The YIELDING (35 page)

Why? Unfortunately, she would simply have to trust that Michael knew what was best. She looked to the horses. There, held by Squire Percival and standing more glorious than any destrier, was Sartan, a berth of space around him that no other horse boasted.

“Sartan is sufficiently healed for the ride?” Beatrix asked.

“Well enough to carry two,” Michael said as they entered the inner bailey.

For all the admiration due the noble beast, apprehension stole up Beatrix’s spine. Attempting to quiet her fear with reasoning—telling herself it was better astride Sartan with Michael than astride a milder horse alone as she had braced for—she pressed her shoulders back.

Michael led her forward. However, for all her show of surety, she trembled when he gripped her about the waist to hoist her into the saddle.

He paused, pulled her left hand from the bundle she carried, and laid it on Sartan’s muscled neck. “He knows you, Beatrix, and I shall be with you.” At her nod, he fit his hands to her waist again.

“D’Arci!” the sheriff exclaimed. “A horse has been provided for the lady.”

Michael settled her into the saddle and took the bundle from her. “She rides with me, Baron Tyrell.” He fit Lady Laura’s gift into a saddle bag.

The sheriff stepped alongside Michael. “This is unseemly.”

Though the man ranked well above him, Michael fit a foot in the stirrup and swung up behind Beatrix. “My apologies, Sheriff, but I will not argue the matter.” He accepted the reins that Squire Percival reached to him.

Baron Tyrell sighed. “As you will.”

Sir Robert, however, was immensely displeased. Upper lip curling to reveal discolored teeth, he stood at the base of the steps and stared at Michael and Beatrix.

She did not yield to his gaze, ardently vowing she would be the last to look away. And she was. Sneering, Sir Robert strode to his mount.

“Dear Lord,” Beatrix whispered, “enemies all around.”

But what of Sir Canute? She searched the dozen who took to their mounts and recognized an aged knight among them. It was Sir Hector who had fought Sir Ewen to the death. The same who, eager to resume his search for Gaenor, had not heeded Beatrix’s protest against leaving her alone with Sir Simon though the knight’s eyes and words had told he knew it was a risk. Still, he likely believed her to be a murderess. Had Lavonne ordered his man to be among her escort? Or had the knight volunteered? If the latter, did he seek retribution for Sir Simon’s death?

Sir Hector met her gaze. Though the encounter was brief, she glimpsed none of Sir Robert’s malice. Shortly, he and the others urged their mounts forward.

As Michael turned Sartan to follow, Sir Canute came into view where he sat astride his destrier before the inner drawbridge. He also wore armor. Despite the certainty that something was afoot, relief swept Beatrix to know Michael was not alone.

Passing over the drawbridge, he slid an arm around her and pulled her back against him. Though the hard links of his mail made for an uncomfortable seat, it felt more right than anything in the world. In Michael’s arms was where she belonged.

Distracted time and again from the watch he kept for Lavonne’s brigands, Michael silently cursed his arm around Beatrix’s waist that made him keenly aware of the first cradle their children would know. Now was not the time to be distracted, not with brigands awaiting their chance in the woods. Such a fool love made him!

He considered the stream they approached. Unfortunately, it was necessary for the horses to take water. Fortunately, Michael had thwarted Sir Robert’s earlier call to enter the wood by announcing they would rest further on where the stream ran deeper and clearer out of the wood, knowing it would be easier to defend against an attack in the open rather than amid the trees. Sir Robert had been most unhappy.

Beatrix looked over her shoulder. “Must we stop?”

Having sensed her growing trepidation during the long ride, Michael was momentarily surprised by her eagerness to reach Broehne. But perhaps she also sensed that they were followed.

“What bothers you, Beatrix?”

“What lies ahead. I wish the b-burden lifted from me.”

“It shall be.”

“When I think of all I have gained that I might now lose…”

Michael ached for her. “I shall not allow you to go to your death.”

No sooner did she ease against him than she stiffened. “What do you intend?”

He ground his teeth. “A trial I have promised, but there my word ends. Do you understand?”

Her nostrils flared, and he knew she feared that what he intended would bring him ill. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I will suffer no argument.”

“You should not show such affection!”

“Nor will I fear Lavonne.” Still, he looked over his shoulder to be sure there was no movement in the wood behind. Nothing of Lavonne’s brigands, nor of Michael’s men who rode watch there. God willing, the latter would overtake the former and Beatrix would be spared the knowledge of what they intended.

He looked back around and caught the gaze of several of their escort who were not quick enough to look away.

“They watch us,” Beatrix murmured.

“You think I care?”

“You ought to.”

“All will come ’round. You shall be my wife and the mother of our children.”

Beatrix searched Michael’s pale eyes and turned more determined that
she
would secure her release. Never again would she run from anyone, and certainly she would not suffer Michael to do so. She turned forward as the horses were reined in before the stream and tried to appreciate the sunlight that appeared between gathering clouds.

Though it took little time to water the horses, from the tension Michael exuded, it was as if he were being made to wait hours. Even Sir Canute and Squire Percival appeared eager to resume the journey. Not so for Sir Robert and several others. Leaving their destriers at the stream, they gathered a distance away and talked among themselves.

“To your mounts!” Michael called.

A protest rose from Sir Robert’s group.

“Not even a quarter hour is gone, D’Arci,” the sheriff said between chews of dried meat. “Another quarter hour will do no harm.”

Michael lifted Beatrix back into the saddle. “You may linger if you are so inclined.”

The sheriff hastened to his mount, as did the others.

“Something is amiss?” Beatrix asked as Michael fit a foot in the stirrup.

He settled behind her. “If we arrive late, it will bode ill to interrupt the baron’s supper.”

Nay, it was more than that.

As Michael turned Sartan from the stream, Beatrix looked to Sir Canute who held his back so straight it was as if it had been put through with a pole. And Michael was no less rigid. He put his arm around her, but before he turned his hand about her waist, he touched his sword hilt.

As he spurred Sartan forward, Beatrix considered the wood. What was there?

It would be nearly three hours before an answer was forthcoming.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Through the soft rain and gray of twilight that slowed their party to a trot, Beatrix peered from beneath her hood as the crumbling walls of Purley Abbey came into view. Though her escort likely paid little attention to the ruins, she could not look away. It was there she had begun to learn Michael. There he had first touched her. Did he remember?

When she looked around, his gaze told that he did.

“We shall pause there,” he said.

“For what?”

“For what I denied you.” He considered the beaten road, and she knew he touched his sword again as he urged Sartan to a gallop that carried them past their muddied entourage.

“Lord D’Arci!” the sheriff called.

With Sartan kicking up sodden earth that sprayed those behind, Michael guided the destrier off the road and up the incline.

“You are certain, my lord?” Sir Canute spoke above the rain as he and two other knights drew alongside.

“The better of two evils,” Michael said, continuing toward the abbey. “Be prepared.”

“Evils?” Beatrix asked. “Prepared for what, Michael?”

He halted Sartan before the nave and swung out of the saddle. Hood fallen back, rain flecking his hair, he said, “I shall return anon.”

“I will accompany you.”

He laid a hand on her knee and glanced at his knights where they halted to the left. “I would have you remain with Sir Canute.”

“D’Arci!” the sheriff called again as he and the others neared. “What do you?”

Michael adjusted his belt to bring the hilt of his sword nearer to hand, then stepped to Sartan’s head and clapped the destrier’s jaw. “I leave her in your care, my friend,” he murmured, then strode toward a portion of outer wall reduced to a height of less than three feet.

Beatrix watched him scale the crumbling wall and continue toward the breach in the ceiling of the crypt. Did he intend to go down into it? What was there that he believed he had denied her? However, he did not pause at the breach, though he did glance down as he passed.

Then she knew. He sought the psalter she had left in the chapel when he had forced her from the abbey. But there was something else to which he aspired: the better of two evils, and the reason he had so often touched his hilt throughout the ride.

When a rumble struck across the land, Beatrix thought it was thunder, but thunder did not rise to war cries, nor take the form of a score of riders who surged out of the wood behind the abbey.

Brandishing death beat of steel and honed to slaughter, the brigands swept toward them, and not even the absence of sunlight off blades could detract from the terrible sight. And Michael was at the center of it.

The fear Beatrix had refused to feel at Soaring gathered and panic struck at the realization that all she had gained these past weeks might now desert her…cripple her…once more make her a fool who could not turn her tongue around words. But then came anger. “Michael!”

Sword to hand, he lunged back the way he had gone. However, there was too much distance separating him from his destrier, and he was forced to come around amid the ruins to fend off the first rider who leapt the opposite wall.

Though fear urged Beatrix to dismount when Sartan hooved the ground, sense made her abandon her sidesaddle pose. Yanking up her skirts, she tossed a leg over Sartan and straddled him.

“Canute!” Michael shouted. “Get her away from here!”

As the knight reached for Sartan’s reins, Beatrix searched out the remainder of the entourage. The sheriff wielded his sword, as did several others, including Squire Percival, but Sir Robert and his group were slow to react. Indeed, the knight appeared more intent on her than the brigands.

Sir Canute dragged on Sartan’s reins to turn him. With a snort and a toss of its massive head, the big horse sidled away.

A moment later, the crash of swords defiled the murmur of rain. As Beatrix watched Michael turn his blade off the sword of a man who swung steel from atop a horse, another brigand spurred toward him, while a dozen others set themselves at Beatrix and her escort. And more riders came out of the wood. It seemed hopeless until she realized that the newest arrivals were not brigands. They were Michael’s men, surely set to follow at a distance in the event of an attack.

Feeling Sartan strain against Sir Canute’s urging, then shift his weight backward, Beatrix gripped the pommel and tightened her thighs.

Sartan reared, causing her hood to fall back and the reins to tear free of Sir Canute’s hand. Upon his return to the ground, the great destrier pulled right and lunged away.

Beatrix held on as the beast gathered its legs beneath him, but then she saw Michael. Whereas moments earlier he had faced two brigands, now there was one. Though she had never wished death on anyone, she prayed he would drive down another to the dark abyss from which such evil was bred.

“My lady!” Sir Canute shouted as he attempted to overtake Sartan. “The reins!”

The muddied ground rushing below her, she raised her head as the destrier rounded a mighty oak that grew between it and the road—the road that would take her away from Michael.

She caught the reins and threw her weight back, causing Sartan to halt and jerk his head side to side. As she attempted to turn him back toward the abbey, Sir Canute neared. And behind him came brigands.

The knight dragged his mount around and swept his sword up to fend off the first attacker. Though his swordsmanship was apparent with the first blow, the brigand seemed a fair match.

Beatrix looked to the others who came for her and caught a glimpse of a rider who sought to overtake her pursuers—Sir Hector, the aged knight who had abandoned her to Sir Simon’s vile attentions. He was also setting himself at her? No sooner did the dread thought strike than he landed a death blow to one of the brigands.

“Beatrix!” Michael’s shout rose above the grind and clatter of steel.

She saw him leap the fallen wall. Rain-purified sword showing no evidence of the men it had put through, he ran toward her. It was then more riders came out of the wood.

Mother Mary!
Surely Michael and her escort could not—