Chapter Thirty-Three

A lyce's shoulders felt especially heavy with foreboding this eve. The day had started with bad news, and something in her gut told her more was to come.

She looked at the tiny boy asleep on a pallet of blankets next to the floor with Ffyddlon lying protectively at his side.

"What am I to do with him, Edna?" Alyce asked as the older women tidied the chamber and set out Alyce's night rail and robe.

Edna stopped what was doing to look down at the sleeping form. "'Tis a sad situation, my lady," was all she had to say before she continued her duties.

Janet had died that very morning of the flux. When Alyce had seen her a week earlier in the hall, it wasn't exertion that had flushed her cheeks and put a sheen of sweat on her pale skin. The poor woman had contracted dysentery, along with several others in the village and even more in the army camps set up outside the castle wall. Janet was one of four people who had succumbed to the disease.

Now the child was left motherless, and it was up to Alyce to determine what was to happen with Henry as Janet had no family to take on the boy. In truth, Alyce was likely the closest thing to a relative Henry had. Geoffrey was dead but Henry was his son, and she was his wife, and that made Henry her stepson. She was still trying to accept the bizarre twist of fate, and she was still uncertain what she planned to do for his future, but for the time being, she would see to his wellbeing with the help of Edna and Gertie.

And Ffyddlon.

The dog seemed to sense the little boy was in need of protection and comfort, and she had refused to leave his side. For his part, Henry had latched on to Ffyddlon with equal bravado.

"Can you stay with him for a while, Edna?" Alyce asked. "The moon is high, and I need to clear my head."

"Aye, my lady," Edna responded, reaching for a cloak hanging from a peg on the wall. She helped Alyce into the warm garment, then pulled the ermine-trimmed hood up over her hair. "Do not catch a chill, dear," she warned.

Alyce pulled the heavy wool tight around her body as she stepped onto the parapets. A cold wind swirled the light dusting of snow on the stones and chilled her nose. As she had done nearly every night since Hawk had left, she walked to the stretch of the parapets that overlooked the hill and forest to the west of the castle, in the direction of Wales. It was the same hill and forest where Cynwulf had met with the rebels just a fortnight ago, though it felt more like months now.

She stood on the parapet, looking out over the castle wall toward the western road and scanning the crest of the hills on either side of the road, searching for any sign of Hawk and his men returning. Five days had passed since he'd ridden out in the middle of the night to find Llywelyn's camp.

This evening, a messenger had arrived for the queen just before supper. Llywelyn was dead, but Daffydd eluded capture. The king's army was moving to Oswestry Castle to continue the offensive, and she was to join him there. A contingent of his men would arrive on the morrow to accompany the queen and her guard for the journey.

No message had arrived from Hawk. And there was no mention of Cynwulf.

If Daffydd eluded capture, then perhaps Cynwulf still lived. But for what end? If he remained with Daffydd, the king would surely capture him and kill him; if he was fortunate, he would not be tortured before being put to death. His only chance at living a long life was if he fled Britain. She would never see him again, but he would be safer.

The foreboding from earlier had settled deep into her bones, and she could not rid herself of the fear the day was not yet done. The moon was nearly full, and it hung low in the sky, illuminating the landscape as though it were the middle of a bright summer day. The trees had shed their leaves for winter, leaving nothing but spindly branches reaching for the sky and offering little protection to the ground below. The moonlight reflected off the fresh snow blanketing the forest floor, amplifying every shadow, every movement among the trees.

If Hawk and his men returned, they would come by the west road. If Cynwulf were to be so foolish as to return, he would come by the forest. Every time a deer stepped from behind a tree to walk carefully to the shelter of the next tree, Alyce's heart leaped. Her stomach churned and she could not stand still. She paced the high castle wall back and forth, watching and waiting.

And then she saw him.

He was standing on the edge of the forest at the crest of the hill. He was nothing more than a shadow, but she knew it to be Cynwulf.

She looked to the guards standing at their posts along the parapets. They had not seen him yet, but it was only a matter of time before they noticed him.

Cynwulf started to descend the hill along the same path Alyce, Hawk, Red, and Hunter had returned the night her brother left with the Welshmen. His steps looked jerky, as though it took effort to remain on his feet.

Alyce started to run along the parapet toward the stairs to the yard, her eyes trained on Cynwulf, just as the guards called out a warning of a lone man approaching the castle. A heartbeat later, the guards started yelling more warnings and Alyce looked over her brother's shoulder to see men emerging from the woods, one on horseback and the other on foot.

Another movement caught her eye coming from the direction of the road. A group of riders was galloping toward the castle but veered off the road. Six of the riders were climbing the hill toward the men behind Cynwulf, and a lone rider was bearing down on her brother at top speed.

It was Hawk; she could recognize him as easily as she'd recognized Cynwulf.

Alyce's heart lodged in her throat, cutting off her breath and she turned to steady herself against the parapet as Hawk jumped from his horse, sword in hand, to face her brother. She fought with herself, wanting to turn away from the inevitable clash, but she reminded herself she was the Lady of Hawkspur, and the king had taught her a harsh lesson. So she pushed her hood back from her face to better see the melee erupting in front of her.

The six riders had not drawn their swords, but they were riding in circles around the men from the forest, impeding their progress toward Cynwulf. Her brother had drawn his sword and was facing off with Hawk.

She wanted time to stop, wanted all of this to be a horrible dream and not a reality unfolding in front of her eyes. Her knees went weak with fear—fear for her brother, fear for Hawk, fear her life was about to spin out of her control again.

A sharp clang broke through the night air. Cynwulf spun from the force of Hawk's sword striking against his. Lifting the hems of her cloak and gown in her hands, she ran to the guard tower and down the stairs toward the postern gate.

Guards were emerging from the barracks, clad in armor and pulling on their helms, readying themselves to face whatever danger lay beyond the castle gate. More guards were swarming across the bailey to the walls and towers, preparing for the worst.

Alyce pushed between the armored men—hampered by their heavy armor and helms—and ran as fast as she could to the small gate behind the kitchen. She had to get to Hawk and her brother before the guards entered the conflict.

She ducked through the gate and started up the hill, ignoring the calls of the guards while praying it was not too late for Cynwulf.

*

"You are a fool, Cynwulf," Hawk yelled, balancing his sword in front of him. "Why did you come back here? Do you want to see your sister killed?"

Cynwulf had removed his armor, facing him now in only a gambeson with a dark patch of blood soaking through the quilted material on his left shoulder. Hawk had seen him get injured in the battle with Daffydd and Llywelyn and watched as Daffydd fled to safety after Llywelyn was killed, leaving Cynwulf behind to face the English with the rest of the Welsh rebels not able to escape quickly enough. When the battle was over, and Cynwulf was nowhere to be found, Hawk feared the fool would try to make his way to Hawkspur, heedless of the danger he brought with him.

"I love my sister," Cynwulf said, his sword listing to the side as his left arm weakened from the shoulder wound. "I just want to see her one more time."

Hawk tipped his chin toward his wounded shoulder. "That will not kill you." He'd seen enough men wounded in battle to know which blows were deadly. "If it does, it will be from infection, and that death will not come quick enough to save you from King Edward."

"Then you will have to kill me," Cynwulf said. "But not before—"

Hawk had been watching his own men over Cynwulf's shoulder, gaging how much longer they could hold off Sheriff Montworth and his band of enforcers. Everyone knew there was a hefty price on Cynwulf's head if he was captured and brought to the king, including Montworth. The odious man would not care that Alyce would be forced to watch her brother tortured and hanged, as long as he collected his reward.

When Cynwulf stopped midsentence, his eyes focusing on something beyond Hawk, he knew it could only be for one of two reasons: either guards were pouring from the castle and coming in their direction, or Alyce had managed to come down from her place on the wall and was trying to get to her brother.

"You've seen Alyce," Hawk said, striking Cynwulf's blade with his own to antagonize him, goading him into lunging at him. "You couldn't have missed her on the parapet in that white cloak. She cannot help you unless you want to see her hanging from a rope at your side."

Hawk dared a quick look behind him and saw her running toward them, her red hair billowing out behind her like a flaming banner in sharp contrast to the white of her cloak. His heart sank at the sight, but he knew it was inevitable. She would not stay away if there was a chance to see her brother.

Time was critical now. He only had a few moments to end this, or Alyce would be forced to suffer more than she already had.

"Do you love her?" Cynwulf asked, lifting his sword to point it in Hawk's direction again.

Hawk nodded once. "I do, but we both know it will mean nothing when this is over."

"Then let Montworth kill me, or one of your men."

"Montworth has no intention of killing you. He will take you alive for the reward. If you do not want your sister to see you tortured, then we must do this now." Hawk looked to where his men were skirmishing with Montworth's men, then back at Alyce. She was too close and would be to them in a matter of a few moments.

"I want to die with what dignity I have left," Cynwulf said. "I just wish she did not have to see it."

"I do this because I love her, not because I think you deserve the honor of a quick death." Hawk held his sword high with one hand. "If you want to die fighting, then take your aim now."

Cynwulf aimed his sword at Hawk's chest and lunged forward with what strength he had left. Hawk easily sidestepped the attack, as Cynwulf knew he would, and brought his sword around to cut cleanly through the tender flesh under his ribs. Cynwulf dropped his sword to the ground to clutch his side, but he did not look at Hawk. His eyes were focused on his sister, running toward him with her arms outstretched and a scream on her lips.

Hawk watched her coming closer, never taking his eyes from her as he pulled his sword back, then drove the blade through Cynwulf's chest. The wound in his gut was a killing blow; it would take a short but agonizing time for him to die while he choked on his own blood. The blade through the chest drained the last of his life from him and put an end to his suffering.

Then Alyce was there, catching Cynwulf as he fell, her face contorted with pain as tears streamed down her face. She wrapped her brother in her arms and crumpled to the ground with him, sobbing, "No, no, no." She buried her face in her brother's hair and rocked his lifeless body as his blood soaked into her white cloak, turning it and the snow beneath them red.

Hawk felt his heart splintering in his chest and feared for the space of a heartbeat that a sword had been driven through him from behind. But it was heartbreak cutting through him with a pain, unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He wanted to go to Alyce, to take her in his arms and tell her what he'd done was the only way to save her brother from being tortured and to save her from having to witness it. He wanted to tell her he loved her and beg her to forgive him, to tell her what he could do to make it right again. But he knew none of it would matter.

She had not looked at him as she ran to her brother in those last moments, and she did not look at him now as he laid a hand over her shoulder in a gesture of pity, but he did not know what else to do.

He turned at the sound of pounding hoofbeats and men yelling. His men had abandoned the men chasing Cynwulf and circled around Hawk, Alyce, and Cynwulf protectively as Montworth and his men closed in on them.

"Grogan!" Montworth yelled from atop his horse, his men panting heavily as they ran down behind him. "What have you done?"

Hawk pushed forward to face Montworth, his dripping sword still in his hand. "I have killed a traitor in the name of the king."

"I wanted my reward," Montworth sneered at him, bringing his horse to a stop an arm's length in front of him. "You did not have to kill him!"

"Do you challenge my decision?" Hawk asked through gritted teeth, lifting his sword in front of him. His blood was pulsing through his veins, anger making him reckless. "Draw your sword and face me if you dare challenge me."

The cowardly sheriff backed his horse away from Hawk, glaring at him. "You will regret this," he'd barked, then turned and rode back up the hill, his men puffing along behind him.

Hawk turned back to see that Hawkspur's guard was nearly upon them. He went to Alyce and kneeled at her side, but she would not look at him. Still rocking her brother's body, she simply said, "Go," without lifting her head.

He did as she asked, motioning for his men to retreat as he swung up into the saddle of his stallion. He galloped to the road, then turned and watched the guards lift Cynwulf's body and escort Alyce back to the castle. When the heavy wooden gate closed behind them, he commanded his horse with a press of his heels and rode away from Hawkspur.

He'd been a fool not to tell her he loved her before he rode out of Hawkspur's gates less than a sennight before. He had thought then it was more important to make things right with the king, to first earn his trust back and then request permission to marry Alyce—if she would have him. He did not want to tell her he loved her until he could have her completely.

Now that decision filled him with regret. Had he truly believed then that he would stop loving her if the king had refused his request? He would walk through fire to get to her, with or without the king's blessing.

But it was too late. How could she feel anything but loathing for him after he killed her brother?

He would love her until he drew his last dying breath, and she would hate him until she drew hers.