The Redeeming (3 page)

As the priest intoned the morning mass to the gathered knights, squires, pages, and men-at-arms, Christian considered the chapel’s threshold and wished he could be like those within who had likely given little thought to crossing it.

He was not like them. He had been nearer God in the long, cool hours of monastery life—grudgingly, it was true, but he had found a measure of fulfillment in serving the Lord despite his resentment and yearning to be a warrior and lord the same as his brother, Geoffrey. However, he did not want to think there, for there lay the sin and shame that had caused him to give God his back as Abel Wulfrith had so coarsely put it on the day past.

Remembrance of their exchange made Christian’s pride recoil at giving the man the satisfaction of knowing his words had found their mark, and he nearly turned away. Setting his jaw, he stepped inside.

As the entrance was at the rear of the chapel, only a few of those nearest looked around. Curiosity flashed in the young men’s eyes, as it did when Christian appeared at supper, which was usually the only time he came amongst them. Certain they wagered over his identity and the reason one of obvious rank and nobility had come to Wulfen Castle, a stronghold devoted to training boys and young men, Christian eyed the back rows.

Left and right of the aisle, the squires and pages stood shoulder to shoulder, not a gap between them, meaning he would have to traverse the aisle to find a place. And likely draw the attention of the Wulfriths who were at the fore of the chapel. Reasoning that one need not number among the many to join in the mass, he chose the back wall that stood in shadow.

Though, over the next half hour, a few of the priest’s words slipped through the cracks of Christian’s barricaded soul, most went left and right of him. As tempted as he was to return belowstairs where a simple meal would be set out for breaking fast prior to the commencement of pre-dawn training, he forced himself to remain.

When the priest finally blessed those present and their endeavors, it took all of Christian’s will to not be the first to exit the chapel. During that struggle, he acknowledged what was happening—that he was under attack by the enemy who did not wish him here, who was content for him to remain outside of God’s will, who preferred the back turned to God over the face Christian sought to lift that he might once more find favor with the Lord. The enemy could not be more displeased with what Abel Wulfrith’s taunting had wrought.

Christian watched the others file out of the chapel from front to back and was grateful when neither of the Wulfrith brothers picked him from the shadows.

It did not take long for the chapel to empty, but even when the last of the squires had crossed the threshold, Christian remained unmoving. He watched the priest extinguish half the candles on the altar, then two of the three torches set in wall sconces.

Smoothing pudgy hands down his robes, the priest turned toward the door and, halfway across the chapel, paused. As if sensing Christian’s presence, he peered into the shadows, only to chuckle, shrug, and hasten forward. A moment later, he pulled the door closed behind him. The man’s lack of regard for his suspicions would have angered Christian if not that he would likely have done the same when his lot had been to pray, rather than fight.

All was different now. As he had learned these past years, if he was to protect his people and lands, he could not ignore such warnings. He must always be prepared for the blade at his back. Or another’s back, for which he had been prepared when his illegitimate half brother sought to slay Beatrix Wulfrith—Beatrix, whose death would have imperiled the cessation of hostilities between the Lavonnes and Wulfriths. Despite Christian’s intervention, until the Wulfriths entrusted their oldest sister to him, he could not be assured of reconciling with that family whose people had suffered much at the hands of his brothers and father.

“’Twill be done soon,” Christian murmured and settled his gaze on the altar. Prominently displayed there, despite the simplicity of the material from which it was fashioned, was a crucifix—a reminder of the one to whom he had turned when he was a man of God. More, a reminder of the one he had forsaken.

Was there a way to cross back to the other side of the divide he had placed between himself and God? Though a part of him longed to return to the relationship that, as a youth, he had forged out of adversity, the other part urged him to stay his course. Or was it the enemy?

Regardless, it
was
less burdensome to rely on one’s self rather than wait on the Lord who was not always forthcoming—and when He
was
forthcoming, did not always provide the answer one wished. Of course, had not God cruelly proved that only He knew what was best for those who followed Him? Was Geoffrey’s death not evidence enough?

Despite all of Christian’s arguments against what he knew must be done to ensure that the life he made with his wife and children would be blessed, he bowed his head. “I yield, Lord. Take me back.” And he would have walked the aisle and prostrated himself before the altar had the door not creaked open.

Closing his hand around his sword hilt, he peered out of the shadows at the figure in the doorway.

Seemingly as hesitant as he had been to cross the threshold, the hooded man finally stepped inside and closed the door.

Wondering if he should reveal himself or wait to determine the reason the intruder sought the chapel in the absence of those who had begun their day’s training, Christian flexed his hand on his sword.

Something was afoot, he determined as the tall man advanced on the altar. However, he was far from prepared when the hood was lowered to reveal a fall of dark blonde hair. Not a man, but a woman at Wulfen where women were forbidden. All except one who should no longer be here.

G
aenor Wulfrith stared at the cloth-covered altar. As it was always difficult to humble herself before the Lord, she imagined Jesus stretched on the crucifix before her.

Once more wrenched by His sacrifice that was said to forgive her of her sins, she lowered to her knees and bowed her head. Dutifully, she prayed for England, her family, her people, and those in need and hurting. Lastly, and with great apology, she prayed for herself—she whose prayers God seemed loath to answer.

She opened her eyes and considered the hands she clasped so tightly that the knuckles shone white. “I do not know why I even talk to You,” she whispered and lifted her gaze to the crucifix.

Months past, when it was believed her sister, Beatrix, had given her life that Gaenor might escape marriage to a Lavonne, Gaenor had refused to attend mass. Not until she learned her sister had survived had she returned to God, and only then to bargain with Him.

Beatrix, accused of murdering a knight, had once more faced death, and Gaenor had promised the Lord that if he delivered her sister free, she would return to Him. He had answered her prayer and, now absolved of the crime, Beatrix would wed the man she loved—unlike Gaenor who was tempted to fall away from the Lord now that she once more faced marriage to her family’s enemy. And revelation of her sin.

She shuddered. With each passing day that drew her nearer Beatrix’s wedding where she would meet her betrothed, the temptation to abandon God grew stronger, for it did not seem likely He would intervene.

Christian Lavonne had saved her sister—surely by trickery—and gained her family’s gratitude. Despite Gaenor’s protests, it was doubtful they would make any further attempt to keep her from wedding the baron. The Wulfriths would have their peace and she would suffer her husband’s abuses. Abuses he would surely justify once he discovered…

“Answer one more prayer, Lord, this one for me. Deliver me from this marriage. Preserve me for a man of integrity and honor, a man unlike the brother of that beast, Geoffrey Lavonne.” Beseechingly, she touched the base of the crucifix. “You know who I would have. You know where my heart lies, though his does not lie with me. Pray, grant me this.”

Christian stared at the woman’s back. Her softly spoken prayer having reached him in the great silence of the chapel, he curled his hands into fists. He knew she did not want him and might even hate him, but he had not considered that another might have claimed her heart—a man for whom she would yearn when she spoke vows with Christian, when he came to her, when she closed her eyes to imagine it was
he
who touched her.

For some reason, the ache went deep, and he rebuked himself, for he had no cause for jealousy when all he sought from their union was peace between their families.

Gaenor Wulfrith rose and swept around, affording him his first glimpse of a face that was told to be as distant from her sister’s as the dark of night was from the light of day. And it was, though not as expected. She did not possess Beatrix’s fragile beauty, but neither was she uncomely as he had been told. Dark blonde hair fell in waves about her warmly complected face to frame heavily-lashed eyes, a well-shaped nose, compressed lips that looked as if they knew no tilt or bow, and a firm chin. Severe, but possibly pretty.

As she neared, he looked closer. However, draped as she was in a long mantle, it was impossible to determine if she possessed a pleasing figure. Overly slender, he guessed, likely little to distinguish her from a tall boy. Not that her figure was of import beyond her ability to bear children. Providing she was not narrow-hipped, which would making birthing difficult or even impossible, she ought to bear him many children.

He uncurled the fists he had made of his hands. Peace and children. That was all he required of Gaenor Wulfrith and, regardless of where her heart lay, he would have them.

She gripped the door handle and lowered her chin. Though the fall of her hair denied him her face, he sensed she wept, and a pang went through him that he did not wish to feel. In the next instant, she swung around. The eyes she narrowed on the altar were bright, but her face was dry.

“Regardless of Your answer,” she said, “I shall endure.” She wrenched open the door, paused, and frowned over her shoulder.

Christian tensed as she delved the shadows in which he stood. He had made no sound, but it was as if she felt him the same as the priest had done. However, also as the priest had done, she ignored her senses.

When the door closed behind her, he considered the altar before which he had thought to prostrate himself prior to Gaenor Wulfrith’s appearance. He had asked the Lord to take him back, but now he found he was not ready. One day he would return to his faith, but
this
day he would aspire to seek another’s death. And considering the great roiling within, perhaps this time he would succeed.

“W
hat is this?” Christian looked from the heavily-stocked cellar before him to the knight at his side.

“Your new training field,” the second-born Wulfrith said.

Struggling toward patience, Christian said, “You will have to explain yourself, Sir Everard.”

Candlelight and shadow warring on the canvas of the knight’s austere face and shaved head, he said, “As Abel has done all he can do for you, ‘tis for me to impart the last of your training.”

“In a cellar?”

“There is no better place. Here you shall learn how to engage an opponent without benefit of light and open spaces, how to negotiate unseen obstacles, how to pick sounds from the silence, and how to discern the voice within that will one day save your life.”

It seemed a child’s game of hiding and seeking, but thus far Christian had not been subjected to any attempt to humiliate him as he had expected upon his arrival at Wulfen.

He inclined his head. “Proceed, Sir Everard.”

The knight set the tallow candle atop a barrel alongside the stairs, snuffed the wick, and spoke out of the darkness, “Make ready, Baron Lavonne.”

Christian stood unmoving and, when he finally stepped away from the stairs, felt a rush of air as if a sword swept past.

“No hesitation,” Sir Everard growled. “Make ready!”

It
had
been a sword. Grateful for the chain mail the knight had insisted he don, though Sir Everard had not done so himself, Christian drew his sword from its scabbard and jumped back to avoid the next swing. Twice more he was forced to retreat before he set his own sword in motion.

“Listen for me!” Sir Everard instructed.

As Christian strained to catch the sound of movement, he heard a footfall. In anticipation of the next blow, he swung his sword up. And steel met steel between them, causing sparks to fly.

“Better!” Sir Everard grunted. “Now again.”

Their blades crossed, but this time Sir Everard’s found the rim of Christian’s ear.

“Hit!” the man declared.

Anger spurting in concert with the blood the knight gained off him, Christian swung again and encountered empty space.

“Seek me, Baron!”

Christian snapped his head to the left whence the voice issued. It
was
hiding and seeking, but no child’s game. If not for the chain mail, he might emerge from the cellar mortally wounded. Of course, the mail was also a hindrance, as its shifting links kept the knight apprised of his opponent’s whereabouts, an advantage Christian did not share. Though tempted to throw off the mail, he held. And listened.

There—a sound to the right. Either Sir Everard had crossed the cellar, a rodent scuffled amid the barrels of wine and sacks of grain, or the knight had tossed something to cause Christian to turn in the opposite direction.