Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1) (26 page)

“My lady.”  Young Aeduuard opened his mouth, gritted his teeth, and then huffed in apparent frustration.  “Believe me, Sir Arucard hears thy plea.”

The man who would dispatch her to her maker stretched an arm about her belly, gripped her hip, which mercifully avoided her injuries, and held her tight, as his mount broke into a gallop, taking her from her friends and the possibility of the prayed-for reprieve.  With the troops in their wake, they coursed the lane to the outlying and sparsely populated areas of Winchester, whither she surmised he would do the deed.

When her captor discovered her attempting to free her wrists, which had rendered her flesh raw and bloody, he drew rein.  As he produced a small dagger, she suspected she had hastened her demise, and so she prepared herself.  After a final survey of the surrounding countryside, Isolde focused on the clear cerulean sky and commenced her farewell.  “Arucard, I love thee.  Arucard.  Arucard—”

“Honey flower, I love thee, too.”

The cherished declaration had come to her once, in a dream.  It had blanketed her in soothing heat.  But in that instant she imagined naught, as he cut the ties that bound her.  In shock, she shrieked and gazed at the executioner.  Grasping his shoulders, she met his stare, and she would know his blue eyes anywhere.  “
Arucard
.”

“Easy, Isolde.”  Wrenching the heavy mask that shrouded his head, she yanked and pulled.  “Woman, wilt thou send us tumbling to the ground, whither we might break our necks?”

“Take off thy disguise.”  While he untied the laces, she twisted, situated her legs at either side of his hips, and scooted ever closer.  When he revealed the familiar visage she so treasured, she sobbed in relief, framed his cheeks, and kissed him.

Even though the guard had joined them, she refused to relinquish her knight.  It had been too long since she tasted her husband, and she savored the warmth of his flesh, the reassuring strength of his embrace, and the spicy scent that was uniquely his, as it all but surrounded her.

“Isolde, let go, as we must ride, and I have a fresh horse for thee.”  As Arucard attempted to loosen her grip, she fought him.  “Pray, we must return to Chichester, as the King’s men march on Winchester to confront thy father, and I would protect thee, yet I expect no confidence, given I have failed ye so miserably.”

“How hast thou failed me, and wherefore didst thou not reveal thyself?”  Every time he tried to break free, she shifted and gained a better position.  “I am alive and in thy arms, whither I belong, and whither I shall stay.  Tell me how thou hast foundered?”

“Pray, I could not betray my identity so close to town, as thy father’s spies are everywhere.  And never should I have parted from thee, as thou didst beg me not to leave thee, and thy father took thee whilst I was away, thus I am to blame for thy suffering.”  At last, he must have realized the futility of his endeavor, signaled by a sigh of exasperation she knew well, as he tucked his cloak about her, draped a blanket over her legs, cupped her bottom, and cradled her head.  “Canst thou ever forgive me?”

“But thou didst come for me, as thou didst promise.”  Burying her face in his leather tunic, she yawned as the bone-wearying exhaustion took its toll, yet she rejoiced.  “And if thou wilt but swear thou wilt keep me at thy side for the remains of thy days, thou art pardoned of thy unfounded transgression.”

As blissful sleep beckoned, he proclaimed, “By my troth, thou wilt never be separated from me again.”

#

The journey to Chichester Castle seemed never-ending, as Arucard, with Isolde tucked safe in his lap, drove his stallion harder and faster than ever before.  Only once would he stop to relieve himself and doff the leather tunic, that he might warm his wife with his body.  To his relief, she never stirred, not even when he handed her to Demetrius.  It was then he glimpsed the bloodstained chemise, torn and tattered, as he wrapped her in a borrowed blanket, regained his saddle, and claimed her from his friend.

In a familiar formation, the Brethren of the Coast rode, constructing a protective barrier about Isolde, which each Nautionnier knight would defend to his death.  Whereas on previous occasions they often engaged in spirited discourse, that day they remained silent, and Arucard embraced the silence.

The sun sat low on the horizon when he broke from the King’s guard, along with the Brethren, and cut through the meadow of rolling hills.  As the Nautionnier knights charged the last embankment, a familiar and welcoming silhouette, precious because it was whither he had first made love to his bride, came into view, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

At the west bank of the moat, Arucard cupped his mouth.  “Thither, ho.”

“Whither thou dost go?”  The call came from the outer gatehouse.

“So go I,” Arucard replied.  The simple phrase, stark in its clarity as it symbolized the depth of their union, had been Isolde’s idea.

In what seemed an eternity, the drawbridge lowered, and he navigated to the tiny island.  As per his commands, the secondary traverse descended only after the first was raised.  When he rode into the courtyard, Margery and Pellier emerged.

“Bring thy medicines, as well as the physic, to my chambers.”  With Isolde in his clutch, he slid from the saddle and carried her into the castle.  In seconds, he ran up the stairs and swept her into the solar, just as she woke.

“My lord, we art home.”  A feminine smile graced her lips, as she gazed at him.  But soon he wished she had remained blissfully unaware of her surroundings, as Margery attempted to remove the chemise, which had dried and stuck to the wounds on his wife’s back.

Initially, the steward tried to peel off the fabric, as Arucard sat on the bench in the solar, with Isolde facing him and astride in his lap.  Resting her chin on his shoulder, his valiant bride flinched and tried but failed to stifle her cries of agony, but he felt every one as a mortal blow, and he suffered each successive whimper as a stain on his heart and mind.  At last, mercifully, she fainted and fell limp in his hold.

“Mayhap we should wet the material.”  Wiping her tears, Margery summoned the servants, who prepared the ancere for Isolde’s bath.  “Ease her into the water, my lord.  But thou must be careful to support her.”

“Do what must needs.”  Kneeling at one end of the tub, he braced Isolde beneath her arms and kissed her, when her head rolled to the side.  “Perchance the physic should assist thee.”

“Nay, my lord.”  The steward frowned.  “I have nursed my lady since she was but a child.  Trust my skills, as she will heal.”

Little by little, Margery inched the garment from Isolde’s injuries, and then the steward washed away the grime and blood, revealing a foul sight he would never forget, as he almost vomited to contemplate what his wife endured.  Words could not describe the evidence of the earl’s barbarity, and neither could they adequately encompass the depth of Arucard’s rage.

“Oh, my lady.”  At that moment, Margery pressed a clenched fist to her mouth and sniffed.  “Look what her father hath wrought upon her.”

“Prithee, finish thy work.”  It began then—the lust for revenge.  The festering hatred.  In opposition to the gentle purity of his wife, a malevolent sickness infested his senses.  Unfurling slow and steady, as the velvety petals of a delicate spring rose, a foreign but insatiable hunger grew in his belly and spread, investing every fiber of his being until he could taste the repulsive malignance.  Given his faith and his oath, he should have repressed such dark inclinations, but he resisted not.  Instead, he reveled in the bitterness.  As an old friend, he welcomed the plague on his soul.  He embraced the malice.  Despite his long held beliefs, he would violate his convictions and avenge Isolde.

“My lord, I am done.”  With a strange expression, Margery shook him.  “If thou wilt set Lady Isolde on the bed, on her belly, I can treat her.”

Lost in a haze of confusion, Arucard blinked and assessed the situation, as he would not risk rousing his wife.  “Summon Demetrius.”

“Aye, sir.”  Margery strolled into the hall but returned minutes later.

“How can I help thee?”  Demetrius glanced at Isolde’s condition, compressed his lips, and swallowed hard.  “By God’s bones, Arucard.  How could any man visit such violence on a woman, much less his daughter?”

That was a question Arucard no longer asked, as thither was no adequate answer.

“Take her feet, brother.”  Arucard stood upright, lifting her with him, and she moaned, as Margery dried his wife with a towel.  “Have care,” he whispered, “as I would not wake her.”

“Of course,” Demetrius replied in a low voice.

Together, they conveyed Isolde to the bed, and with caution they turned her facedown and lowered her to the mattress.  Margery pulled a sheet to Isolde’s hips.  After situating a chair, the steward began the difficult task of smoothing salve to his wife’s back.

“This will require some time, my lord.”  Margery began her work at the left shoulder.  “Mayhap thou might use the boar’s hair brush to remove the tangles from thy wife’s locks, as they will dry faster, and I will braid them.”

“Arucard, if thou dost need me, I will be in the great hall.”  Shuffling his feet, Demetrius gazed at Isolde and rubbed his neck.  “I am more sorry than I can say, as she is a very fine, kind-hearted lady.”

“Thank ye, brother.”  On the outside, all appeared calm as Arucard retrieved Isolde’s simple appurtenance, which he had seen her use on countless nights, before they retired.  But inside a tempest of unutterable contempt waged war for his soul, and Lord Rochester would rue Arucard’s wrath.  Yet he perched on the opposite side and drew the brush through Isolde’s hair, in slow and repetitive movements.  The simple occupation should have soothed his ire, but it only fueled it.

Molten fury poured through his veins and festered in his senses, in stark contrast to his wife’s motionless form.  As the minutes ticked past, the rage smoldered and gathered strength.  And while he toiled in silence, a primitive howl echoed in his brain.

“Thither, it is done.”  With her job complete, Margery draped strips of boiled linen over Isolde’s back and then drew the sheet and blankets to his wife’s neck.  “When she wakes, I will give her some hops and thyme in her tea, to make her sleep, as she needs to heal and recover.”

“Canst thou keep her unaware of my temporary absence?”  A plot formed, a means of securing retribution took shape, as he pondered the King’s plans, but he would abandon his scheme if it caused Isolde added trauma.  “I must join His Majesty’s guard, but I will return in a matter of days, a sennight at most.”

“Aye, sir.”  For a while, Margery studied him.  Then she sobered and nodded once.  “Thou mayest rely on me, as Pellier and I will guard the Lady Isolde with our lives.”

“Thank ye.”  With steely determination as a shield, he bent and kissed his brave heroine.  In her ear, he whispered, “Rest easy, honey flower.  I am with thee always.”

Then he stood, strode from his chambers, and marched into the great hall.  The center of activity in the grand castle usually reverberated with mirth and cheer, but not on that eventide.  Palpable sadness as thick as London fog hung over the cavernous room.  Evidence of Isolde’s benevolence surrounded him, visible in the faces of those for whom she cared and nurtured.

“Arucard, thither is food and drink.”  Aristide offered a tankard of ale, but Arucard refused it.

“Fill thy belly, as duty calls.”  To Pellier, Arucard said, “Saddle fresh horses and pack our armor, as we would travel light with all due haste.”  Then he pounded a table, and a hush fell on the crowd.  “Hear me well.  Thy Lady Isolde hath returned, and thou art to defend these walls at all expense.  Whosoever permits anyone to breach our home shall pay with his life, as thy last mistake almost cost my wife hers.  Now make ready, as tonight the Brethren ride into battle.”  Thrusting his fist into the air, Arucard proclaimed, “For King, for Chichester, and for Isolde.”

#

The battle for control of Winchester commenced the following morrow.  Side by side, in an impressive display of military might, the Nautionnier Knights of the Brethren of the Coast rode into the storm, wearing the unique ailette with the wind-star design.  Yet Arucard fought not for His Majesty, his faith, or his honor.

As he charged into the fray, unconcerned for his own being, he suspected he had left the noblest part of himself in Chichester, with Isolde, to shield her whilst she recovered, as he owed her that much.  That bit of himself, unspoiled and unsullied, belonged to her.  What remained was the beast inside him, and the animal was hungry on that fateful day.

Killing indiscriminately, he maimed, beheaded, impaled, and slaughtered untold numbers, ignoring their cries for mercy, as no one had spared his wife.  Whereas before he always struggled with guilt when taking a life, in those miserable hours he suffered no such compunction and, therefore, tempered not his rage.

Given no one had pardoned her, he would extend no reprieve.  Every enemy combatant he struck down he counted as right and good retribution for Isolde, as none of them had defended her, and no matter how many souls he claimed it was not enough.  It would never be enough.  Not until he came face to face with the person responsible for her suffering—the earl of Rochester.

“
Tyreswelle
.”  Arucard urged his destrier into a gallop.  “Thou art mine.”

Metal clashed with metal, as they waged war amid the stench of damp earth mixed with blood, and sunlight flickered on the flat of the blades, but it was no contest, given the villain posed no real threat to a man unafraid of death.  With a single swing of his sword, Arucard knocked Isolde’s father from his horse.  As Arucard could have predicted, the pathetic bastard surrendered without so much as a single challenge.

“I yield.”  The earl tossed down his weapon and splayed his palms.  “And I demand thee deliver me unto His Majesty.”

“Thou art in no position to make demands.”  Arucard leaped from his saddle and assumed a provocative stance.  “Now pick up thy sword.”

“Nay.”  The bastard spat at Arucard’s feet.  “I am the earl of Rochester, Reinfrid de Tyreswelle, and head of one of England’s oldest noble families.  Whither art thou from, and who art thy connections, de Villiers?”