Behold the Dawn (33 page)

A sleepy grunt from the chair at her bedside told her that he, at least, was still there. “Lady?”

“I heard something.”

He leaned forward, the chair creaking, and he inhaled as he rubbed his face. “Probably just beasties.”

She lay still, one hand covering the throb of the wound in her side, and listened with all her strength to the hum of the silence. Something had woken her, just as it had woken her the night she had escaped from Hugh.

Marek shifted again in the seat he had occupied almost constantly since their arrival at Stephen’s castle. A bird flapped past the window. The rafters groaned in the night wind.

She heard it again: the clatter of arms, the stamp of horses’ feet.

Her body went tight as the string of a lute. “
Marek.
”

This time he started fully awake. “What?”

“Listen.”

Across the courtyard, a voice, ghostly in its solitude, called from atop the wall, “Who goes there?”

The answer was indistinct: no words, no voices. And yet, Mairead knew who had spoken as clearly as if he stood at the foot of her bed. “It’s him— He’s come for me.” Her voice clawed her throat. Her aching body lurched to a sitting position.

“Who?” Marek got up and trudged to the window. His body blocked for a moment the shaft of moonlight that pooled across the bare floor.

“Hugh. It’s Hugh.”

“How do you know?”

Because I know.
But she had no need to answer. The unmistakable twang of a crossbow preceded the elongated shriek of the sentry.

Marek jumped a full pace away from the window. “St. Jude!”

Metal clanged against stone; someone shouted below.

“Marek—” With one hand pressing the blankets against her side, she forced her spine straight. Her other hand clamped onto the bed frame, the blood throbbing beneath her fingernails.

“Grappling hook.” He spun around, one hand on his sword. His eyes were wild, desperate. “He’s sending someone over the walls to unbolt the gates. I have to tell Stephen—”

“Don’t leave me!” If Hugh found her here, she would never escape.

Marek’s stride wavered for only a second. Then he pressed on to the door, dragging its weight into the room and drawing a gust of wind from the window. “I must. I’ll return before they breach the castle, I promise.” Darkness veiled his eyes as he looked back at her, but the quiver of his body declared that he was torn. The raw terror of her voice was only doubling his own fears.

But, somehow in the days since she had met him, Peregrine Marek had become a man. He would do what was right; he would do what Annan would have done. More lives than just her own were at stake.

“Go,” she breathed, even as her heart screamed for him to stay. She knew he had to go. It was the only way to prevent Hugh and his men from storming through the castle’s every room. She shuddered.

God of Heaven, help us!

Hugh hadn’t even time to wipe away the sweat beneath the edge of his mail hood before Esmè threw open the gates from within the courtyard. “The way’s clear,” Esmè said. “No alarm call yet.”

“Let us keep it that way.” Hugh filled his lungs, lifted his lance, and touched a spur to his horse’s side.

Far away, somewhere near the mountains, a wolf cried, and Hugh raised his lance in a silent salute. Good hunting to them both.

“Who goes there?” A man’s stentorian voice rang out through the night.

Hugh swiveled his head to find the speaker. There. A shadow flickered on a balcony two windows up, and a sword gleamed against the moonlight as it was fastened round a waist. His smile deepened. “Lord Stephen?”

“Who are you?” The man turned away and spoke to someone behind him, “Send Ducard for a guard.”

Hugh stopped his horse in the middle of the courtyard. He would make a handsome target should anyone have brains enough to pull out a crossbow while they still had time. His smile deepened. “There’s no need for that, I assure you, my lord. I come to you as a fellow Englishman, far from the warmth of a home fire!”

Stephen paused. “You have breached our walls, Sir.”

“On the contrary—” He lowered a hand and motioned Maurice to take half the men forward and find entrance however they could. Since Lord Stephen was in such an agreeably garrulous mood, Hugh meant to make good use of it. “We found the gates open.”

“Bah!” That was a woman’s voice, shrill and tight. “He’s lying. It’s that Norman, I tell you.”

Hugh’s chest tightened. Lady Eloise was going to pay her own price before this day was over.

“Call for the sentry,” she demanded.

Stephen hesitated. “Adam?” He stepped farther onto the balcony, his figure perfectly silhouetted against the darkness of the castle. “Adam?”

Hugh looked at Esmè. “Kill him.”

His retainer broadened his stance, brought up his crossbow, and loosed a quarrel that struck Lord Stephen just beneath the breastbone. A beautiful shot.

Lady Eloise screamed as her husband grabbed for the arrow in his stomach and crumpled like an undermined mountainside. Hugh pressed his tongue against his lower lip, considering for a moment having Esmè put a swift end to her grief. Nay, the old hag deserved a better sendoff than that.

“Lord?” Esmè and his men looked up at him, bodies tensed.

From the stables, men were running, no doubt wakened by their mistress’s screams. Hugh took them in at a glance and curled his lip. “Dispatch ‘em.”

“Yessir.”

The first drizzle of arrowfire spattered from the window slits high overhead. He galloped to the doors. “Maurice?”

“We’re through.”

He could have laughed. These fools! They hadn’t even had time to bolt their doors. He leapt from his horse and tossed the reins to one of Maurice’s men. One glance over his shoulder was enough to satisfy him that Esmè had the group of would-be defenders well in hand. Good. He had no wish to end this night with a misericorde in his back.

“Come.” He led the way, sword in hand, his heartbeat heavy with the joy of victory. Save for that heartbeat and the clanking footsteps of his men, the great cavernous halls stretched before them, empty and silent. “Split up. Whoever finds the countess is not to move her until I come. And be cautious, she’s wounded.” He lifted a hand above his shoulder and gestured for Maurice to accompany him.

Mairead had made Marek help her dress—she would not face Hugh de Guerrant in naught but a chemise—and now she sat in the shadows by the window, one hand against her side, the other pressed to her face as she prayed.

Outside the door, footsteps thumped at the end of the empty passage. She forced her eyes to open and lowered her hand so that it covered just her mouth. Marek, sword clenched at his side, stood before the door. Only the heave of his shoulders betrayed the strain of his nerves.

Hugh would probably kill him. The breath she had been holding came out as a sob. “Marek. Don’t try to stop them. Let them come. I want you to be able to go back home, please—”

“Quiet.”

Halfway between the stairwell and her chambers, a door crashed open. “Swine!” Eloise shrieked. “Touch her, and I’ll kill you myself!”

“Go back to your husband, woman. Tell him that tonight his castle will burn down around his corpse.”

Hugh’s voice summoned a prickle of cold from the heat of Mairead’s skin. Her hand slid down the taut cords of her neck and came to rest on her collarbone. Her pulse thrummed beneath her fingers.

Eloise uttered a strangled, wordless cry, and Mairead could almost see the woman hurling herself at Hugh. The scuffle lasted only minutes, Eloise screeching the whole time. “Lock her in,” Hugh said. “We’ll deal with her later.”

A thump, as of Eloise being thrown bodily into her room, and the door slamming closed upon her screams, were punctuated with the resumed tread of Lord Hugh de Guerrant and his companion.

Marek stiffened, his body tilted forward, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring. He crossed himself with his free hand, even as the door’s lock clicked stubbornly against Hugh’s hand on the latch.

Hugh tried it once more and then two mail-clad shoulders pounded into it. Once, twice—and on the third attempt, the lock snapped and the door flew inward. Marek didn’t wait. He charged with a roar that all but swallowed up his lithe body.

Mairead could tell at a glance which of the two shadows in mail was Hugh de Guerrant. Were she anywhere in the world, she would recognize that tall, straight form. But Marek had not the benefit of her familiarity. Unable to see faces in the dark, he lunged at the stockier body of the man-at-arms.

Mairead’s hand fell from her throat to the dagger in her lap. Marek had the chance for only one blow, one kill. And he had chosen the wrong man.

His blade connected below the shoulder joint while the man-at-arms was regaining his wits after his stumble through the doorway. A sickening crunch of bone and a rush of exhalation from the man-at-arms was all Marek’s momentary advantage purchased them.

Hugh swore, obviously caught off guard, and swung with his own sword. The movement was pure reaction, with no art and no strength, but it caught Marek squarely in the side, clattering against his mail coat. He kept his feet, but the moment in which he was doubled over was all Hugh needed to pivot into a fighting stance and swing with both hands.

“Marek!” Mairead lurched from her chair and made it all of one step before her brain started spinning within her skull.

But it was enough. Marek’s blade flashed up to protect his face. He parried two more strikes before Hugh struck his sword from his hands and sent it hurtling across the floor into the hall.

“Very noble of you,
garçon
.” Hugh’s breathing came in gusts. “But misguided. Maurice?”

The man-at-arms had his good shoulder against the wall and was easing himself back to his feet. “Broken arm… methinks.”

Hugh grunted and turned his searching eyes toward the window. Mairead’s swirling, panicked world tilted crazily. She heard a clank of metal—probably Maurice retrieving his sword—and Hugh telling him to watch Marek. Then he started toward her, and she made her stiff arms lift the dagger to point at his heart.

“Tut, tut, my dear. I hardly think you want to add to your wounds. I must say I’m glad to find you in such surprisingly good health.”

Her breath tore at her lungs, more with fear than with pain. Hugh’s hand closed round the dagger’s handle, his fingers brushing hers, and he wrenched it from her grip. She dropped to her knees, and pain stabbed through her joints and her side.

“I find you in a much sweeter mood this time around.” Hugh chuckled as he walked to the window, running his hand over the top of her head as he passed.

“She’s wounded,” Marek said.

“Shut up.” Maurice shoved the point of his sword against Marek’s ribs.

“Esmè!” Hugh shouted out the window. “Bring the pallet and half a dozen men!”

Down below, someone raised an assent, and Hugh turned back around. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice directed past Mairead.

“Marek.”

“Marcus Annan’s little manservant, I’d wager?’

Marek didn’t answer; only glared.

“All the better.” Hugh came forward again, swaggering, until only a pace separated him from Marek. “If you’re still alive when I’m done with you, I want you to tell your master he can find his
quean
in Jaffa. Tell him if he’s any wish of having her back, he’d best find this Matthias of Claidmore for an exchange.” He leaned closer. “Tell him we’re tired of waiting.”

He hammered the flat of his blade into Marek’s stomach, and the lad collapsed to his knees, air exploding from his mouth. Hugh laughed deep in his throat. “Good.” He shoved Marek down and kicked him in the head.

Mairead squeezed her eyes shut. Would they beat him to death before her eyes? She clenched her teeth, begging for the mercy of unconsciousness.

More footsteps tramped down the hallway, and Maurice stepped away to call to them. They stopped at the doorway, but Mairead didn’t open her eyes. Another blow, another of Marek’s cries, and her chin fell to her breast.

“Well, well.” Hugh was as cheerful as she had ever known him. “A profitable night. Danton, put the lady on the pallet. Esmè, come with me. This laddie, here—” Another kick. “—saw fit to break poor Maurice’s arm. Let’s see if we can’t return the favor. We’ll take him into the next room and bid him farewell over the balcony.”

“No—” Mairead’s head snapped up. “You can’t.”

Hugh barely glanced at her. Marek lay in a ball at his feet, his eyes squinted and his gritted teeth visible through parted lips.

“My Lord Hugh—” She planted a hand on the floor to either side of her knees and struggled to get up. Pain pounded in her side and flooded through her brain, ricocheting against her temples.

Someone pushed against her shoulders, holding her down.

Esmè dragged Marek, struggling and kicking, to his feet, and hauled him from the room. In the doorway, Hugh paused to watch his men heave her into the sag of a canvas pallet.

“Listen to him scream, my dear.” He might have winked; through the shadows, she couldn’t tell for certain. “And then I think I’d better see to the lady of the house. Danton, when you’re done there, tell the men to fire the castle.”

“Aye, lord.”

Mairead closed her eyes and listened, too exhausted even to loose the tears that welled inside as they hurled Marek from the neighboring balcony to meet the hard stone of the courtyard.

Chapter XXIV

ANNAN AND THE Templar weren’t yet within sight of Stephen’s castle when the realization of something amiss penetrated the shield of Annan’s focus. He reined to a halt.

“What is it?” Warin asked.

“I don’t know.” He frowned. The hills were silent and dreary, but some intuition he couldn’t yet describe told him something very wrong had happened here.

Beside him, Warin threw back his head and sniffed. “Smell that?”

Annan breathed deeply. Smoke tinged the morning air. It wasn’t the smoke of a wood fire; it was the heavier, fouler smoke of devastation. And here, in the hills above the road to Constantinople, the only possible target for someone’s devastation was Stephen of Essex.