Chapter Twelve

I t was late morning when Robert arrived. The man's expression appeared grim, but the soldiers brought both of them up from the pit. Though Brian wanted to ask whether Robert had gained an audience for them, something made him hold his silence. Tension radiated from his friend, and he feared the worst.

Velaria did her best to tame her hair and smooth her gown. Even so, he could see the terror in her eyes as they walked together.

Robert led them towards the king's tent while soldiers flanked them on all sides. Along the way, Brian considered what he could say to his father. He wished he had a ring or a token that would prove without a doubt that he was John's son. But he had nothing except Lady Rochelle's word. There was no way to know whether the king would accept him.

And he needed that status, beyond all else, to protect Velaria from harm.

She gripped his hand as they walked together, and he murmured, ‘It will be all right. I promise you.' He would do everything in his power to guard her. Already, they had sent word to the MacEgans, hoping that King Patrick could intervene in some way.

They walked alongside hundreds of tents, past men who were sharpening their weapons while others stood beside outdoor hearths. It was clear that the king had come not only to subdue any Norman rebellions, but also to display a show of force among the Irish kings.

After several minutes of walking, they finally reached the king's tent and were forced to wait outside for their audience. Velaria's face paled, and she admitted, ‘I'm afraid, Savas.'

So was he, but he tried not to show it. Instead, he raised their joined hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles in silent reassurance.

When at last they were allowed entrance into the king's tent, they both bowed before him. King John stood on the far end of the tent, with a golden goblet in one hand. He motioned for them to come forward, and at last, Brian had his first look at the man who was his father. He recognised his own nose in the king's features, along with his eyes. For a moment, he felt the sudden yearning for recognition in the hope that his father would see him as a man of worth.

But for now, the king's attention was fixed upon Robert.

‘Dunbough claims that you are both loyal subjects of the crown and that you have come to beg our mercy,' the king began. ‘We will hear what he has to say.'

Brian released her hand and straightened. ‘My liege, I—'

‘You were not given permission to speak,' the king interrupted. ‘Only Robert of Dunbough.' The swift dismissal made it clear that the monarch had no interest in him. And a part of him faltered.

Robert stepped forward then and bowed. ‘Your Excellency, I would like to introduce Brian of Penrith to you.' His tone remained careful as he continued, ‘I believe you once knew his mother, Lady Rochelle of Banmouth. And his sister is my wife, Morwenna.'

The king's expression narrowed, but in his eyes, Brian only saw irritation and a trace of boredom. ‘You are implying that this man is our son, is that it?'

‘He is,' Robert answered. ‘And he has come to pledge his loyalty to Your Grace.'

Brian dropped to one knee, his head lowered. But even as he humbled himself before the monarch, his own frustration deepened. He had made no demands of the king except to offer his loyalty.

King John continued, ‘You hope that if we acknowledge you as our son, we will forgive your wife's crimes, is that it?'

Brian stepped forward but kept his head lowered, realising that John truly didn't care that he was his bastard son. The invisible blow clenched within him, though he should have expected this.

A quiet voice inside him seemed to say, You were born a serf. And you'll die a serf.

He had been too hopeful that King John would be glad to have another son. Instead, it seemed that his life held no meaning for the man, just as he'd feared. For a moment, Brian considered the implications of the king's dismissal. For so long, he'd dreamed of finding his father and filling that emptiness inside him. He'd wanted to believe that the king would help him protect Velaria.

Now he saw the truth of it. King John didn't care. Another bastard son meant nothing to him at all. And Brian knew it was better if he relied upon his own skills to save his wife. He would pay any price to keep her safe.

With his head lowered, he chose his words carefully. ‘Your Grace, my wife was attacked, along with the King of Laochre's daughter, Mairead. Velaria only defended them, as was her right.'

‘Do you expect me to believe that a mere woman killed Lord Marwood?' the king snapped.

Brian ignored the question and continued, ‘Her grandfather, the Earl of Ardennes, was also loyal to Your Grace. As is her father, Sir Ademar of Dolwyth.'

The king's expression turned shrewd. ‘Then what do you suggest should be her punishment for their deaths?'

Brian moved beside Velaria and took her hand in his. He sensed that the king's fury would not be appeased, but there was one way he could plead for her life. And if it ended badly, at least she would be safe.

‘As her husband, I will shoulder the blame for what happened in the past. Let your judgement fall upon me.'

‘No.' Velaria turned to the king. ‘Please, Your Grace. I never intended to harm anyone.'

‘Four of our men died at your hands.' King John's voice turned rigid. ‘It was no accident, Velaria of Ardennes. And the punishment for murder is death.'

The words seemed to drift within the air, and Brian could hardly grasp what he was hearing. The king had no intention of showing mercy—he intended to make an example of Velaria. And Brian didn't know if there was anything he could do to gain the monarch's favour.

A thin smile spread over John's face as he regarded him. ‘Do you still wish to take her punishment?'

Velaria saw the look of resolution upon her husband's face, and she could already read his intentions. But she would not let him take her death sentence. Not without a fight of her own.

‘Your Grace, I beg for your mercy,' she began. ‘My family has ties to the MacEgan tribe. The King of Laochre is a powerful ally of yours. He has but one daughter, and—'

‘My alliance with Patrick of Laochre will not forgive the lives you took.' The King shook his head. ‘We have seven thousand soldiers here. No petty king would dare oppose me.' He stared at both of them, and Velaria understood then, that there would be no mercy.

Her heart pounded with fear, but she faced the king. ‘I will face the blame for my own deeds.'

‘That is not your decision to make.' Her husband's words startled her. Never had he treated her as anything but an equal, but she saw the resolve in Savas's face.

He knelt before the king. ‘If you take Velaria's life, you will only anger noblemen and allies that you need, my liege.' He paused a moment and added, ‘But I have no one.'

In his voice, she heard the bleakness that the king had refused to recognise him as a bastard son. Savas didn't believe anyone would care if he lost his life. But it wasn't true at all.

Without him, her life would be empty. If he died, she simply could not endure breathing. She loved him, and she would fight for this man with all that she had.

Before she could speak, Savas said, ‘I ask for a trial by combat, Your Grace. Let me fight for her sake and let God decide how justice should be served.'

Her breath released slowly as she realised what he was doing. At least a trial by combat gave them a chance.

The king seemed to consider it, but Robert intervened with another offer. ‘Or if it pleases Your Excellency, I would be willing to pay a fine for the lives of the men who died. In gold.'

The king seemed not to hear. ‘The baron's son is here now, among my men. We will ask him if he agrees. Since it was his father's death, I grant him the right to make that decision.'

A rise of nausea caught in her gut. In a low voice, Velaria said, ‘Savas, there's something you need to know about Lord Marwood.'

‘It doesn't matter,' he told her. ‘I will do everything in my power to save your life, Velaria.'

She reached out to embrace him, and she whispered in his ear. ‘His son is Sir Drogan. The man I ran away with when I was fifteen years old.'

His expression held none of the uncertainty or frustration she'd expected. Instead, his face darkened with fury. Against her ear, he murmured, ‘Good. Then I can kill him for what he did to you.'

Her emotions seemed to knot within her stomach. She never wanted to see the knight again or remember the humiliation she'd endured. And the thought of watching the men fight each other was more than she could bear.

They waited for some time before Drogan arrived. Velaria turned her face away, not knowing whether he would recognise her. He wore chainmail armour, and at a glimpse, he appeared the same as he had years ago. There was an air of confidence about him, as if he had claimed his father's title with no remorse at all.

He bowed before the king. ‘You sent for me, Your Excellency?'

The king's expression turned satisfied. ‘Indeed. We have brought your father's murderer to justice. Her husband has agreed to take her punishment as his own, and he has asked for a trial by combat.'

For a moment, Drogan seemed not to recognise her, and she held her breath. Then his gaze narrowed. ‘Velaria?'

‘Sir Drogan.' She deliberately used his title to emphasise the distance between them.

‘Baron Marwood,' he corrected. Then he continued, ‘Is this true? Were you the one who killed my father?' The utter lack of emotion in his face startled her, for he didn't seem at all unhappy about the baron's death.

‘I never intended to kill anyone,' she answered. ‘But I fought to defend myself and the King of Laochre's daughter.' Though she tried to keep her voice even, the edge of fear sliced through her.

Savas came to her side and took her hand in his in a silent show of defence. It brought her comfort to have him standing beside her.

As she compared the two men, she realised that what she'd once felt for Drogan was nothing compared with the feelings she held towards her husband. Savas had already proven, time and again, that he was steadfast and loyal—whereas Drogan had only ever cared about himself.

Drogan studied her husband with interest. ‘And you are asking for a trial by combat, to avoid a death sentence for Velaria?'

Savas met his gaze. ‘I am, yes.' His expression turned intent. ‘I will fight you. Or any man of your choosing, should you wish it.'

Drogan turned back to the king, but Velaria didn't like the look of satisfaction on his face. He held the expression of a man well pleased by the turn of events. When he turned back to the king, he said, ‘With respect, Your Excellency, I do not wish to allow a trial by combat. There is evidence enough of her guilt, for she has admitted to killing my father. I defer to your judgement.'

The blood seemed to drain from her body, and she couldn't stop the tremor of fear that overtook her. She had never expected him to refuse.

‘Let Velaria of Ardennes suffer the justice you have chosen,' the knight said. And with a bow, he retreated towards the back of the tent, awaiting permission to depart.

‘So be it,' King John said. ‘Velaria of Ardennes, because you have confessed that you killed Lord Marwood, I hereby sentence you to die at dawn.'

Before Brian could react, Robert gripped him with all his strength. Tears streamed down Velaria's face as the soldiers took her away. ‘I am sorry, Savas.'

He wanted nothing more than to lunge at the soldiers and seize his wife. And yet, Robert was right to restrain him. His mind and temper were battling for control, and he had only hours to save her.

Although he believed the MacEgans would send help, there was no time left. He was dimly aware of Robert asking permission for them to leave and the king lifting his hand in dismissal.

‘Keep silent,' Robert warned, as he took him outside the tent. ‘Say nothing until we are alone.'

Brian walked alongside him, their steps swift, even as he wanted to go after Velaria and rescue her. But Robert was right—they had to make their plans carefully and find a way to save her.

His mind was spinning, but Robert caught his arm. Brian stared back, but he managed to suppress the anger and fear, replacing it with icy resolution. He would find a way to free his wife, no matter the cost.

He loved Velaria—her courage was far beyond that of anyone else he had ever known. She meant everything to him, and he could not stand aside and let the king's judgement stand.

Only when they were alone did Robert finally speak. ‘What do you want to do?'

‘I won't let her die,' he insisted.

‘But if you defy the king—'

‘I will speak to Drogan first,' he answered. ‘And then the king, if he will listen.'

‘John may not grant you another audience,' Robert warned. ‘It would be better if you allowed others to speak on your behalf.' He reached out and touched Brian's shoulder. ‘I will offer more gold and men for your sake.'

‘I can't let you do that,' he started to say, but Robert shook his head.

‘You have always been my brother, even before I wed Morwenna. And we won't hesitate to help you.' He paused a moment and his hand tightened. ‘I know what you're thinking. Don't do it.'

He met Robert's gaze, the bleakness filling him up inside. ‘I would sacrifice everything to save Velaria. And since the king did not recognise me as his son, my life is worth nothing compared to hers. If I offer myself again in her place—'

‘No.' Robert's voice went rigid. ‘We will find another way.' He released his grip and regarded him. ‘What can I do to help you?'

He thought about Robert's words and considered his choices. Already he had come to his father, humbling himself in the hopes of gaining the king's approval. But perhaps it was time to change his approach. Humility had brought him nothing.

It wasn't the man he'd been in Constantinople. There, he had relied on his wits and his strength to defeat his opponents. He had won because he had refused to consider any alternative—and because he'd wanted to return to Velaria each night.

‘You're right,' he said to Robert. He considered his choices, and another approach was needed. ‘If you're willing, could you speak to the new Lord Marwood?' He lowered his voice and explained what he needed. It was a grave risk, but he was counting on the baron's vanity and sense of standing.

Robert gave a curt nod. ‘You have my word. What about you? What will you do?'

Brian straightened and met his brother's eyes. ‘I'm going to save my wife.'

Velaria had wept when they'd tossed her back into the pit, first out of fear...but then her emotions turned to rage. She didn't deserve to die for defending herself and the daughter of a king. And she had no intention of blindly submitting to a judgement she didn't deserve.

She and Savas had saved themselves from the fighting pits, working together to escape their enemies. This was no different at all.

After they cast her back into the pit, she'd continued to feign tears to avoid notice. But she was studying her prison, searching for its weaknesses and a way out. She already knew that Savas was trying to save her. But she was no meek lady who would submit to an execution without a fight. She was a warrior, just as he was. And if she fought her way out, they could disappear to other lands across the seas, where no one would ever find them.

The pit was nothing more than the remains of an underground chamber where food had once been stored. The walls were formed of mud and earth, and the depth was more than twice her height. Outside, it was growing dark, and a cold rain began to fall. Most of the men were gathering inside one of the tunnels to gain shelter.

But she had no intention of joining them. The rain was a blessing, for the soldiers left their posts and took turns going inside a nearby tent. Velaria walked the entire distance of the pit three times, searching for stones or sticks. When she spied a fallen bone, she reached down and picked it up. It would have to do.

She walked to one of the walls and huddled low. But she used the bone to carve out a foothold for herself in the mud. It was slick and dangerous, but if she could somehow get part of her foot inside, she might be able to climb her way out. Not until nightfall, though. She couldn't risk being seen by the other prisoners.

Instead, she waited until no one was looking and began carving out handholds for herself. She would have to climb high enough to reach more of the mud. It was an impossible task, and she well knew that failure was likely. Yet, she had to try.

Velaria tied her skirts around her ankles, but the weight of the wool only made it worse. The first time she stepped within the first crevice, she managed to reach high enough to the handhold, but the slick mud and rain caused her to lose her balance, and she fell back down. She needed to remain close to the wall to keep her weight there. And she needed more than mud to hold on to.

She wanted to emit a cry of frustration, but she silenced herself.

Think , she warned herself.

What she needed was something of a stronger material to help her climb out. Steel was best, but wood could suffice. But where could she get it? All around her, there was nothing, save earth. And even if she did manage to climb out, she could be caught within moments if even one soldier happened to see her.

Her mind turned over the problem, and as she searched for a solution, she focused her thoughts upon Savas. He would find a way to her—of that, she had no doubt. No matter the years they'd spent in darkness, he had been her shield and a man who had fought for her. He would never leave her here to die.

A wave of grief threatened to overcome her, and she shoved it back as she dug her fingers deeper into the mud. Because of him, she'd found the lost part of herself, the young woman who had believed in dreams of a future. And when she reached for the next crevice, she imagined she was reaching for him.

Until she saw the glint of chainmail and a soldier staring down at her.