Word of Honor (Knights of Valor Book 1) (5 page)

Merryn
awoke with a start, unsure where she was. A low moan sounded in her ear. She
sat up.

And saw
Geoffrey pinned to the tree.

An arrow
penetrated his right shoulder, holding him fast in place.

“Sweet
Jesu!” She jumped to her feet.

“Must be a
stray shot from the hunt,” he mumbled. He strained his neck trying to look at the
arrow.

She looked
around. “No one’s within sight. Surely if ‘twas an accident, someone would step
forth to render aid.”

His eyes
met hers. “Not if ‘tis a coward. A true man would live up to his mistake.” He
looked into the woods that lay beyond them. “Only a coward would run after such
an accident.”

Merryn
leaned in to examine his shoulder and felt about the wound. Her fingers gently
pressed around the injured flesh.

“’Tis gone
through the fleshy part of your shoulder. Not the bone. That is good news.” She
thought it awful, but she wanted to keep his spirits up as she watched the
agony growing on his face.

“In war, I
learned to break off the shaft, then the arrow should be pulled out in the same
direction and the wound seared with a hot knife.”

He tugged
on it. “My left hand is too weak to dislodge it.” He grimaced at the effort. “I
swear I shall build up the strength in that hand to equal my right. Whether in
sword play or love play, my left will do whatever the right can.”

“Let me see
what I can do.” Merryn tugged with all her might, but the arrow had sunk deeply
into the tree. She sank to her knees next to him.

She was
afraid what might happen if she did dislodge it. She knew an arrowhead was
secured to the stripped branch using tendons and sinews. Once it hit a man or
beast and became wet from blood and fluids, it would loosen and separate from
the shaft. If she pulled and only the shaft slipped free, the arrowhead left
behind could prove disastrous. Thanks to its rough edges, any movement could
inflame and aggravate the injury.

That could turn
into an abscess. And infection.

Which could
lead to death.

She
couldn’t lose Geoffrey. Not after waiting so long for him to come home. Not
after what she had discovered about love last night. She refused to.

No one had
emerged from the woods to claim responsibility. Merryn feared whoever shot the
arrow had no idea what a catastrophe he’d created.

“You must
go for help,” he told her. “I cannot move. ‘Tis barely a trickle of blood that
flows. The arrow has plugged the wound for now.” He took her hand and gave her
an encouraging smile. “I shall be fine, my love, as long as I don’t move about
over much. I will wait for you patiently to bring back others. You are the
healer. You know what ‘twill be needed once I am freed.”

She tried
to put on a brave face, but a few tears escaped. Geoffrey wiped them away with
his thumb and cradled his palm against her cheek.

Merryn leaned
in and kissed him. “I won’t be gone long.” She gave him a smile. “And this
little scratch shall not be an excuse for you to lay abed and boss me about as
some invalid might dare.”

He returned
her smile. “Nay. I fear I shall never be able to order you about.” He reached
for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “’Tis I who will always dance to your tune,
Wife.” He brushed his lips against her knuckles.

She covered
him with the blanket from their feast and left wine within his reach in case he
grew thirsty. She mounted Destiny and gave Geoffrey a cheery wave before she
turned and rode like the wind back to Kinwick.

The tears
flowed freely now. She pushed aside her fears. She couldn’t think about what
might happen. She needed to make sure of what did happen. And that was bringing
back enough men to free her husband.

Merryn made
a mental list of the things she would need to treat him, both at the spot upon
his release and once she had him back safely in their bed at Kinwick. Once they
unlocked him from the tree, she would need clean cloths to staunch the
bleeding. She wondered if it would be wise for him to ride since that might jar
the wound and cause excessive bleeding. But a litter might take too much time.  

She prayed
as if she never had before, imploring the Christ to help her make the right
decisions and keep him alive. He was a good man—the best of men—and he would be
an excellent lord to the people of Kinwick.

And the
best of husbands.

Merryn
thought she’d loved Geoffrey while he was away. His image often came to her in
quiet moments, bringing her a great longing to be in his presence. But now they
were married? Sharing a physical love that joined them as one had deepened her
girlish adoration to a new plain. She would do anything in her power to protect
this man of hers.

Anything.

After a
long, hard ride, she came within sight of the castle, breaking from the forest
to cross the meadow. To her left, a group of riders emerged from the woods. She
recognized the hunting party, which must be returning to the keep.

Merryn dug
her heels in and urged Destiny on.

She spied
Geoffrey’s cousin Raynor and his father Ferand and rode straight toward them.
She began waving her arms and calling out. They halted their horses at first,
then both men rode to meet her.

“’Tis
Geoffrey,” she said, her breath coming in gasps. She paused and swallowed,
slowing her breathing, trying to remain calm.

Raynor gave
her an impish grin. “We noticed the two of you appeared to have become lost. I
knew—”

“No!” she
cried. “’There’s been an accident. Geoffrey’s hurt.” Quickly, she explained
what had happened and how the arrow had penetrated his shoulder and bound him
to the tree.

“We shall
ride at once to the hunting lodge,” Ferand said.

“I’ll need
my bag of herbs and cloth to bind the wound once you’ve freed him from the
tree. And a knife. I shall need to make an incision and enlarge the entry wound
so I can slide my finger down the shaft. It will allow me to feel the depth of
his wound and see if any of the arrowhead has lodged in his bone.”

“You’ll
need to try and remove the head and shaft as one piece,” Raynor said. “I can
help with that. I’ve done it after a battle twice now.”

“I’ll send
someone back to Kinwick for what you need.” Ferand motioned to a rider and gave
him instructions what to get and where to bring it. The man took off. Ferand
sent all but a gathered few back to the castle, and the group turned their
horses in the direction of the lodge.

They made
better time returning with Ferand leading the way. He knew a few shortcuts that
Merryn hadn’t, so they reached the lodge more quickly on their return trip.
Mystery stood where Geoffrey had left the horses.

But
Geoffrey was gone.

“He was
here,” Merryn insisted. “We both tried to free him. He couldn’t possibly have
done it himself.”

“Maybe he
loosened it and is now inside,” Raynor suggested.

She sprang
from her horse and ran into the small abode. “Geoffrey! Geoffrey! Where are
you?” The ground floor was empty. She raced up the stairs to check both bedchambers.
Her husband was nowhere in sight.

Fear washed
through her.

Merryn
hurried down the stairs and returned to where the men gathered under the tree,
examining it.

“’Tis some
blood on the bark. And here. Some on the ground,” Raynor pointed out. “Mayhap
someone happened by and helped him. But who?”

“And where
is he?” Ferand spat out. “Why not take him on his horse?”

“He knew I
was going for help. He would not have left here,” Merryn insisted. Her stomach
twisted painfully.

“Mayhap
he’s been taken back to Kinwick,” one man suggested.

“Let us
return at once,” Ferand commanded.

They
mounted their horses and rode hard back to the castle. As the hooves echoed,
nausea filled Merryn. Something wasn’t right.

Geoffrey
wasn’t at Kinwick. No one from the gatekeeper to the servants in the Great Hall
had seen him since that morning.

Ferand
immediately organized a group of search parties to go out and hunt for his son.

Raynor took
her aside. “I am a great tracker. I
shall
find him, Merryn. Never you
worry. Have faith.”

She watched
the men ride out. Hours later, she still stood rooted to the same spot in the
bailey as each group returned with nothing to report. No signs of Geoffrey. Anywhere.

It was as
if he’d vanished off the face of the earth.

Geoffrey
sat under the large oak, dealing with the dull throbbing in his shoulder. He’d quickly
figured out how to breathe in a shallow manner so as not to move his body. It
seemed more an inconvenient ache versus real pain at the moment.

But he knew
that wouldn’t last. Once Merryn returned and had help in removing the arrowhead,
it would be a different story.

She
wouldn’t be gone long. He would pass the time thinking of happier things. He
was grateful to be home from the wars in France. He had married a beautiful,
spirited woman. They had a lifetime ahead of them. He’d been groomed for war
but now at home, his father could tutor him on all the intricacies of running a
vast estate such as Kinwick, for one day he would be its lord and must keep it
thriving.

A snapping
noise drew his attention to where Mystery stood. He watched a stranger step
from the woods. Possibly a soldier from his bearing.

But as the
man approached, something in his eyes told Geoffrey he should not trust him.

“Spot of
trouble yer in? Mayhap I can help.”

He held his
left arm out stiffly, his palm facing the man to halt his progress. “My wife
has gone for help.”

The stranger’s
eyes gleamed. “I know. I saw her leave.”

A rush of
adrenaline flooded him. This man could not be trusted. Then he understood.

“You put
this arrow in me,” he said, his tone flat.

“That I
did, my lord,” the man confirmed, an evil smile playing about his lips. “A nice
crossbow accomplished the task.” He crossed his arms against his broad chest. “Stronger
than a bow and arrow. More force behind it. Had plenty of practice in Aquitaine
with it. You might say I’m a true master of the weapon.”

Geoffrey sensed
something behind him. He turned his head since his body was pinned fast. He
caught a blur—another man—who crashed something into his head with great force.

Bright
stars exploded against a field of black. The world spun about him. A second
blow came.

And then
the darkness.

***

Geoffrey
awakened, a loud roar whirling in his head, making him dizzy and nauseated. His
shoulder screamed out in pain, competing for his attention.

He forced
his eyes open and saw darkness with but small shafts of light around him. A
constant bump jostled him. He was being brought down a flight of stairs.

Into a
dungeon.

He spied a
young boy in front of him and wondered who he was. The boy looked over his
shoulder once, and their eyes met. Then he turned away and hurried down the
last of the stairs.

When they
reached the bottom, the earl of Winterbourne awaited them.

He fought
to make sense of the scene.

“Go. Get
the healer, Hardwin. Be quick about it. And not a word to anyone lest I flay
the skin from your back,” he threatened.

Hardwin.
That was Berold’s youngest. Geoffrey thought him about ten and two. With
Barrett’s death, he would be heir to Winterbourne.

The boy
rushed past, not meeting Geoffrey’s eye when he passed.

Now the two
soldiers who held fast to him dragged him down the remaining steps and brought
him into a cell. They pitched him on the floor. One cuffed his wrists to
shackles chained to the wall while the other locked restraints around both his
ankles. They stepped from the cell but left the door ajar.

His eyes
adjusted to the dim light. Only a couple of wall sconces flickered.

“Excellent
work,” Berold praised. “I must be certain, though, for ‘tis a sensitive matter
you’ve been entrusted to this day. You’ve told no one of your task? Not another
soldier . . . nor a pretty serving wench?” He looked from one man to the other.

“Nay, my
lord,” they answered in unison.

“That must
remain so. I thank you heartily for your labor this day. You will receive your
just reward in time. Leave—and tell no one what you participated in.”

The men
nodded and turned to depart the dungeon. Before they’d taken two steps away,
Berold drew his sword from its sheath and moved to the one on the right.
Without warning, he swung the sword behind the man’s back and sliced his head
clean off.

The second
of the pair turned, a look of horror upon his face. Berold ran his sword into
the man’s gut and twisted it. He yanked it out as the soldier fell to his
knees, blood bubbling from his lips. Then he fell face down.

Geoffrey
watched in shock. The earl acted so swiftly, the violence was over before he
could even shout a warning.

He watched
as Berold dragged each body off into the darkness a good ways away before he
retrieved the severed head and tossed it in the same direction.

The
nobleman returned and stared at him. “Let the rats feed on their remains and
their bones turn to dust.” He stepped into the small cell. “No one—
no one
—can
know you are here.”

A sinking
feeling overpowered him. Geoffrey sat mute, only starting to comprehend the
evil plan unfolding.

He heard
voices approach from a distance.

“’Twill be
my healer. She will get the arrowhead from you. She will tend the wound.
There’s magic in her old fingers.” Berold studied him. “I’ve heard said many
times over that you are a man of your word. Give me your word now that you will
allow her to care for you and not harm her in any manner.”

Geoffrey
knew that to escape, he must live. And to live, this arrowhead must be removed
and the wound tended to so that infection wouldn’t set in. He needed the skills
of this healer.

“On my word
of honor, I vow she shall not come to any harm by my hand.”

As he
finished speaking, Berold stepped from the cell. Geoffrey saw Hardwin and the
healer had arrived. She moved into the cell, a bag in one hand and a knife
gleaming in the other. No words were spoken between them as she shoved a wadded-up
cloth into his mouth.

She called
for the boy and light. He stepped forward, holding a lantern high. She cut into
his flesh. Geoffrey groaned into the cloth. Her fingers probed. Indescribable
pain shot white lightning through him. He thought the agony would never end.

He must
have passed out. His eyes opened. The cloth sat in his lap. The healer finished
her last stitches and then packed a poultice onto his shoulder. Winding cloth
round and round his shoulder and arm, she secured it. She picked up her goods
and left. No dismissal was necessary. In the silence, he heard her slow tread up
the stone steps, echoing till it ceased. A faint grating noise occurred. He assumed
she shut a door from far above.

Hardwin had
exited after her. He stood cowering in the shadows, having left the lantern in
the cell.

“Come,”
Berold commanded, motioning his son with two fingers. Hardwin moved to stand
next to his father. Berold placed an arm about the trembling boy.

“Look upon
the man who murdered your brother. He tells the tale another way, but he knows
what he took from me.”

Berold took
a step closer, bringing the reluctant boy along with him.

“This man
took my beloved son from me,” he hissed. “My heir who would one day rule
Winterbourne. I shall now take from him.” He spat upon the ground in distaste.

“Yesterday
was the happiest day of this man’s life, Hardwin. The rest of his life will be
lived here. In darkness. In loneliness. In misery.”

Icy fear
coursed through Geoffrey’s veins. Berold must be mad to think he could get away
with such a scheme.

“I shall
feed him every day. Enough to survive. I don’t want to kill you,” he said
conversationally. “You must live many years. In suffering and anguish. To atone
for what you did to my boy. My flesh and blood.”

The earl
turned and gripped his son’s shoulders roughly, shaking him. “You must never,
ever, come here again, Hardwin.
No one
shall know what became of this
man. Not your mother. Not your sisters.”

He paused.
“And upon my death?
You
shall take over and do the same. If he lives,
then
your
son shall do the same. Until the bastard is dead.”

He released
Hardwin and looked back at Geoffrey. “You stole the life of my eldest. Now I’ll
steal your life. I allowed you to have a wedding day so you would know what you
were missing as you spent days and weeks and months and years, here in this
prison. You’ll grow old and never see another face but mine.

“Your
comely wife will either go mad with grief at your unexplained disappearance, or
she’ll grow old before her time. Her beauty will wither. Emptiness will fill
her heart. And she, too, will die, sad and alone, wondering what happened to
her handsome husband. You’ll never even hear your name again. For down here,
you are no one.”

Berold
moved his hand in a sweeping gesture.

“Welcome to
your new home.”