The Redeeming (2 page)

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.

“A
ccursed 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.

H
e 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.