Chapter 9

Stern Castle

B oy or girl, Husband?”

Warin Wulfrith breathed deep. “A sister for Charliese.”

Vianne smiled. “She would like that, but methinks it a boy as blond and green-eyed as his sire.”

When he did not respond, she thought her attempt to distract him failed, but finally he said, “Whether a brother or sister, the hair may be black and later silvered, eyes golden rather than green.”

Vianne had awakened thrice in the night—first when he returned from the disappointed search for Fira, next when it was not enough to hold her to gain rest and he rolled away, this time upon returning from the garderobe.

Taking his hand, she set it on the slight swell of their child she dared believe would come into her arms unlike the first two cruelly snatched away. “Our babe is busy growing.” She slid his palm to where she felt movement beyond sweet flutterings. “ I know not whether the wee one kicks or punches. What think you?”

Gently, he pressed her abdomen, doubtless aware she sought to brighten their surprise visit to Stern that went dark shortly after their arrival. Lady Ondine’s husband, Sir Sinjin, had ridden in following a clash that injured two squires and saw three brigands flee after a fourth was put down.

That last presented several curiosities. What would prove a fatal blow was dealt by a miner of Wulfen Castle who came out of the wood wielding daggers. As the others fought on, he had taken his victim’s horse and sword, returned to the wood, and disappeared. When the patrol had to abandon pursuit of the brigands lest a squire bleed out, it was discovered the fallen brigand yet lived. Once he accepted his days—perhaps hours—were numbered, he had begun revealing the reason he and his comrades were upon Wulfen and what transpired ahead of his fall, including the appearance of a fiery-haired woman who aided in their prey’s escape.

Though several women of the barony could be described thus, Sir Sinjin had sent the uninjured squires back to Wulfen Castle to report to Warin’s eldest brother, then brought the injured to Stern to be tended and learn if the youngest Wulfrith sister was where she ought to be.

Throughout the remainder of the day into night, dozens of men searched for Fira. The nearest they came was learning the son of the hunting lodge’s keeper had supplied her with a mount that returned absent its rider, and a miner matching the description of he who slew the brigand had long departed the lodge.

Whether Fira was taken by this Mason or other misfortune befell her, there was no lifting the pall fallen over all.

“Not only kicks but punches!” Warin said with much exaggeration, but also joy .

Vianne turned and settled her head on his shoulder. “As told, likely a boy.”

He hooked up her chin and, by dawn’s light, captured her gaze. “I might believe that were I wed to another, but the savior of Calais is as likely to gift me a girl of iron as a boy of steel.”

When he set his mouth on hers, she wanted to return his kiss, but tears stung her eyes and a sob escaped.

Pushing onto an elbow, he eased her onto her back. “What is wrong? Is it the babe?”

“Non, just…” She set a hand on his jaw. “It has been a terrible day not knowing Fira’s fate, but there is much to be thankful for—that I who should not be cherished, should not be your wife, and should not carry our child, am blessed to be those things and more.”

“Vianne, my love.”

She swallowed. “Every day I thank the Lord He preserved me for you and you for me. Those years it seemed I walked through the valley of the shadow of death, I did fear evil, felt God was not with me, and rarely was comforted by His rod and staff. Still, He was faithful. I must remember that so when next what is good goes bad, more easily I accept that just as we would not know shadows in the absence of light, we would not know light in the absence of shadows.”

“That is so,” he agreed. “Now I ask you to be patient with your husband who must eschew much of the joy of our coming child until I do my part in recovering Fira.”

“Ever I am at your side, Warin.”

He lowered his head, and his kiss was so breathtaking she longed for greater intimacy, but he needed sleep before resuming the search with his eldest brother and uncle. Unfortunately, the latter’s reunion with his wife, Esta, who accompanied Vianne and Warin from Woodhearst, must be cut short .

When her husband drew back and there was questioning about him alongside fatigue, she whispered, “As there will be time to make love later, just hold me.”

He did, and though his breathing soon deepened, he gained only an hour’s sleep before a knock sounded and he rose and dressed to join the others in the great hall.

Vianne wanted to go with him, but he caressed her belly and told their child he would return as soon as possible. Then he embraced his wife, said he loved her ever and ever, and left her with her womenfolk.

“Family,” she whispered. “I am no longer alone.”

Pursued again. And not in a good direction where Lady Fira was concerned.

For how well she wielded her bow, her arrow preventing Amaury and Richarde’s burdened horse from being overtaken, he might have equated her skill with the English archers mostly responsible for King Edward’s 1346 Crécy victory. But when the sea brigand’s shout and the lady’s anguished cry brought Amaury around and he saw an arrow protruded from the one fallen over his horse’s neck, he knew she had misjudged her missile’s flight.

She had meant to impede his pursuer, and further that was verified when, once more forced to alter his plans for her sake, he rode on her hiding place.

“Dear God, I killed,” she had gasped when he came around the hedge so sharply Richarde nearly went sideways. One moment Amaury was righting his half-conscious friend by dragging on the arm around his waist, the next snatching up the lady’s reins as she sought to cast off the quiver as done her bow .

There had been little time to gently reason with her, and less at the sound of another horse’s approach. Thus, he had brought his mount alongside and put a hand over her mouth.

Had she fought him, they would have been discovered by the two who, astride a single horse for losing another to Amaury, reined in near their fallen comrade. Once they saw he was beyond help, they had taken his horse. Blessedly, though Herman wished to continue their pursuit, Baudri insisted they retrieve their belongings first.

When they spurred back toward camp, Amaury had sought to return Lady Fira to a semblance of the Wulfrith of her.

Whispering, “I know…I can…I will…” she had set herself as aright as possible. Then refusing his offer to collect the bow and forgetting the quiver on her back, she had followed him out of the valley at a pace he hoped would not come to the remaining brigands’ notice.

Though he had been set on getting Richarde to a physician and the lady home, they were forced to turn aside for Gert’s men coming behind and riders approaching from the south. Could he be certain the latter were of Wulfen and searched for the lady, he would have continued that direction. However, since likely they were mere travelers, an encounter could be detrimental, whether due to delay for Amaury needing to explain Richarde’s injuries, or if those travelers next crossed paths with the sea brigands who could learn of those first encountered.

Amaury rued being responsible for two vulnerable souls since, were he alone, he would have ended what remained of Gert’s men. Regrettably, he could only keep moving toward Lincolnshire’s coast though likely Baudri and Herman did the same.

Even when he believed they were sufficiently distanced from their pursuers, he had not changed course since they were considerably nearer Boston where Richarde could be seen by a physician. By late morn on the morrow, they would arrive in the port town, and Amaury would send word to Baron Wulfrith to come for his sister.

“I have much to answer for,” he spoke aloud, realizing it only when Lady Fira, kneeling alongside Richarde, peered across the shoulder from which her quiver no longer projected for her casting it off when earlier they paused to water the horses. Though she had meant to leave it behind the same as her bow, Amaury had fixed it to his saddle. And gained a watery glare.

Jutting his chin at his friend stretched out on the only bedroll they possessed, Amaury asked, “How does he fare?”

For how little she had spoken these past hours, he did not expect an answer, but she withdrew the wet cloth with which she bathed Richarde’s face, sat back, and said, “Unless there is internal bleeding, the worst he suffers is cuts, bruises, scrapes, and one or more broken ribs.”

Regretting a voice so dull it was as if all the bright of her were put out, he asked, “What of his fever?”

“He has cooled some.” She looked to the rabbit roasting over flames Amaury deemed safe amid twilight. “If he eats and gains good rest, ’tis possible he will be well enough to ride without assistance on the morrow.”

“I am very hungry, my lady,” Richarde titled her, revealing he had more sense than senselessness about him.

Each time they paused this day, Amaury had filled in the gaps of what transpired since they met in the wood, and bit by bit Richarde told of the first assault on him and the greater one when two of the three brigands made camp. And assured Amaury he had not revealed their plan though they tried to beat it out of him .

“’Tis good you hunger,” the lady said, then asked, “Is it nearly cooked?”

“Soon,” Amaury said and turned the spit.

For the little Richarde and the lady ate, a greater portion would have better satisfied Amaury, but he encased what remained in bark and pushed it beneath the embers of the extinguished fire to provide sustenance in the morn.

As the sky went dark, Lady Fira hugged her mantle about her and settled on one side of the softly snoring Richarde with her back to him. Shortly, Amaury lowered to his other side, their shared warmth needed in the cool night.

Assured of sleep for fatigue loosening his muscles, Amaury nearly cursed when he heard muffled weeping.

He had guessed sleep would elude Lady Fira for innocence lost in taking another’s life, but selfishly hoped she required nothing from him, and not only so he could rest—more, for what sympathy would cost him should it further fuel attraction.

Had she wanted him to hear her misery, he might have resumed his descent into sleep, but for how much strength she had shown, this was not the self-pitying cry of one who hopes another will assure her by word and deed he will make everything right. Though in this matter he wished he could do both, with this woman it was best that words suffice.

He turned, reached across Richarde, and set a hand on her shoulder. Hearing her breath catch, he said, “I am sorry for what was required of you to aid us. Such is difficult even for a warrior newly trained into sword and spurs, and though what I tell may not comfort now, when your heart and mind begin settling, these words should aid.” He paused to order them better. “One life of unapologetic sin was ended this day to preserve two who did not seek to harm innocents. Though I would have…preferred you return home, I am grateful you en sured our escape from those who would have made us suffer much before taking our lives and perhaps yours. Think on that and hold it close as I do, Lady.”

“Do you?” she rasped with the desperation of one who longs for absolution.

He did not understand what came to mind for how sentimental it was, but he said, “Mayhap one day it will be the Fira Bow for which a Wulfrith descendant searches.”

Silence, then she whispered, “Better that than the Fira Arrow.”

For how different the use of her own arrow that ended a man’s life, no comfort at all. “Try to sleep, Lady.” He withdrew his hand, then lest she had not heard what he told Richarde, added, “On the morrow, we reach Boston where I shall secure safe lodging for you and send word to your brother.”

“God grant he comes soon,” she said, then gasped. “My kin, Sir Achard, may be there, and possibly my youngest brother since Achard told he wished to take Rémy?—”

As if nearly revealing something she ought not, she closed up, but he knew the name Achard, and only a single instance—that of one of the Crown’s most valued men, whether the warrior was at his king’s side or traveling the realm to keep the peace.

Richarde had told it was only rumor Edward planned to act against those defiling English shipping lanes and coastal towns, but this seemed more than rumor. From the little she told, likely the great number of men on the road to Wulfen Castle of whom Richarde and he stayed clear had first paused at Stern. To collect Squire Rémy and provide experience ahead of his knighting, they had gone somewhat out of their way before continuing to the coast.

He and his warriors seek Gert, he thought. A good thing if they succeed, but bad for me and my men if our efforts to ensure they do not fail—and likely they shall since a pirate is a very different fighting man—finds us mistaken for the enemy.

The lady’s disquiet still felt, he said, “If possible to safely reunite you with your kin in Boston, I shall. Regardless, word will be sent to Baron Wulfrith.”

“I…”

He guessed she thought better of thanking him as she should since he was more to blame for her circumstances than she who could have safely defied restrictions placed on her had his presence on the barony not seen Richarde followed.

“I will get you home, Lady,” he said. “You have my word.”

She believed the word he gave, certain he had good intentions, but…

What? she silently questioned and recalled her arrow’s flight that nearly set her to weeping throughout the day—and did once the dark and quiet was before her with little to distract her emotions. What, Fira?

I yearn for home, but I am afeared for all that has changed, she admitted. No longer am I only the future keeper of The Book of Wulfrith, no longer simply the bow-toting little sister searching out things to add to our family’s tale, no longer just the indulged Fira whose greatest worry until The Gloaming was how to do as I wish, no longer merely she who rarely has cause to do other than smile, laugh, and delight in good come the way of her and her loved ones.

She shivered. That which I killed was not a dangerous animal nor game for the table. It was a man. True, of ill bent, but now no chance of redemption. No sanctioned ground to embrace his body. Only the hard earth inviting scavengers to feast on his remains.

Fira pressed a fist to her mouth to keep more sobs inside. She would not have Amaury de Chanson’s hand on her again for how much it comforted she who had resented attempts to protect her from the foul of life, who deceived to go the way she wanted, who was at least a little thrilled to embark on this adventure turned deadly.

By my hand…

Tighter she squeezed her fist as if it would crush remembrance of the bow string straining against her fingers.

Forgive me, Lord, and when my penance is done, let me be forgiven by those who have loved me more than I deserve. Better, could this not be a cautionary dream from which I awaken and rejoice in a day at my grandmother’s side, patient with her instruction in chronicling our family’s history, agreeing with her rather than thinking my way is better?

Aye, a dream. You have only to make it so.