With a stab of pain, Cecily wondered what it would be like to have a husband so loving. Ruthlessly she dismissed the thought. For his devotion, Warfield was about to die a bloody death, and nothing she could do would prevent it. But she might be able to accomplish something else.
Summoning two menservants with torches, Cecily went outside and climbed a stair to the wall walk, where she would be able to see everything that happened in the inner ward. The nearest stair was the one by the gatehouse. She paused as the top, attention caught by the sounds of impatient horses beyond the wall.
Peering into the gloom, she made out a darker mass on the other side of the moat. It was a body of waiting troops, likely with Warfield's brother, Richard FitzHugh, at their head. Was he waiting for Warfield to open the gate so that Chastain might be attacked and captured?
Cecily considered the question, then shook her head. A battle inside the castle would endanger everyone inside, including Lady Meriel, which was why Warfield had tried to quietly spirit her away. Most likely FitzHugh was there in the wishful hope that he might be able to do something.
But there was nothing he could do to save his brother. Perhaps, if he were heir, he would not be entirely sorry about Warfield's demise.
Dismissing him from her mind, she swiftly started around the wall walk, seeking a position where she would have a clear view of the river side of the inner ward. When Warfield was caught, perhaps Cecily's intervention might save Warfield's wife. Though she scarcely knew Lady Meriel, the fragile young woman had become a vital symbol.
If Meriel could be saved, perhaps somewhere, somehow, there might be salvation for Cecily as well.
* * *
Adrian stopped dead at the sight of the torchbearing men-at-arms swooping down the stairs from the wall walk. The intruders had been discovered and they were trapped like rats in a barrel. It was light enough now to distinguish individual figures, and the soldiers shouted triumphantly as they sighted their prey.
They might be trapped, but they were not yet caught. "Back this way!" he commanded.
They had just passed a place where keep, curtain wall, and another stone building met to form a blind alley. When they reached it, Adrian and Alan drew their swords and daggers and took positions side by side, blades at the ready. Adrian ordered, "Meriel, get behind us and stay there."
Wordlessly she did as she was bidden. The area was wide enough to give both men space to fight, but narrow enough that it might be held against a much greater number, at least until exhaustion, error, or archers claimed them.
Feet pounding, hauberks jangling, and torches streaming out behind them, a half-dozen men came charging up to the mouth of the alley. Even more noisily, they skidded to a halt just short of impaling themselves on the waiting steel. There was a temporary standoff as the men-at-arms considered odds and strategy.
Before anyone could make a move, another group of soldiers swept up, this one led by Guy of Burgoigne himself. Fully armed, his blue boar rampant on shield and surcoat, he was a huge, intimidating figure, even his shadow grotesquely multiplied by the half-dozen torches.
Burgoigne stopped and stared at Adrian. "So...," he breathed, his voice an ominous hiss of satisfaction. ''At last we meet. It's just like you to be soft for a woman, Warfield. Your weakness has cost you your life."
"It will cost a few other lives if you have to take us by force," Adrian replied, his mind racing. Though a quick fighting death would be infinitely preferable to putting himself at Guy's mercy, either way he was a dead man. Deciding that it would be worth surrendering if his death would buy freedom for Meriel and Alan, he offered, "If you swear to release my wife and her brother, I will yield to you now."
"Nay, Warfield, I do not want you to surrender," Guy said softly as he drew his sword. "I will not deprive myself of the pleasure of killing you." His expression was invisible behind the nasal bar of his helmet, but his voice was unmistakably gloating. "Single combat, to the death. Perhaps after I have carved your bones for the ravens, I will be in such a good mood that I will set your companions free."
"This should be a splendidly equal fight, since you are fully armed and I am not," Adrian said ironically. His own life was forfeit no matter what, for even if he killed Guy, the Chastain men-at-arms would surely take instant revenge. But Burgoigne had half-promised freedom to Meriel and Alan, so there was a reasonable chance that they might survive. Especially since it would be easier—and much safer—to release Alan than to try to kill him. "So be it. Single combat to the death. My brother-in-law will not interfere if your men do not."
Sir Vincent de Laon, who was behind Burgoigne, gestured at the surrounding men to fall back. Quickly a semicircular line formed around the end of the alley. The torchbearers spaced themselves around the edge to give the best illumination, for the ward was still too dark for clear seeing.
Adrian looked over to Alan, who lifted his sword in a wry salute. "In an odd sort of way, it has been a pleasure knowing you, Warfield. Good luck."
Adrian nodded acknowledgment, then glanced back at Meriel, feeling an ache deep inside that he might never look on her again. She was a slim, erect shape, a shadow among darker shadows, her face invisible. Quietly he said, "I'm sorry, ma petite, for bringing you to this. Can you forgive me?"
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "You would not be here facing death if it were not for me, so the scales are balanced and there is no need for forgiving." There was gentle sorrow in her voice, but no bitterness. "We are all in God's hands. May He protect you now."
It was more absolution than Adrian had expected. He turned back toward the arena, temporarily sheathing his weapons so that he could remove his cloak. But as he reached for the ring brooch that secured the garment, Alan gave a shout of warning.
Adrian looked up to see Guy charging across the arena, sword upraised, blatantly ignoring the rule that combat would not begin until both parties were ready. But this was hardly a normal judicial combat. Adrian leapt to one side barely in time, Guy's sword stabbing through his cloak and gambeson and grazing his side without drawing blood.
Burgoigne reeled as his blade caught in the entangling folds of cloak. After spinning out of the garment, Adrian yanked on it with enough force that he pulled his opponent off-balance. The ground beneath was damp from the night's drizzle and Guy went down clumsily on one knee.
By the time he regained his feet, Adrian had drawn both sword and dagger and was fully prepared. "Send for your priest, Guy," he said in a low, deadly voice, "for now is the hour of your death. Even treachery will not save you."
With a bellow, Guy struck out with his great sword.
Adrian knew how disastrous his own position was, for he began with the lethal disadvantages of being unarmored and already tired by his climb up the cliff. Any of Guy's blows that connected would be serious and possibly mortal, while Adrian would need both luck and skill to deal a killing stroke around his opponent's armor.
Yet at the first clash of steel, fierce joy flooded through Adrian. It was a dozen years since he had sworn his solemn oath of vengeance. He had bided his time, honing his skills, rebuilding his patrimony, staying his hand when revenge would have taken innocent lives.
But now the hour had finally come. Though in the end Adrian would die himself, first he would settle his score with the man who had destroyed his home and family.
For the next few minutes the deafening clang of swordplay echoed from the stone walls as they took each other's measure. Adrian learned that his opponent was a ferocious and deadly fighter, possibly the most dangerous he had ever met. If Adrian made even the smallest error, he would be a dead man.
But because his sheer brute power ended most fights quickly, Burgoigne's technique was surprisingly crude, and therein lay the seeds of his doom. The longer he fought, the greater the chance he could be lured into a lethal mistake.
As he considered possible stratagems, Adrian concentrated on defense and kept his own swordplay as conventional as Guy's. He was younger an
d quicker to begin with, and unweighted by armor, he was enormously faster. Guy would tire first. Until then, Adrian would bank his battle fury and concentrate on staying alive.
For most of the onlookers, the bout was a dazzling lesson in the art of swordfighting. Appreciative men-at-arms began laying bets on the outcome. Most backed their own lord's strength and superior equipment, but some of the more reckless put money on Warfield. Though he was continually on the defensive, he moved with swift, sure skill, always keeping a hair's breadth ahead of disaster.
Suffocated with tension, Meriel understood none of the fine points as the sigts and sounds of battle beat painfully on her raw senses. At first she feared that each of Guy's mighty blows would be the last, cleaving Adrian in half. Next to Burgoigne he seemed small and vulnerable, at a deadly disadvantage.
Yet soon she realized that the two men resembled their emblems. Guy had the crude, vicious strength of an angry boar, while Adrian soared like his own silver hawk, swooping in for a quick slash, then darting away from the boar's tusks.
Meriel might be hopelessly confused about her feelings for her husband, but she had no doubts about Guy. He was a monster of wickedness, a man whom even God must have trouble loving, and she prayed desperately for Adrian's victory.
Years ago at Lambourn she had seen his fighting skill from a great distance. Now she had an intimate view of his fierce concentration and could appreciate the unholy beauty of his dance with death. Adrian moved with sinuous power, his trained muscles taut and swift as he parried and evaded, his beautiful face remote and uncompromising under its sheen of sweat.
She also learned that a fight to the death was a noisy business. Blades not only clanged like broken bells but also slithered along each other with ear-torturing squeals. Blow and counterblow were accompanied by ragged breathing, wordless exclamations, and harsh oaths from the combatants. From the watchers came a constant murmuring, like the curling sea, punctuated by gasps of excitement at a particularly deadly move.
A bystander's action that led to the first spilling of blood. As Adrian backtracked yet again, one of the men-at-arms, bored that no one had yet been wounded, took a step into the ring and thrust the handle of his lance between Adrian's ankles. His attention focused on his opponent, Adrian was caught off guard and crashed heavily to the ground, falling on his right side so that his sword arm was pinned beneath him.
A chivalrous knight would have stepped back when his opponent was unfairly tripped, but there was no chivalry in Burgoigne. Raucous with delight, he smashed his sword down in a killing stroke. Involuntarily Meriel cried out, one hand to her mouth as panic burned her veins, certain that the end had come.
Her anguish was premature, for Adrian responded to disaster with stunning swiftness. As Guy's sword slashed down at his throat, he whipped up the dagger in his left hand and used it to divert the sword.
The dagger's blade shattered under the impact. As Guy's sword slanted into the ground, Adrian hurled the dagger's hilt into his opponent's face, the jagged edge of broken steel slicing along Guy's jaw before bouncing off his nasal bar.
As Guy recoiled, Adrian rolled onto his back, drew in his legs, then kicked up, both booted feet landing in Guy's belly and groin with the force of a bucking mule. The other man howled with pain and staggered back.
Still on the ground, Adrian chopped upward with his sword. He was not in a position to strike a mortal blow, but he managed to slash his enemy's leg from calf to knee.
"First blood to Warfield!" His chest heaving with exertion, Adrian sprang to his feet. His dark cap had fallen off and his gilt hair shone like a beacon fire. "That blow was for my father, Lord Hugh of Warfield, murdered defending his home on Christmas Day. It is God's justice that today you shall die by his own sword."
In the same handful of seconds that Adrian was wounding Burgoigne, Alan crossed the arena and attacked the treacherous soldier whose lance had tripped Adrian. His blade cut deep into the man's forearm. As his victim's scream reverberated from the walls, Alan shouted, "I'll kill anyone else who interferes!"
He retreated to his former position but kept a threatening eye on the circle of soldiers to ensure there would be no more foul blows.
It was light enough now to see clearly without torches, so the men-at-arms began quenching the flames. Guy's leg wound was bloody but not critical, so he returned viciously to the fray, his heavy blows raining down on Adrian. Loss of his dagger had reduced Adrian's ability to defend himself, and he was driven into hard retreat with no chance to strike offensively.
Abruptly Meriel remembered the slim dagger that Lady Cecily had given her, and which she carried hidden beneath her tunic. It was not as heavy as the broken dagger, but the blade was narrow enough to penetrate chain mail. Perhaps it would help balance the odds again.
She pulled the knife out and unwrapped the rag that muffled the blade, then waited for the right moment. It came when Adrian dodged one of Burgoigne's charges, dancing back into the alley. Meriel called, "Adrian, take this!"
She tossed the knife hilt first so that it landed on the ground near his left hand. Deftly he scooped it up, then glanced at his wife. For a fraction of a second his gaze met hers. Meriel flinched under the impact of Adrian's savage eyes even though she knew his violence was not for her.
His lips tightened. Then he turned away to meet Guy's next assault. There was a collective gasp as the onlookers saw that Adrian's guard had dropped when he picked up the dagger and his right side was unprotected.
Meriel's nails bit into her palms, knowing that if he was killed because she had distracted him, she would never forgive herself. Indeed, within the hour she would likely be as dead as he, for she didn't believe that Guy would release her or her brother.
Seizing the opening, Guy swung his sword with enough force to cut Adrian to the backbone, bellowing with triumph that turned to fury as once more Adrian slid aside. Guy lurched forward with sword arm extended and discovered too late that his opponent's apparent error had been a deliberate feint, designed to lure Guy into exposing himself.
Moving with lightning speed, Adrian slashed the tip of his blade across the inside wrist of his enemy's sword arm. As blood spurted from severed veins, he panted. "That was for my brother Hugh and his murdered wife and son!"
The combatants exchanged another clamorous series of strokes and counterstrokes, but the balance had shifted. Guy's sword arm was dangerously weakened, and now he was the one falling back before his opponent's lethal whirlwind of steel.
A strange, uneasy hush fell over the watchers. Burgoigne was perhaps the only man present who did not realize that his doom was sealed. Now Warfield was in control and he played with his opponent as a cat torments a mouse, his blade making teasing stabs at unarmored parts of Guy's body.
Guy's parries slowed as his strength trickled away. When an attempt to protect his legs caused him to lower his sword and shield too far, Adrian thrust in with a high stroke and sliced the left side of his enemy's face, destroying one eye and cutting through his cheek to the bone. "That is for my brothers Amaury and Baldwin, may they rest in peace!"
Except for one hoarse, animal cry of agony, Guy was silent. He did not ask for quarter, for he knew none would be granted. Grimly he fought on, and even half-blinded and bleeding from three wounds, he was formidable. Since he lacked power in his sword arm, he unexpectedly tried the desperate expedient of lunging at his enemy's mocking voice, his arms stretched out for an ironbound embrace.
The wrestler's attack took Adrian by surprise and he made the dangerous mistake of countering with his sword rather than leaping away. His blade skidded harmlessly off Burgoigne's mail but did nothing to stop the larger man's bull-like momentum.
Before Adrian could dodge to safety, Guy's hurtling body knocked him to the ground and pinned him there with crushing weight. The two men lay face-to-face, years of hatred compressed into a few taut inches of distance.
The links of Guy's mail ground into Adrian and his hot breath and vicious
eyes were those of the wild boar. Moved by sheer angry will, his blade inched toward Adrian's throat. "I may go to hell, you pious bastard," Burgoigne snarled, "but you'll be there before me."
"Don't... be too sure," Adrian gasped. He'd been stunned by his fall, and shattering pain knifed through his side, but he had not come this far to die at Guy's hand like a butchered lamb. Concentrating all of his remaining strength and tenacity, he began working his left arm free of the other man's armored bulk.
Guy's sword was a hair's breadth from his neck when he succeeded. Adrian raised Meriel's dagger, then plunged it into the other man's back, the narrow blade slipping between the links of chain mail to sheath itself in solid flesh and bone.
As he wrenched the dagger free in a gout of blood, Adrian's hoarse voice rasped across the courtyard.
"This is for all the innocent people of Warfield who died by your command!"
Mortally wounded, Guy choked and spewed blood as his sword dropped from swiftly numbing fingers. Adrian heaved the other man's body away and staggered to his feet.
Guy lay sprawled on his back, undiminished hatred burning in his eyes even as his lungs coughed up his life's blood. He groped feebly for the hilt of the sword, but he was no longer able to lift it.
Meriel thought the fight was over, but Adrian was not yet done. His fallen-angel face blazed with a merciless rage unlike anything she had ever seen. As she watched in sickened disbelief, he leaned over to yank Guy's hauberk upward, then straightened and thrust his sword into the other man's belly.
Guy gave a raw, choked scream of agony, but it was Adrian's harsh voice that filled the yard. "That is on behalf of all the others you killed and maimed in your misbegotten life!"
Even now, vengeance was not yet satisfied. Adrian jerked his blade loose from Burgoigne's gut. Then, with cold, deliberate brutality, he emasculated his enemy.
Softly, so that only those who were closest heard, he finished, "For Meriel. And for your crimes, may you burn in hell for eternity."