Taming the Beast (29 page)

“How?” Roderick demanded weakly. “No man such as you was in my company; you are no Saracen that I faced. Never have I seen your loathsome countenance before, nor do I know your name.”

“I ride in
every
company of war,” the leader said in a quiet deadly voice. “And I have seen
your
face; I know
your
name.
Roderick of Cherbon
. Son of Magnus.”

Roderick's throat seemed to close on itself and he knew a gut-melting fear for Michaela's and his life. What kind of demon was this, who rode with the monsters he collected through war? Who hunted people on dark, quiet roads? Who set the evilest of beasts to feed upon humans?

But the leader addressed Roderick no more, turning his attention—to Roderick's great dread—to Michaela. His hand dipped into the neck slit of his chain shirt and in a moment he produced a small object, glowing gold through the cracks of his massive grip. He tossed it to Michaela and she caught it with both hands. Roderick looked down into her cupped palms and saw a tiny, perfect golden chest, no bigger than the very center of her palm.

“For my faithful Agatha,” the leader intoned. “Repayment for her bravery and steadfastness. She is your father's only gift—his wife, and his life.”

Then the leader's hand returned to his chest, and he plucked the metal ring from his shirt once more and held it up as if to look through it. It glowed gold again, like a small sun, and was now smooth and perfectly circular. After a moment, he tossed this, too, to Michaela. It was a wide, shining band now—as if made to fit the finger of a lady.

“For you, my daughter.” He smiled. “And when you don it this time, do not take it off.”

“Thank you,” Michaela whispered faintly.

Then the leader at last turned his blazing eyes back to Roderick. From deep within a bloody pouch tied to his saddle, he retrieved a dark, crumpled object. “You are missing some article of your dress, soldier,” he said mildly, and then tossed down the piece to Roderick. “I believe you already wear its mate?”

Roderick looked at the soft material in his hand—tallish, more a boot than a shoe, really. Rich brown leather, perhaps deerskin, worn nearly to the thinness of cloth. The sole was long and wide, the ties rough and thick. Roderick's stomach clenched as he realized this was the left boot to pair the one he still wore on his right foot.

Roderick did not miss the implied slight this otherworldly man had dealt him. But dare he tempt the demon's wrath by refusing it?

The leader sat his horse expectantly for several moments, until—as if he had read Roderick's mind—he said in a low, deadly voice, “Put it on, friend, lest I take offense.”

Roderick swallowed what was left of his pride and allowed Michaela to wordlessly help him to the soggy forest floor. He shook open the boot and pulled it over his stump, lacing up the long, worn leather as best he could. While he struggled with the ties, the leader looked around the black forest, seemed to listen with a frown.

“Alder!” he bellowed, and Roderick's mind went to the glowing white, fanged creature-man who stole away with Harliss, the source of those awful screams.

“Alder, I command thee!” the leader shouted again, his cries shaking the very ground. Then he let out a wild, evil-sounding howl, tossing his head and his long hair. “
Find him!
” he roared to the macabre band behind him.

Roderick and Michaela ducked together as the Hunt swarmed around them, over them, into the black forest.

The leader's horse pranced impatiently—
growled
. Roderick had never heard a horse growl like that in his life, and never would again.

“I have a killer to hunt,” the leader announced. “Get up. Go home. Forget. Live. You have earned your life and your peace. If you should see Alder, or mayhap a white wolf stalking the wood at night, I beg you, seek your shelter and pray to God that he does not smell your blood.”

Michaela helped Roderick to stand once more and face the looming shade—all that was left of the hellish Hunt. Michaela would not be able to support his weight for very long, he knew, but he would try as best he could to get them both away from this foul creature—and the perhaps even deadlier Alder, roaming the Cherbon wood somewhere at their vulnerable backs.

Roderick made a short bow to the seated giant. “My thanks, fellow soldier, for the gift.” It was an insulting present, yes, but both he and Michaela were as yet alive. It was enough. Roderick took one stiff hop toward Cherbon, jerking on Michaela's shoulders awkwardly.

But she would not move, her eyes pinned to the ethereal leader. “Who are you?” she asked in a frightened, desperate voice. “I must know.”

The rider stared at Michaela, and his terrifying mount pranced. From the wood behind them, screeches and howls burst from the monsters who rode with him, as if they had heard Michaela's simple query and dreaded the rider's answer.

“I am Justice,” he said to Michaela, and then looked to Roderick once more, a light of kinship in his eyes. A battle fever that Roderick had once known well. “I am War and Vengeance. I am Faith.” His eyes found Michaela's again. “I am your guardian.”

“But,” Michaela pressed, and Roderick wanted to beg her to hold her tongue. “What is your name?”

Roderick wanted to beg her because he knew. Even before the horse's blissful scream, before the massive, gray wings unfolded behind the rider's back and spread to a horrific, thunderous, twelve-foot span.

“I am Michael,”
the leader said, his whisper deafening in the stormy gale his announcement has sparked. Then, with a mighty flap of his angelic wings, Michael and his mount rose up from the road in a blast of wind and rain, sweeping over Roderick and Michaela and away into the wood, taking the glow of his presence, of his terrible, certain judgment, with him.

In an instant, Michael, his Wild Hunt, and the violent storm that accompanied them were gone.

Michaela fell against Roderick's chest, her sobs quiet and full of relief and understanding.

“It's all right now,” Roderick choked out over Michaela's head, holding her tighter than he ever had, kissing her crown, lifting her higher against him. “It's all right, my love. It's over, it's over.”

After a moment, Michaela raised her beautiful face to look into Roderick's eyes, and he was startled to see worry and confusion there.

“What is it?” he asked.

She eased out of his arms, her eyes never leaving his, and took two slow steps backward from Roderick.

They stared at each other for a long, long time, it seemed to Roderick. Both of them too afraid to speak, to look away. And then they both looked down.

Roderick stood firmly on the ground, in his own heavy, black boot, and one old, brown leather shoe.

Six months later
Cherbon Castle

It was a lovely feast, even
with
the pointing and whispering. Michaela was not once pushed out of line when she joined in a dance. And that wretched young woman who had once stuck out a slippered foot and caused her to fall, now sat at Michaela's side, along with Elizabeth Tornfield. Juliette and her stepdaughter were fast friends now, and their company was easy, genuine, and most welcomed by Michaela.

Michaela had not once made a fool of herself. But she thought that the evening was yet young, and the idea made her smile to herself.

Michaela caught a glimpse of her parents across the hall—her own hall, this time. As always, they were tied together at the arms, still wearing identical expressions of bliss. The only changes were the newly made, rich clothing they wore, and the little dark-haired boy clinging to Agatha's skirts. Her parents lived at Cherbon now, Lord Walter and his wife giving up their home as too much for them to manage. The small Fortune hold was now absorbed into Tornfield, and Michaela's parents were having the time of their lives in their new role as grandparents to Leo.

Although they lived at Cherbon, wore rich clothing, and planned on doing a bit of traveling, their expenses were not footed by Cherbon. No, indeed—they were quite independent, thanks to the little golden chest given to Michaela on Yule's Eve, the precious little box that had revealed itself to be more of a repayment than any of them could have ever imagined.

When Agatha had opened it for the first time, a single coin was nestled in a slit of cushioned velvet. Michaela's mother had given a soft cry of surprise, removed the coin, and snapped the lid shut, setting the trunk aside. She had been quite pleased.

“One coin, eh?” Walter Fortune had said ruefully, but then smiled at his wife's pleasure as he himself picked up the trunk. “Well, mayhap this piece is worth something. 'Tis finely made.” He had flipped open the lid with his thumb and his eyebrows raised as he pulled out another coin. He handed it to his wife. “You overlooked this one, my lady.”

Agatha had taken it with a sweet, confused frown. “I'm quite certain there was only—” She had stopped, taken the trunk, closed and opened the lid once more.

She withdrew another single coin.

And so it was to be, no matter how many times the trunk was opened and closed, whenever a coin was removed, another took its place. An endless amount of money, to do with what they needed and what they wished.

Even so, it had taken them three straight days of raising and lowering the little golden lid before they could pay the whole of their accumulated debts.

Agatha had never asked Michaela where she'd gotten the trunk, or why it had been given to her, and Michaela had not volunteered the information. There was no need.

Elizabeth Tornfield touched Michaela's arm, drawing her out of her happy reverie.

“Lady Michaela,” she said, and then pointed to where the musicians were clustered in a corner of the crowded hall. Gone was the insecure, speechless young girl, replaced by this striking, poised young woman. Michaela was so proud of her, and looked forward to seeing her grow fully into the lady she was fast becoming.

Roderick and Alan Tornfield were regarding Michaela with similar mischievous grins, and beckoned to her with their hands.

Elizabeth giggled. “I believe your talents are in demand.”

Michaela smiled again as she watched Alan Tornfield give her husband a “wait one moment” sign and then cross the hall to stand before her. Alan was so mindful now, of what he thought of as Roderick's physical limitations.

“You simply must, Michaela,” he said, and held out a hand to her, his blondness warm and soothing. The Tornfields were good friends of theirs now—family.

Across the hall, Michaela heard Leo cry happily, “Mama sing! Grandmamma, my mama
sing!
”

That was one summons Michaela could not refuse. She took Alan's hand and rose with a smile as anticipatory applause rang out through the hall.

 

Roderick hooked his walking stick over his elbow and brought his hands together with the rest of the guests as his wife made her way through the smiling crowd toward him. The cane was beautiful, carved ivory—a belated wedding gift from Sir Hugh Gilbert. Roderick's friend had sent it with word that he had found employ with a distinguished old lord who was a close advisor to King Henry, and they resided in London. Hugh seemed happy from his note, although he had not asked that Roderick call on him if ever he was in the city.

Perhaps one day, though…

Michaela was nearly to him now, and Leo joined her with his typical mad dash across the floor, tackling her legs and swinging about her skirts. Michaela swayed, hooted, and the crowd held their breath in anticipation of a tumble, but their applause grew when she righted herself and the boy with a smile.

She was so perfect. For him and Leo. For Cherbon.

Roderick could walk. He could not explain it, and in truth, he did not want to know the how of it. No other mortal save Michaela knew the truth about what had happened on the forest road that Yule's Eve six months ago, knew that Roderick could walk anywhere he chose now, with only a slightly noticeable limp. He could mount, he could spar—he had no need of the cane, really, only used it for the sake of their friends, and because it was a gift from Hugh.

As far as everyone else was concerned, Lord Roderick Cherbon was missing his leg from below his knee, down, and the soft, brown boot was a very expensive, very finely made prosthesis. He was not shamed by it—indeed, he now told everyone who asked that he had lost his leg at Heraclea. He was grateful that he had survived to return home and rule his demesne, raise his family—perhaps a growing family, if his suspicions were correct. He was a man—and a better man, for what he had lost.

What was truly beneath the brown boot—his own foot, or something frighteningly foreign—Roderick would never know. The boot was part of him now, as surely as his skin. And that was enough for him.

Michaela and Leo were almost upon him—his wife and his son—and her scent brought to mind the bunches of fresh spring flowers that were always present about the keep now—inside and out. At the graves on the knoll—even Magnus's—and perpetually filling the small chapel around the stone statue of the Archangel Michael, whose carved chain shirt bore a mysterious chipped mark over the heart.

Michaela held out her hands to Roderick, and the wide, smooth gold of her wedding band gleamed in the candlelight. He took them in his own and squeezed, his heart feeling whole and alive and healed. Michaela leaned up and kissed his scarred cheek.

“I sing this for you,” she whispered in his ear.

Leo was attempting to scramble up Roderick's leg for a better view, and so he scooped the boy onto his forearm, letting him hold the cane.

“Hoo's stick?” Leo asked.

Roderick nodded. “That's right.”

Leo kissed the handgrip and held it to his chest as he and his father gave their full attention over to the dazzling woman, named for an angel of war, who sang to them now.

And in the short time that the mesmerizing melody took flight from her tongue and floated on the air, bringing a heavy, grateful wetness to Roderick's eyes, everyone gathered in the hall seemed to realize they were seeing before them no Miss Fortune whatsoever, but a tiny glimpse of Heaven.

Perhaps the Cherbon Devil realized it most of all.