Lord of Vengeance Page 20

  “Nay,” Raina covered her ears with her hands, trying to block out the horrible details. “Nay, 'tis not true.”

  “You want proof?” he roared. “Here.” He jerked a small satchel from his baldric and pitched it at her. “Here's your damned proof.”

  Long after Gunnar had stormed out of the chamber, Raina stared at the leather pouch, afraid to touch it, afraid to know what she might find inside. Perhaps she didn't want proof after all. Perhaps she would be wise to simply leave it lying where it landed on the bed. But still, the question begged an answer.

  Could her father truly have been capable of these crimes?

  Praying the satchel was empty, Raina hooked her finger through the leather drawstring and pulled it close. It felt light, its weight no more cumbersome than the material it was made from. But as she dragged it over a lump in the mattress, something small and metallic jingled in the bag.

  Gooseflesh swept over Raina's limbs, a portent of a storm.

  With her heart in her throat, she loosened the drawstring and poured the contents of the satchel into her cupped palm. The ruby ring her father had given her--the one that had so enraged Gunnar when he saw it on her finger--tumbled into her hand. Behind it came another ring, this one larger, fashioned unmistakably for a man but in the same design as hers.

  Nay, not hers, she amended.

  For these were clearly rings shared between a man and a woman. Symbols of a union between two people who loved each other, shared their lives. And the fact that her father had come to possess one half of the pair could mean only one thing. He had been at Wynbrooke that day.

  Gunnar had been right. The ring was a family heirloom...

  His.

  Her father, who raised her to cherish the truth, to live honestly, had lied to her, offering the ring to her as a token of his affection, when it was rather evidence of his malice, his perfidy. Raina had been able to suppress her doubts until this. Until she saw the rings. Now shame swept over her in a wave that shook her to her very soul.

  If her father had lied about the ring...what more had he been keeping from her?

  Oh, mercy, but she had to find Gunnar, to tell him she was sorry...for everything. He had come to apologize for treating her unkindly, and she had smote him with doubt and questioned his character. Desperate to make amends, she fled the chamber and raced down the stairwell.

  “Gunnar,” she called, dashing toward the sound of voices in the hall. “Gunnar!”

  A handful of men seated around a trestle table halted their game of dice and peered at her inquisitively.

  “Have you seen my lord?” she asked, heedless of the raised eyebrows and looks of surprise the men exchanged among themselves. “I must find him,” she pleaded. “Did he pass this way?”

  “He did,” rasped a male voice from behind her.

  Raina spun around to find Burc assessing her with drink-glazed eyes as he approached. He stank of stale wine and sweat, making her cringe inwardly with revulsion.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  The knight shrugged. “He left.”

  The sporting glimmer in Burc's eyes raised the hairs at the back of her neck. Clenching her fists at her sides, she made to walk past the knight. He moved into her path, cutting her short.

  “I beg you step aside, sir,” she said, squarely meeting his gaze.

  Burc's eyebrows rose to an amused height on his greasy forehead. “Ye beg me?” he returned with a wicked smile. “I might very much enjoy seein' that, wench.”

  Raina pursed her lips and took a hasty step to the left. Burc followed, chuckling and clearly enjoying his little game of cat and mouse.

  “Leave 'er be, Burc,” Raina heard one of the knights call from the hall.

  “Step aside,” she repeated.

  Burc didn't budge.

  Summoning all her strength and resolve, Raina shoved at his shoulder, unbalancing him. She quickly slipped past him as he rocked on one foot. She fled down the corridor toward the steps leading to the bailey, unsure precisely where she was going, knowing only that she wanted away from Burc. She did not get far.

  His hand wound about her hair, pulling her sharply to a halt. She cried out in pain, but Burc wound his hand tighter and pulled her close, placing a thick finger to his lips. “Shh,” he hissed, his sour breath fanning Raina's face.

  “P-please,” she stammered. “Let me go!”

  Burc grinned and shook his head grimly. “I didn't hear a by yer leave,” he taunted in a low growl.

  Raina gulped, trying to pry his hand from her hair. “Please, by your leave, let me go.”

  Burc's finger traced her lip. “Tsk, tsk,” he clucked. “'Tis too late. Now I require a kiss to sweeten me mood.”

  Raina squeezed her eyes shut, squirming her face away from his descending lips. “Nay.” She shook her head. “Nay!”

  Burc snarled, peering over his shoulder as if concerned her protests would be overheard. With an angry yank, he dragged her down the stairwell and out of the keep. Lightning lit the sky with the eerie semblance of day for the briefest moment, then vanished, plunging the bailey into bleak darkness. Raina was instantly drenched by the furious storm, her cries for help all but lost in the wind and driving rain.

  Burc pulled her along by the hair, leaving her twisting and stumbling behind him, her bare toes squishing into the thick mud that puddled in the bailey. He rounded a corner of the keep and tossed her against the wall. Trembling from cold and fear, Raina wiped the soaked tangle of hair from her face. Her teeth began to chatter.

  “W-what are you doing?” she cried, clutching her arms across her chest. Above the roar of the rain, she heard him curse. She took a sideways step, praying he could see her no better than she could make him out in the darkness. His hand shot out, trapping her flight.

  “All I asked of ye was a kiss,” he muttered. “Now I'm going to take what I really wanted.”

  Another bolt of lightning rippled across the sky, illuminating him for one terrifying heartbeat. He fumbled under his tunic with his free hand, trying to rid himself of his braies.

  Panic swirled inside Raina. A wall of stone stood at her back and at her side. Burc's arm was like granite against her shoulder, trapping her in the corner. “Oh God,” she moaned. “Please, do not!”

  In that black moment of terror, Raina prayed fervently for Gunnar to save her, voiced his name over and over again in her head, willing him to hear her, willing him to come from wherever he might be and help her. His name, which began as a whispered prayer on her lips, rose to a desperate cry but a moment before she heard Burc's grunt of surprise.

  An instant later, the bulking knight was jerked off his feet and hefted away from her. He landed with a groan in the mud just a few paces from her toes.

  * * *

  Gunnar sensed Raina needed him even before he had heard her terrified voice call out his name. Abandoning his destrier's maintenance in the stable, he bolted into the storm and toward her voice. Rage and fear boiled to a thunderous roll in his ears as he saw Burc standing before her, pinning her to the wall.

  Clutching the ignoble bastard by the shoulders, Gunnar pitched him over his head and tossed him into the mud. He leapt on the stunned man, straddling him and holding Burc's arms beneath his knees. Pummeling the knight's face with his fist, Gunnar found the sickening thud of bone on bone a small comfort to his rage. Burc's lip split under the abuse and bled, fueling Gunnar further.

  God help him, he'd kill the bastard if he so much as touched her.

  His fist met Burc's face, again and again, until all Gunnar could hear was the frantic beating of his own heart, all he could taste was the acrid fear of what might have happened. Soon his blows received no further resistance from Burc, who lay limp beneath him, his face a bloody, pulpy mash.

  At last Gunnar found the strength to still his hand. His breathing was belabored and ragged as he stared down at the man, his hair soaked and dripping into his eyes, his tunic plastered to his skin. He felt a burn in his a
rm and glanced down to see fresh blood now seeping onto his tunic from his reopened wound. The rain had all but stopped now, pattering softly in the puddles that surrounded them.

  Burc moaned beneath him, drawing his attention back to the knight's beaten face. Repulsed, Gunnar rose off him, wiping his brow with his forearm. He glanced over his shoulder to where Raina stood, and his heart nearly stopped beating.

  She was trembling, staring at him in mute horror, a hand covering her mouth. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her eyes were rooted on him, wide and fearful, and he realized her terror now was not for the cur who might have raped her, but for him.

  He reached out to her, to comfort her. Her gaze flicked to his hand and she backed away, shaking her head fiercely.

  “D-don't. Don't touch me,” she gasped, nearly hysterical.

  Gunnar looked away from her, his jaw clenching as he stared at his outstretched bloodied hand. He scowled, curling it into a fist as Burc pulled himself up on his hands and knees, coughing into the mud.

  “Ye broke me bloody nose,” he slurred, and spit what sounded like a tooth into a puddle.

  Gunnar ignored him; in truth he scarcely heard him. His focus was on Raina, on allaying the fear he saw reflected in her eyes. He could tell simply by looking at her what she was thinking.

  He had lost control and she had seen him for the beast he truly was. Now she feared him. In her eyes, he would never rise above the animal she saw tonight, and his heart broke a little with the idea.

  “Raina.” He said her name like a plea, moving toward her cautiously, wanting only to feel her in his arms, needing to know that she was all right.

  She shook her head mutely and drew in a deep, hitching breath. “I don't want you to touch me,” she whispered, her voice growing stronger. “Please, just leave me alone.”

  She dashed past him and into the keep, leaving him standing in the rain beside Burc. Gunnar's woeful gaze followed her, absently registering the looks of shock painted on the faces of the rest of the castlefolk, now gathered about the entrance to the keep. In the light of their torches, he could see that they, too, thought him a monster.

  All these years he had not allowed anyone to provoke the beast in him, and though he had battled beside these men on countless occasions, he had always exercised cool control. Inhuman, they had called him, and Gunnar wore the badge without regret. Getting personal required emotion, and emotion meant weakness.

  Gunnar had no weaknesses...until now.

  Until Raina.

  Steeling himself against the notion, Gunnar turned to face Burc. He could kill him and be in the right, he reasoned. The man dared to lay claim to something that belonged to his lord and Gunnar had every right to retribution. The thought of Burc laying his hands on Raina's fair skin nearly made Gunnar's blood boil. The image of her defiled by this swine made him burn to carve the bastard's heart out.

  Nay, wanting to see Burc dead had little to do with fealty or mistrust. It had everything to do with Raina.

  Killing him, just though it may be, would be nothing if not personal.

  “Get out,” Gunnar said through gritted teeth.

  Burc sniffed, wiping gingerly at his upper lip. “Ye'll pay fer this, ye bloody--”

  “Get out. And never let me see your face again, or I promise you, I will see you dead.”

  Burc muttered under his breath then lumbered through the open gate as the afternoon's hunting party galloped into the bailey. They shot puzzled looks at the bloodied, broken knight as they passed him, but said naught, riding into the courtyard with marked urgency.

  Alaric rode in front of Wesley on the knight's destrier, looking pale and exhausted from what appeared a successful hunt after all. Strapped to the squire's palfrey was a large boar, trussed and bound. The party reined in at the center of the bailey and all but Wesley and Alaric dismounted. The knights who had returned to the keep earlier with Gunnar gave whoops of congratulations as they tromped through the mud to crowd around the hunting party.

  “By the Rood, the lad did it!” exclaimed one man, clapping his hand on his thigh.

  “Aye,” Wesley said, his tone strangely grim. He dismounted and pulled Alaric into his arms. “But he will likely lose his leg for it.”

  Murmurs of confusion and concern rumbled over the group as Gunnar waded through them to the fore. He spied the injury at once, the slicing gash of the boar's razor-sharp tusks. A chill passed through him.

  “Get him out of this rain,” he ordered, trying to ignore the disquieting pall of the other men. At Wesley's hesitation, Gunnar swore an oath and gathered Alaric into his arms then hastened for the keep. “Fetch Raina,” he called over his shoulder. “Tell her to bring her needle and thread.”

  Gunnar carried Alaric into the hall, yelling for someone to clear a table for the boy. Agnes hustled into action, raking her arm over the surface of the nearest table and sending the cups and dice game toppling to the floor. Alaric moaned as Gunnar placed him on the table and knelt beside him. “I should never have let you stay out there,” Gunnar whispered under his breath. “Damned stubborn little whelp.”

  Raina's worried voice on the stairwell brought Gunnar sharply to his feet. She was at his side a moment later, leaning over Alaric and wiping his wet face with her sleeve. She peered up at Gunnar accusingly. “What has happened to him?”

  “A boar...” Gunnar murmured, shaking his head gravely. “He was injured on a hunt. Ah, damn. His leg looks bad...”

  Raina's attention focused wholly on the boy, leaving Gunnar standing helplessly behind her. She unwound the wrapping from Alaric's leg and gasped, placing a hand to her breast. Her breath left her in a deep sigh, but when she spoke, her voice was calm, deliberate, and completely in control. “Bring me clean cloths, Agnes, lots of them. And blankets.” She looked to Dorcas. “I'll need plenty of wine to cleanse this wound.” Both women scurried out of the hall to carry out her orders as Raina went back to work on Alaric.

  “Can you help him?” Gunnar asked hopefully.

  “In truth, I do not know. I have never seen a wound this grave.”

  Gunnar swallowed hard. “Wesley said he may lose the leg.”

  She discarded the soiled wrapping and wiped her hands on her gown. Without looking at him, she replied, “I only pray he lives.”

  The weight of that comment settled heavily in Gunnar's mind...and his heart.

  Alaric might die? Nay, impossible. The lad was resilient, filled with life enough for three men. He could not just simply slip away like this.

  He was spared further reflection as Dorcas and then Agnes returned with the requested supplies. Raina glanced up, apparently doing a quick inventory. “I'll need more cloths. His blood will not cease flowing from the wound.” After the women left, she at last addressed him. Icily. “How could you let this happen?”

  He had been turning that very question over in his mind and had come up without an answer. “What could I have done to prevent it?”

  “You never should have left him,” she charged. “As his lord, you are responsible for him. For all of these people.” She shook her head, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “How pitiful to care more for the dead than the living.” Her sharp exhalation of breath was like a knife to his heart. “When are you going to stop turning your back on the people who care about you?”

  She asked the question with such pain in her voice, and such absence of malice, that it rendered him unable to speak for a long moment. He stared at her back, willing her to turn around yet at the same time hoping she would not. He couldn't bear to see her scorn. “What will you have me do?”

  “Pray, if you can do naught else,” she replied curtly, pouring a bit of the wine over Alaric's wound.

  Gunnar frowned. Prayer had never gotten him anywhere in the past, and he didn't see how it could help now. Why would God listen to him at this late date? Why would anyone help him, for that matter?

  He watched Raina blot the wine with a cloth, taking charge of a situation that
had really been his to manage, and his heart filled with pride...and shame. Here he stood, at her back, worthless and unsure of what to do while she adroitly took on his responsibility. He had never felt so useless, so utterly dependent on another human being.

  And then he realized that perhaps there was something he could do for Alaric after all...

  * * *

  Raina placed the cloth on the table and let out a deep sigh, staring up into the rafters. “Gunnar, I apologize. I didn't mean to snap at you. But you must understand, I'm frightened. Alaric's wounds are grave and I simply don't have the skills--”

  She turned around to face him and her voice cut short.

  He was gone.

  Chapter 16

  Raina had several of the men help her move Alaric to a small antechamber located off the hall. She remained all night at his side, keeping vigil over the brazier to make sure the room stayed warm and that she had light enough to watch Alaric's condition. She had changed the wound's dressings several times during the night, had even tried to stitch it closed, but the cut was too long and too deep, and bleeding still.

  Her main concern had become seeing to Alaric's comfort and keeping the wound clean and bound. She could only pray that she had done well by him.

  In the hours between wrappings, her mind drifted to Gunnar. He had not returned at any time during the night and now that it was morning, she wondered if he had gone for good. She regretted her harsh words to him about Alaric, but perhaps he needed to hear them. His aloofness infuriated her, made her want to poke him, jab him until he finally admitted that he could feel it. No one was without feelings, not even him.

  She learned from Agnes that he had not killed Burc after all, despite the fact that, according to the old woman, everyone in the keep felt he had good reason. So it seemed Gunnar was not entirely without mercy. Still, she could not purge from her mind the sight of him beating Burc so violently, so relentlessly.