her arm from Sir Rowan’s grasp and ran. “Judas!”

His eyes landed upon her, and the serious set of his face momentarily reflected surprise, perhaps even dismay, but then he smiled tightly and called, “I am well!” 

She faltered, torn between gaining his side to assure herself he spoke true and withdrawing so she did not shame him.

“Lady Susanna”—Sir Rowan’s hand was once more upon her arm—“come aside. If any of it is his blood, ’tis very little.”

So it seemed. She considered Judas who had gone to stand alongside the table upon which the squire was being laid. He did appear steady on his feet, his color was good, and there was no evidence of strain that might evidence he was in pain. Indeed, the only thing of note was something more defined about the face he lifted to one of the knights who questioned him. He looked more mature.

As for the squire, he was well enough to attempt to raise himself from the table—only to be reprimanded by a thick, grizzled man garbed in simple tunic and chausses who appeared at his side and pressed him down.

“Can you discover what happened?” she asked Sir Rowan.

“I shall.” He guided her to a nearby alcove where she could watch without drawing too much attention. “Remain here.”

As he turned away, Susanna was struck by the absence of one who ought to be present. “Sir Rowan!”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Everard—Lord Wulfrith—what of him?”

“I would know that as well,” he said and strode across the hall to join the knight who questioned Judas.

For minutes that seemed hours, Susanna gripped her hands before her and moved her gaze between the squire and Judas as she strained to hear what was spoken. However, there was not enough substance to the words to make sense of them—until she caught the name that told all. Sir Morris.

It would have been easy to sink into hopelessness born of fear for Everard’s fate, for surely whatever caused him to remain absent from the great hall had something to do with the Cheverel knight. She could only pray it did not prove mortal. And so she did pray until Judas came to her, showed he had spilled no blood of his own, and told the tale.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Susanna was here. Everard knew it before he set foot in the hall, for she had not been at her window where he was certain she would have stood had Sir Rowan been willing to confine her to the chamber.

His walk back to Wulfen cut short by the appearance of Abel whom Judas had come upon before exiting the wood, Everard had taken the horse offered him. Thus, though soiled by blood and dirt, those odors were not bettered by more than the usual amount of perspiration as would have been expected had he carried Sir Morris the entire way. Still, he was hardly presentable. But when he saw Susanna step out of the alcove and her anxious eyes roved over him, he did not think she would mind even if he perspired such that he looked as if he had come in out of the rain.

With long-reaching strides, the knight on his shoulder groaning, Everard crossed the rushes toward where the physician tended Squire Charles. Alongside a trestle table against the wall, he halted and, making no allowances for the knight’s hands being bound behind his back, heaved him onto the wooden surface.

Sir Morris shouted out of a blood-crusted mouth, arched his body, and opened eyes rimmed with the purple bruising of a broken nose.

Everard bent near. “I would not fuss overly much, else you may tempt my men to behavior unbecoming a Wulfen knight.” Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Everard glanced at the one who drew near. “And then there is Sir Elias. I am sure you remember him—he who abducted Lady Susanna and her nephew.”

Sir Morris glanced at his fellow Cheverel knight, gathered his cut and swollen lips together, and would have spat in Everard’s face had his target not stepped aside.

“You have been warned,” Everard said and, as Sir Elias set himself over the miscreant, crossed to Charles. “Rufus?” he asked.

The physician completed one of a dozen stitches that marched up the squire’s jaw. “Naught dire, my lord. This brave young man shall yet see spurs fastened to his boots.”

“Of course he shall.” Everard met Charles’s gaze and saw the glint in his eyes that bespoke determination to not cry out each time his flesh was pierced. Then he looked to Judas who stood on the opposite side of the table. “Have you spoken with your aunt?”

“I have, my lord. Her worry is eased.”

“It appears, Lord Wulfrith,” Rufus said, “you shall also require my needle.”

“Later.” Everard pivoted and strode toward where Susanna stood alongside Sir Rowan.

She stepped forward. Amber eyes more golden than he remembered, she said, “You are hurt.”

“Not so badly I will not soon heal. Most of the blood is that which forsook Sir Morris.”

To his surprise, she boldly touched the flesh beneath the gash across his collarbone. “This is yours.” Her fingers brushed the slashed material centered over his heart. “And this…”

Everard folded his fingers over hers. “I am well, Susanna. Once the physician is finished with Squire Charles, he will stick me with his accursed needle and all will be mended.”

As she stared up at him, Everard was tempted to kiss her. Here. In the hall. In front of those who surely watched even if it appeared they did not.

He released her hand.

She took a step back and said in a rush, “I pray you will forgive me for coming belowstairs. Sir Rowan is not at fault. I—”

“I understand.”

She frowned. “You are not angry?”

“Under the circumstances, I cannot be. But now that you have seen Judas is unharmed, Sir Rowan ought to return you to your chamber.” What he did not say was that the longer she lingered, the more likely she would come to Sir Morris’s notice and suffer the man’s foul mouth.