Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1) (24 page)

“Whither is Isolde?”  He jumped from the saddle, grabbed Margery, and shook her.  “Whither is my wife?”

“Gone, sir.”  With tears welling, Margery peered over his shoulder and shrieked.  “
Pellier
.”

“Woman, what happened to thy face?”  The marshalsea dismounted and ran to the steward.  “Who injured thee, as I will slit the bastard’s throat?”

“Oh, thou art my funny little man, and I have missed thy wit.  I am grateful thou art well.”  Then, to his surprise, Margery kissed Pellier, and Arucard envied their reunion.  “Come inside, and I will tell thee everything.”

While his staff celebrated the Brethren’s return, Arucard navigated the crowd gathered to receive him and walked to his chambers, as he was in no mood to socialize.  In the solar, the sitting room had been tidied, but the psalter he gifted his bride on their wedding night sat on the table near the windows, whither she often read.  As he opened the double-door portal to the inner sanctum, he found Isolde’s robe draped across the foot of the bed they shared.

Perched at the edge of the mattress, he caressed the linen garment and then held it to his nose.  Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes and invoked her sweet face, framed by her shimmering smile.  Then her pleas to journey with him filled his ears, as a morbid refrain, and his heart broke.  Never should he have abandoned her.

“Lord Rochester took my lady almost a sennight ago, sir.  He declared an intent to journey to Winchester, but that is all I know, and we have had no word of her, since.”  With an expression of sorrow, Margery loomed in the entry, and Pellier stood to her right.  “The earl threatened to burn the castle, so Lady Isolde made a pact with the devil, himself, to spare us.”

“Of course, she did.”  Oh, he could just imagine his valorous heroine, with her blazing green gaze, her fists clenched at her sides, and her adorable chin thrust high.  With care, he spread her robe whither she left it, as she would want it when he brought her back.  He would not permit himself to think otherwise.  “Pellier, have fresh horses saddled for the Brethren, and pack our armor.”

Pellier clenched his fists.  “Sir, I would go with ye, as—”

“Thou wilt remain hither, and guard this castle with thy life.”  Arucard flipped through his belongings and located a clean tunic.  After washing his face, he shaved.  “How is Grimbaud?”

“Better, sir.  But he blames himself for what happened.”  Margery collected his soiled garment.  “Shall I bring thy meal hither?  Or wilt thou dine in the great hall?”

“I want no food.”  He tossed aside the towel and strode into the narrow passage.  “And it is not his fault, as Rochester would have found a way to invade Chichester Castle, which might have resulted in costly damage to the curtain walls and rendered us vulnerable to additional attacks.”

Various torments plagued his thoughts, as he pondered the tortures the earl might inflict on Isolde.  Of course, naught would have happened to her, had he abided her pleas and taken her with him.  While he had sought to protect her, he had, in fact, delivered her unto the earl and very real danger.  That was a grave mistake he would never repeat.

“Brother, Pellier tells me thou dost intend to ride for Winchester, now.”  With hands on hips, Demetrius frowned.  “We have been traveling for weeks, and thou art not thyself.  Rest and eat.  Can we not take the day to recover, else thou mayest not be fit to rescue Lady Isolde?”

In the vast meeting room, his fellow knights gathered around a large table.  For a hairsbreadth, he considered Demetrius’s suggestion, as the men looked to Arucard for guidance.  But then he recalled her scarred flesh, and he shook his head.  “Isolde may not have another day.”

#

A multitude of angry Winchester citizens lined the street and filled the square, bombarding her with all manner of spoiled food and calling for her death, as Isolde marched to the platform, and the miserable journey seemed never-ending.  With her wrists bound, she lost her balance, as a soldier shoved her up the steps, and she tripped and fell to her knees.

“Beat her.”

“Make her pay.”

“Burn her.”

Clothed only in her linen chemise, hose, and leather calf boots, she shivered as the icy December wind chilled her to the marrow, and her teeth chattered.  In truth, she also shuddered in stark fear.  While she refused to cry, terror struck at her heart, as never had she suffered the unrelenting hatred, however displaced, of so many.

An irate man hit her in the forehead with a rotten egg, and she gagged, bent, and vomited.  In a flash, she wrenched free and lurched to the edge of the morbid stage, of sorts.  “Prithee, people of Winchester, I am innocent of the charges for which I stand accused and convicted.  Thou must believe me.  And Lord Sussex works to restore thy lands—”

A screaming woman launched a gourd, which smashed into Isolde’s nose, knocking her backwards.  The world spun on end, and she teetered but did not fall.

“I will hear no more of thy lies, as thou hast shown by thy disgraceful offenses that thou art without shame.”  Father lorded over her, she spat in his face, and he punched her in the cheek.  For a second, she thought she might faint.  With a scowl, he shoved a rag between her teeth, muting her protests.  Holding a book of prayer, he stretched tall.  “Friends, we art come hither today to dispense justice well deserved for crimes committed by Lady Isolde de Villiers, countess of Sussex, who hath been judged guilty for conspiring with her husband, Arucard de Villiers, earl of Sussex, to deprive the honest and forthright servants of His Majesty of their fortune and legacy.”

Cheers echoed on the shop edifices.

Father nodded, the guards turned her to face the stake, and a soldier lifted her arms to hook the binding at her wrists on a pike that jutted on high.  Raw terror enveloped her, swallowing her whole, and she pledged not to scream.  Father wanted a spectacle, and she would deny him that.  To add to her humiliation, her father used a dagger to cut open the chemise and bare her back.  “Acting as the Crown’s faithful attendant, I sentence Isolde de Villiers to forty lashes.”

Another deafening roar filled her ears.

Focusing on the sky, Isolde uttered a silent prayer for strength, clasped her hands, and braced for the first blow, which always seemed the worst.  For a moment, time stood still, and she held her breath.  Then with the leather whip he thrashed her flesh, and the searing agony, so painfully familiar, invested her.  Again and again, Father scourged her, and adrift in misery she lost count of the blows.  Slowly, her knees failed her, and she faltered, until a blissful chasm of darkness blanketed her in an abyss of oblivion.

#

The main gate heralding the modest town of Winchester sat open and unmanned, as the Brethren of the Coast arrived.  As they navigated the narrow streets, dusted with new fallen snow, the shops, with their windows festooned in holly and evergreen, appeared closed, and their doors were shut, which struck Arucard as odd, given the time of day.  It should have been the most profitable hours for exchange.  And every now and then, a strange cheer erupted ahead, but they moved slow and steady, as they traversed the city.

“I do not like this, brother.”  Aristide assessed a farm stand, which displayed various fall crop yields.  Yet no trader staffed the tiny market.  “Whither hath everyone gone?”

“I know not what to make of this place.”  Again the eerie cheer echoed, and Demetrius drew his sword.  “What inspires the commotion?”

“Mayhap thither is an early festival, of some sort, in celebration of Christmastide.”  Morgan peered left and then right.  “Although the holiday is not for a fortnight.”

The hair on the back of Arucard’s neck stood, as another sinister clamor hung in the air, but he advanced.  At a quaint tavern with its door ajar, he signaled his brothers, and they drew rein.  After tying his horse, he pulled off his gloves and strolled into the dark establishment, from which the distinct aroma of roasted goose wafted.  An attendant acknowledged their entrance, as they occupied a table and two benches near the hearth.

“Welcome to the Goat in Boots.”  A red-haired character with a noticeable limp tossed a cloth over his shoulder.  “I am Orthaeus, the owner.  What can I serve ye?”

So many responses filled Arucard’s brain that he could not form a coherent response.  Sharing polite pleasantries while Isolde lingered in the earl’s grip struck him as offensive.

“How is thy wassail?” Geoffrey inquired, as Morgan blanched.

“Like me.” The jolly server laughed, and his round belly shook.  “Spicy and spirited, as I use an ancient family mixture of special ingredients, so I highly recommend it.”

“Sounds delicious.”  Geoffrey smiled.  “We will take five flagons, good sirrah.”

“An excellent choice.”  Their host ladled the portions and hobbled back.  “Wilt thou care for any food, as my wife cooks a savory pourcelet farci.”

“Perchance, we may consider thy fare.”  Arucard glanced over his shoulder and then gazed at the tavern keep.  “I journeyed to Winchester in search of a gift—a new comb, for my bride, but the merchandry is closed.  Mayhap thou dost know the location of thy townspeople, as the streets art deserted?”

“Ah, it is a foul affair and quite unusual.”  Sitting at the next table, Orthaeus grimaced.  “Methinks the citizenry attends the public flaying of a noblewoman judged a traitor for stealing lands, using counterfeit burgage plots.”  He scratched his cheek and snorted.  “I chose to forgo the spectacle, because I have no stomach for it, and the lady hath done naught to me.”

Without doubt, Orthaeus referenced Isolde, and Arucard prepared to charge, but Aristide stayed him.

“How unfortunate but fascinating, all the same.”  Demetrius elbowed Arucard, and he realized he had crushed the handle of his mug.  “Dost thou know her name?”

“I believe she is known as the countess of Sussex.”  Orthaeus narrowed his stare.  “Isolde—that is what she is called, and I suspect the judge plans to execute her.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Small merchandries dealing
in various goods and trades lined the square, and a large crowd occupied the sidewalks.  Christmastide garlands of evergreen, ivy, and holly draped the shop windows, in peculiar contradiction to the violence enacted at the heart of the city. As Arucard emerged from a side street, a gut-wrenching scene came into view, and for a moment he paused, in shock from the vicious sight he confronted.

At the center of the action, and surrounded by the earl’s guards, loomed a platform, which bore a huge stake.  Tied to the post, and hanging eerily limp, was Isolde.  Clothed only in her chemise and leather shoes, her slip had been torn from the waist up, and her back presented a bloody mass of abused flesh, such as he had never seen.  Not even the beating she suffered the night before their wedding could rival her current wounds.  At random, the throng pelted his wife with rotting food, and he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.  When he made to attack, a hand covered his mouth, and he found himself set upon by his brothers.

“Hold him,” Demetrius whispered, and his fellow knights grappled with Arucard’s limbs as he fought.  “Calm thyself, Arucard.  I understand thy anger, but look about thee.  We art outnumbered, and thy lady is badly injured.  Wilt thou enact a battle we cannot win and thy lady could not possibly survive in her condition?  In thy haste to act, wilt thou sign her death warrant?”

Pure unadulterated rage churned in his gut, and he languished in fury, burning white hot, as it distracted him from the desire to assault his friends.  But he wanted to maim.  He wanted to behead.  He wanted to kill.  Never before had he craved death, but in that moment he hungered for revenge on anyone who had hurt Isolde.  And chief on that list of offenders was the earl of Rochester.

“Thou art a master of strategy, but thou art verily outraged.”  Aristide pinned Arucard’s left shoulder to a wall.  “Use thy righteous indignation and plot our attack, as we will rescue thy wife.”

“Good people of Winchester, I have dispensed thy justice, and the criminal fainted, cheating thee of thy reward.”  The earl quieted the throng, and the Brethren peered at the stage.  “Juraj de Mravec and I have attempted to compensate thee for thy loss.  Art thou appeased?”

Arucard noted the second gentlemen previously identified by Aeduuard de Cadby as the earl’s co-conspirator.  And the earl’s letters and His Majesty’s report also named the same villain, which Arucard counted as another enemy.

“Nay.”  A chorus of witnesses shouted their objection.

“What more doth the bastard want from her?”  Arucard glanced at Demetrius, who shrugged.

“While I understand thy displeasure, as I cannot restore thy pilfered acres, and thy injury remains, what more wilt thou ask of thy humble servant?”  With an expression of sympathy, which did not fool Arucard for a second, Rochester splayed his hands.  “If thou dost command it, I would sacrifice myself for thee, but who would protect thee from the King’s greedy minions?”

“Burn her,” bellowed an old man.

“Hang her,” screamed a woman.

“God’s bones.”  Arucard swallowed hard.  “He doth intend to kill her.”

Now he comprehended the full extent of Lord Rochester’s plans.  The earl stole their property and fixed the blame on Isolde, with the Crown as her leader.  And in so doing, her father posited himself as Winchester’s champion.  It was a wily scheme, as naught incited revolution like the theft of land, and Arucard swore under his breath.

A monstrous refrain played in the town, as the earl fed their lust for savagery on an innocent.  “Hang, hang, hang, hang…”

“Hear me.”  The earl waved to silence the throng.  “Though Lady Isolde is my kin, I am prepared to forfeit her life, in reparation for her heinous actions that have hurt so many, as I am ashamed to call her family.”

“I would argue the reverse is true.”  Arucard vowed vengeance on his in-law.

“But we have no gallows.”  As de Mravec signaled soldiers to cut down Isolde, he whispered to the earl and then nodded.  “Citizens, let us build a proper support this eventide, that we might fulfill thy demands in the morrow, as we would not be cruel.”