Margaret Moore - [Warrior 14] (15 page)

He raised his sword to strike. With all that remained of her energy and determination, Becca threw herself at the window. She clutched the sill, holding on to it as if the very stones could save her life. “Help me!” she screamed.

A host of shocked faces turned toward the window. One, handsome and framed with long dark hair, stood out among them.

Then Throckton grabbed Becca’s gown and hauled her back into the room.

T
he instant Blaidd heard Becca scream, he yanked his sword from its scabbard and tore through the courtyard. He took the circular stairs leading to Lord Throckton’s solar three at a time and, using his shoulder, burst through the door.

A bloody sword in his hand, Lord Throckton stood over Becca, who was slumped on the floor beside the window. She clutched her side and blood—bright red and shining—oozed between her fingers. Her face was white as newly fallen snow. She looked…dead.

“Becca!” Blaidd gasped, his own blood pounding in his ears as he ran toward her limp, motionless body.

“Guards!” Lord Throckton shouted.
“Guards!”

Savage, primal rage exploded within Blaidd, overpowering his pain as he whirled around to face the murderer. “You bloody, traitorous dog! All the soldiers in England won’t help you now.”

The color drained from Throckton’s face as Blaidd closed on him.

Dobbin and two other soldiers appeared on the threshold, panting and staring in horror at the sight of Becca’s body.

“What are you waiting for?” Throckton shouted at them, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Kill him! Can’t you see he’s attacking me? He’s already killed Lady Rebecca!”

“Your blade is bloody, not mine,” Blaidd said through clenched teeth as he struggled to control the blood lust throbbing through his veins. A quick death was too easy for Throckton.

With fear and panic in his eyes, Throckton raised his weapon. “I had to do it. I was defending myself. She’s in league with this Welshman! She came here and made all sorts of accusations, then tried to kill me! They’re plotting against me, them and the king! They want to kill me and take over my lands.”

“Where’s her weapon?” Blaidd demanded.

Throckton’s eyes flared. “She…she tried to strangle me.”

Blaidd began to circle him, ready to strike if the man didn’t lay down his sword. “Liar! And you dishonor her memory with that accusation.”

His eyes full of hate, Dobbin slowly drew his sword. “So it wasn’t enough that you tried to marry your way into power, first with Lady Laelia’s mother, then Rebecca’s, and finally that poor silly girl. I thought you’d given up your ambitions, that getting rich with your foreign trading would content you, and this fortress would give you what your pride required. A better man would have realized he had jewels in
his daughters, especially Rebecca, and taken pride in them, too. But no, you’re the same scheming, lecherous lout you’ve always been. I won’t lift a finger to help you. And if Sir Blaidd gives the word, I’ll gladly run you through.”

“I tell you, this man’s in league with the king, and Henry’s out to destroy me!” Throckton bellowed at the two soldiers, his whole body quaking. “You’re paid to protect me! Do as I say or I’ll have you executed!”

“I wouldn’t speak of execution if I were you,” Blaidd said as he halted and glared at his enemy. “Throckton, I arrest you in the name of the king. The charges are murder and high treason.”

Before Throckton could protest, Blaidd addressed the soldiers. “I represent King Henry, and if you help him, you’ll be assisting a murderer and a traitor. Do you want to help the man who’s killed Lady Rebecca, especially when the evidence of his guilt is before you?”

With disgust written on their faces, the guards held their hands away from their weapons.

“You’re right in one thing, Throckton,” Blaidd continued, his voice coldly, terrifyingly deliberate. “I was sent by the king, although not to assassinate you. Henry already suspected you of plotting against your rightful king. I was sent here to find evidence of either your innocence or your guilt. I’ve discovered that Henry was right to be suspicious. And now you’ve even murdered your own child.”

“I’m not a traitor! You oafs, he’s lying!” Throck
ton shrieked at the soldiers. “Take this man and imprison him in the dungeon. And Rebecca tried to kill
me.
”

“No, I didn’t.” Her whisper was barely loud enough to be heard, but pure joy filled Blaidd as he turned and stared, wonder and relief overwhelming him. She lived! Oh, sweet merciful God, she lived!

Blaidd hurried toward her, but Dobbin reached her first. The garrison commander cradled her in his arms as Blaidd knelt on one knee in front of her, his anxious gaze studying her pale face.

“He always was a poor aim,” Dobbin muttered while examining her wound. “The blade must have slid along her ribs. It’s bad, but I’ve seen worse.”

Blaidd bowed his head in silent, thankful prayer. Then, as he raised his eyes to look at the woman he adored, he saw her blue eyes widen with horror.

With instincts honed from years of training and tournaments, Blaidd twisted, turned and, still kneeling, thrust his blade through Lord Throckton’s chest.

The man’s upraised sword fell to the ground.

Gulping for air, Lord Throckton stumbled backward. He fell over his table, sending scrolls tumbling to the floor. Trying to push himself upright, he began to cough as blood filled his throat and mouth.

But it was too late. His life ebbing, he slipped from the table to the floor, then fell sideways, dead.

Becca’s strangled sob broke the silence.

Blaidd’s heart churned with anguish as he turned back to her. “Becca, I had no choice.”

She didn’t answer. She turned away and buried her face against Dobbin’s chest.

“Death would have been his fate, anyway,” Blaidd pleaded, trying to make her see he’d been forced to kill the man. “This was a more merciful end than he would have received if he’d been convicted of treason.”

Dobbin fixed Blaidd with a cold glare. “That’s enough talk, Sir Blaidd. She needs tending, not words. I’ll take care of her. I’ve got some skills looking after wounds.”

“V-very well,” Blaidd stammered as he rose.

A feeling of utter helplessness stole over him. Couldn’t a soldier understand that he’d acted in self-defense? And if Dobbin couldn’t, would Becca ever be able to forgive him for killing her father, even if he was a traitor?

What if everyone here reacted like Dobbin, with anger and hostility? Blaidd and Trev might be in danger. They might have to flee. He should find Trev at once.

The two silent, grave soldiers still stood on the threshold. Blaidd’s hand gripped his sword; if they tried to stop him, they’d regret it.

Before he got to the door, Valdemar shoved his way past the soldiers and strode into the room. He halted abruptly when he saw Lord Throckton’s bloody body, and Becca, and a gasp of surprise escaped his lips.

Roused by the sight of the Dane, Blaidd remembered he was the king’s representative and must act
like it. Taking command of the situation, he grabbed Valdemar’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “We’ll talk outside. Where’s Lady Laelia?”

Valdemar flushed. “I don’t know.”

Blaidd didn’t believe him, but it was better that she wasn’t here to see her father’s body and Becca’s wound.

He discovered the stairs were crowded with curious and concerned soldiers and servants. He ordered them to go, all except Meg, whom he sent to the solar to help tend her mistress.

When everyone had gone, he faced Valdemar, who finally managed to wrench his arm free of Blaidd’s grip.

“How dare you hold me as if I were a common criminal,” the Dane growled as he rubbed his arm.

“How dare you plot to overthrow my king?” Blaidd demanded in return.

Valdemar stopped rubbing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do, and your erstwhile ally in a conspiracy against the king of England now lies dead in the solar. Your alliance is over.”

His gaze flicking to Blaidd’s sword, Valdemar took a nervous step backward. “There was no conspiracy, and our alliance was only for trade,” he said, although his words lacked their former haughty certainty.

Blaidd regarded the man with a long, measuring, critical glare. “I don’t believe that, and I doubt Henry will, either. He’s not likely to look kindly on foreign
ers who are implicated in a plot against the English crown, so I suggest, my lord prince, that you flee while I give you the chance. If you stay, you risk imprisonment on suspicion of being involved in Lord Throckton’s schemes.”

Valdemar put his hand on his sword hilt and spoke with more confidence. “Your accusations are utterly unfounded. Where is your proof?”

“Henry is going to hear about what happened here, and who was involved,” Blaidd replied, not the least bit intimidated. After what had happened in the solar, nothing this man said or did could upset him. “He already had his suspicions about Throckton, and now he’ll have them about you, and your father, too. I’d stay away from England in future, if I were you, unless you wish to start a war.”

Valdemar’s face reddened. “This talk of war is ridiculous and you wouldn’t dare imprison me!” he spluttered. “I’m the son of the king of Denmark!” He managed to regain some self-control. “Besides, you have no authority here.”

“Since this isn’t Denmark, I’ve got more authority than you do,” Blaidd retorted. “And it’s because of your father that I’m willing to let you leave. I don’t want a war with Denmark started over the likes of
you.
”

Valdemar’s mouth moved but no words came out, and his face grew so red it was nearly purple. Then he turned on his heel and fled, leaving Blaidd to follow with slow, deliberate steps.

Becca slowly opened her eyes. She was in bed, in her father’s—Lord Throckton’s—luxurious bedchamber. Meg stood at a table across the room, washing something in the basin. The linen shutter on the window was half-closed and the only light came in through the remaining opening, dim and weak. That window faced east, so it must be early morning.

What was she doing here? What had happened?

The memories came flooding back: of what she had heard, the attack that had left her wounded, and the fatal, justified thrust of Blaidd’s sword.

The man she’d believed was her father had tried to kill her. Instead, he’d died in this room, struck down by the man she loved as he defended himself.

Her side ached, but her physical pain was not important, except perhaps as a fitting punishment for not listening to Blaidd. She should have had faith in his words and not proudly, arrogantly refused to believe him. She should have trusted him.

She had to see Blaidd as soon as possible, to ask his forgiveness for doubting him. She hoped he would understand how difficult it had been to hear such things about her fa—about Lord Throckton.

She tried to sit up, but pain as fierce as a hot poker laid against her side made her gasp and fall back.

“Don’t try to move,” Dobbin said from somewhere beside her. “You’ll tear the stitches.”

She hadn’t seen him sitting in the shadows beside the head of the bed. He leaned forward now and gave her a small smile as he took her hand in his callused ones and held it tightly.

This was her father. Her
real
father. How proud she was, and yet how foolish she felt for not realizing it sooner. How could she not have noticed that their eyes were the same shade of blue, or the way his nose sloped just like hers?

How could she not have noticed that Hester looked more like Laelia than she did? How could she have been so blind about so much?

Meg turned around, a dripping piece of pink linen in her hand, her eyes red rimmed. A relieved smile lit her face. “You’re awake!”

“And you’re dripping bloody water on the floor,” Dobbin charged.

Dobbin was always brusque with the maidservants, so Meg paid him no heed. She continued to smile as she approached the bed, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Can I get you anything, my lady? Rowan made some broth special when he heard…” She chewed her lip and swallowed hard. “When he heard you were hurt. He claims it’ll make you feel better in no time.”

Becca nodded. “If Dobbin has no objections.”

“Bit o’ broth’ll do you good,” he decreed. “And some bread, too, maybe. I wouldn’t mind a bit o’ bread and cheese myself, and you should have sommat to eat, too.”

Meg nodded and hurried out of the room.

“You lost a lot of blood before I could get that wound stitched up proper,” Dobbin remarked as he studied Becca’s face. “You just lie still now, or all my work’ll have been for naught.”

“Where’s Sir Blaidd?”

“I don’t know.”

Dobbin’s expression and tone reminded her that he had yet to hear the real reason Blaidd had gone to the brothel. “He wasn’t with Hester for the reason we assumed,” she assured him. “When he went there after his squire, Hester told him she had important information for him. He returned to the brothel to find out what it was.”

For the first time in her life, Becca saw the color drain from Dobbin’s cheeks. “What did she tell him?”

Becca could guess why he was upset. She would speak of that in a moment, after she made certain Dobbin knew Blaidd wasn’t a lascivious scoundrel like Lord Throckton. “She told him that Danes had come here before, pretending to be Germans. She feared my—Lord Throckton was up to no good and she wanted to warn Blaidd, so he could protect me from the king’s wrath. She also told Blaidd that Throckton was her father, to prove what a lustful, greedy man he was.”

Dobbin slowly exhaled.

Becca gripped his strong, rough hand, which had tended to her wound with such gentle care. “I know what you thought I was going to say—that you’re my real father. Throckton himself told me, before he tried to kill me.”

Dobbin flushed, then rose abruptly and walked over to the window.

“Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” she asked gently.

Without looking at her, Dobbin said gruffly, “Because I knew what you’d do if I did. You would’ve left Lord Throckton’s household, because you’d never live a lie.” He raised his blue eyes to regard her. “But you deserve to be a lady, just as your mother was, and have all that a lady has.”

He moved away from the window and spread his hands. “What could I offer you but the rough life of a soldier’s daughter? So I contented myself with staying here and watching you grow into a fine lady, like your mother.” He lowered his hands and stared straight ahead, not at Becca, but at some vision she couldn’t see. “Your mother was the finest, bravest, kindest creature who ever walked this earth, and what she ever saw in me…” His words trailed off as he shook his head.