Midnight Warrior (4 page)

Malik nodded and left the chamber.

Gage looked up at the comet, beginning to feel a faint stirring of excitement.

England. He had memories of Hardraada talking in the twilight dimness of his hall of the rich plum that was England. His father had wanted England, still wanted it. Gage would be pitting himself against Norway and Hardraada if he allied himself with William. He would be casting away the last chance of getting his father to acknowledge him.

There was no chance. He had not even realized a particle of hope remained until that moment. Why should he not recognize and resign himself to that truth? Hardraada had made his rejection brutally clear on that last journey.

Well, if he had no father, no loyalty was due.

England offered him a place and status he had never been able to win in Normandy and was denied in Norway. He would reach out and pick the plum, and to devil with Hardraada.

He smiled recklessly as he looked up at the comet. He did not believe in signs, but the baron he was to become needed a coat of arms. Why not this blazing heavenly messenger that was filling all and sundry with fear and foreboding? The temerity of the upstart merchant-warrior flourishing such a banner would outrage William, King Harold of England, Hardraada, and possibly the Pope himself.

Yes, he would definitely claim the comet as his own.

The setting sun glowered red in the west, but no more red than the blood staining Malik’s tunic.

“I’ve done all I can.” Father Bernard shook his head. “It is of no avail. I’ve stopped the blood, but the wound is too deep. He will die. I must go help the others.”

“Stay!” Gage ordered harshly. “He’s not dead yet. Help him.”

Father Bernard looked around the battlefield and crossed himself. So many dead, so many maimed and wounded. It was hard to believe the Pope had sanctioned this terrible massacre. The Saxons had been slaughtered but so had many of William’s troops, and now they expected him and his fellow priests to perform the miracle of healing what could not be healed. “I must go where I can be of help.” He rose to his feet. “This man is dead.”

“He breathes. There’s a chance.”

“I’ve wasted too much time as it is on this infidel while good, true Christians are in need.”

Gage Dumont stood up and faced him. “Waste? This infidel is a better man than any Christian I know.”

“Blasphemy. May God forgive you such—” Father
Bernard took a half-step back as he encountered the blazing blue eyes of Dumont. The man was almost incandescent with anger, and his face was the twisted visage of a demon from hell. He reached up his hand to cross himself but stopped in mid motion. Gage Dumont may have fought with the power of a legendary berserker this day, but he was only a man, not a devil. “It is a sin to make such a claim.”

“It’s a sin to let a man die when he could live.” Gage drew his sword and pointed it at the priest. His tone was laden with cold ferocity. “He is not dead and you will not leave him to minister to anyone else until he is.”

“What will you have me do? Even if you threaten to kill me, I cannot tell you I can heal this man. He’s beyond help.”

“I can heal him.”

Gage whirled on the little crowd of prisoners standing under guard a short distance away. “Who spoke?”

“Lord Richard of Redfern.” A tall, golden-haired man stepped eagerly forward and was immediately stopped by the guard. He called over the soldier’s shoulder, “You want the man healed? Release me. It can be done.”

“The man lies. No one can save the infidel,” Father Bernard said.

Gage ignored him, his gaze raking the handsome features of the Saxon. “What makes you think you can cure him?”

“Not I. But my wife would have died on at least two occasions if not helped by a healer in my household.”

“Traitor,” spat out an older prisoner standing next to Richard of Redfern. “I did not send you the woman to be used to heal these Normans. I would die rather than give them aid.”

“Because you are a fool, my lord Kells,” Richard
snarled. “King Harold is dead and we are beaten. You may have a taste for slavery, but I do not. We will never rise again unless we have something with which to barter.” He called to Gage, “If you want your man to live, free me to go and fetch the healer. The woman is a slave and will be my gift to you.”

“There is no time,” Father Bernard said.

“My holding is but a scant hour’s ride to the north,” the Saxon said persuasively. “In two hours’ time she can be at the man’s side.”

Gage studied Richard’s face. “And what do you wish in return for this healer?”

“Only freedom,” Richard said. “And the opportunity to serve you.”

Gage hesitated and then said curtly, “You can have your freedom, but only a few hours hence you were killing my soldiers. I don’t take enemies into my service.” He turned to Captain LeFont, who was in charge of the prisoners. “Take the man and a company of soldiers to this Redfern and bring the woman back.”

“You won’t be sorry,” Richard said as the captain cut his bonds. “As for the other, I’m sure I can prove how useful I can be.”

“I care nothing for your usefulness. You’ll not have the opportunity to do anything more useful than scramble for scraps with the hounds at my table if Malik dies.” Gage turned to another soldier. “Put up my tent. We’ll set up camp here.”

Captain LeFont turned to him in surprise. “But I thought his grace wished to push on to London.”

“Then he can do it without me. I’ll join him later.”

Father Bernard mournfully shook his head. “You will displease his grace for nothing. It will do no good. He cannot be saved.”

Gage turned back to Malik so that the priest would not see the panic his words had sent coursing through him. “He
will
be saved.”

• • •

“You broke … your promise.” Malik’s voice was a mere breath of sound in the twilight dimness of the tent. “You said … the barbarians would not kill me.”

“Hush.” Gage gently stroked back Malik’s hair from his face. “Save your strength.”

“When a man is dying, he should say … many things.” Malik’s eyes shut. “But I cannot think of … I was not … prepared.”

“You’re not going to die. I’ve sent for a healer.”

He shook his head. “Too … late. A man knows when he is to die. Sad …”

Gage took both his hands and held tight. “Be silent. You’re not going to die. Have you ever known me to break a promise?”

“This is not precisely …” He met Gage’s eyes and smiled with an effort. “No, my friend, never …”

“Then help me.”

His eyes closed. “I will try. It will be most interesting to see … how you keep this promise.” He tried to laugh but managed only a cough. “And infinitely gratifying. Did we win the battle?”

“Yes. King Harold is dead and his barons slain or captured. We have England in our grasp.”

“I knew … they could … never withstand my invincible sword.”

“You were right.”

“Did … William … knight you?”

“Yes. Will you be silent and rest?”

“Rest …”

Malik was still.

Fear leapt through Gage. Dead? He leaned forward and relief surged through him as he saw the slight rise and fall of Malik’s chest. Not yet.

• • •

“Get up!”

The blanket was ripped off Brynn and she was jerked from her pallet.

“What!” Delmas cried from across the room. “Lord Richard, why are you—”

“Be silent!” Richard snarled. “I have need of your wife.”

Brynn tensed with panic as she looked at him. Richard was breathing hard, his handsome face contorted, his brown eyes glittering wildly in the light of the candle held by the soldier behind him. “No!”

“You do not say no to me, wench.” His hand tightened brutally around her wrist. “You do as I bid you.”

She shook her head to clear it of sleep. He was still in armor and had clearly ridden straight from Harold’s camp. It was unreasonable to think his need was of the flesh as she had first thought. “Is Lady Adwen worse?”

“I’ve not seen her.” Richard grabbed her shawl and thrust it at her. “It is of no account. She is useless to me now.”

“You are angry,” Delmas asked. “How have we displeased you?”

Richard paid no attention to him. “Put on your shoes, woman. We have to reach the camp before the bastard dies.”

“Camp?” She quickly put on her shoes and bound back her hair with a leather cord. “You are taking me to King Harold’s camp?”

“Harold is dead. They’re all dead. We’re beaten.” He grabbed her wrist again and pulled her toward the door. “But I will not remain a slave to these Normans. You will use your skills to heal the Saracen or I will cut your pretty throat.”

“Saracen?” She did not understand any of this. It was the Normans who had defeated the English and yet Richard was raving about infidels. “I cannot leave Redfern.
Your wife has been very ill since you left to join Harold. She has the fever every night and I must—”

“You fool. Don’t you realize everything has changed? She does not matter. Everything is gone. I’ve lost—” He broke off and started to pull her out of the room.

“Wait! My bag of herbs.” She had only time to snatch the large leather pouch before he jerked her out of the room, across the hall, and into the stable yard.

She received a confused impression of soldiers bearing brightly burning torches. Servants and shopkeepers huddled in frightened groups against the walls. Horses moved restlessly, their breath pluming in the cold air.

A soldier rode forward, mail armor gleaming cold and bright in the torchlight. “This is the woman?”

Richard nodded. “Brynn. We can leave now, Captain LeFont.”

Delmas came running out of the manor. His face was white, his expression strained in the torchlight. “But, Lord Richard, what of me? You cannot take her away. She is my—”

“You presumptuous pig.” Richard’s hand lashed out, knocking him to the dirt. “I will do what I wish.” He mounted his horse and pulled Brynn up on the horse before him. “And take what I need. She serves me now.”

He spurred his horse into a gallop as the Norman captain motioned the troop forward.

“I should not leave your wife,” Brynn said with desperation as the manor retreated in the distance. “She could die without me.”

“Then she will die. Forget her. From this day forward you will belong to the Norman.”

“What Norman?”

“Lord Gage Dumont. He has an officer, a Saracen, who has been wounded, and I’ve given my word that you will cure him. You are my gift to him.” He smiled
bitterly. “Though I doubt if that foreign savage will know gratitude.”

“You cannot give me to him. I am not your slave.”

“Your husband is my slave. What does that make you?”

“I am not—” She broke off with a low cry as his arms tightened painfully around her and his armor bit into her flesh.

“Listen well, Brynn of Falkhaar, you will heal this Saracen and serve the Norman as he demands.” He whispered in her ear. “And, perhaps, if I gain his favor, I will persuade him to send you back to my puling wife. I’ve noted the affection you have for her. You would not want to see her die for lack of care?”

A surge of anger rushed through Brynn. He cared nothing for Adwen, but he was using her to force Brynn to his will. Adwen was a pawn and so was she. They all wanted to use her; Delmas and Lord Richard and now this … this Norman.

“Soon the manor will be deserted,” Richard continued. “When they hear we’ve lost the battle and the Normans are overrunning the countryside, the servants will scatter like sheep. Who will care for Adwen?”

“Lord Kells will not let her die.”

“Lord Kells is captive and will likely also become the slave of the Norman.”

Her hopes sank at the words.

“So you see Adwen is your responsibility. Only you can help her.”

She wanted to turn and strike him. Never had she felt more helpless or full of hate.

“Serve the Norman and I will find a way to send you back to Redfern. Prove unruly and I will forget Adwen exists.” His arms loosened. “Do we understand each other?”

From their first meeting she had understood him
and his capacity for evil. She nodded jerkily. “I will serve the Norman … for now.”

“For now,” he repeated. “You never give in, do you?” He laughed harshly. “Interfering bitch. Do you know how often you’ve sent me away from the manor in a rage? You looked at me with those big eyes as if you were staring right through me, as if I were nothing. I wanted to crush you, rape you, stomp you into the ground. And you knew it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’d better not try your bold tricks on the Norman. You’ll have no Lord Kells to protect you from him.” He went on, savoring every word. “If you fail in healing the Saracen, he will use you as he sees fit, and, when he’s finished, he will probably give you to his men. He’s a hard man and as much a barbarian as that bastard, William, he serves.”

She braced herself to ward off a surge of panic. She mustn’t let him know how his words had affected her. He wanted to see fear in her, but she would not give him the satisfaction. “I’m sure there is little difference between Norman barbarians and Saxon savages. You are all the same.”