Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

Jenova’s a little defiantly. “I admit I have not always thought in such terms, my lady, but there have been…reasons for that. I think there comes a time in all our lives when we must face the consequences of what we have done or what might be done if we sit back and do nothing.”

“And you had reached that point,” Jenova replied levelly. She was thinking of Henry, that he too had found the point where he could go no further. A question occurred to her. “What of Jean-Paul? Where is he?”

Rhona’s smile widened, strangely childlike on her grubby face. “I locked him in the chapel and put a guard on the door. He cursed me, but I laughed and told him to pray to God for his freedom.”

“Let us hope God has better judgment than Lord Baldessare.”

“Let us hope so, my lady.”

“Mama?” Raf tugged impatiently at her sleeve. “Can Rhona stay? You have not said yet.”

“Then I will say now. She can stay, Raf,” Jenova said. She took a deep breath, meeting the other woman’s eyes. “You have my everlasting gratitude and protection, Rhona. If I can do anything to help you, I will.”

Rhona’s eyes widened, and she glanced at Reynard, and blushed beneath her dirt. “Thank you, my lady. I think…I think I have all I need, now.”

Then Henry came and lifted Raf from Jenova’s arms. She released him a little reluctantly, but secure in the knowledge that her son was as safe with Henry as he was with her. She knew that Henry, too, would die to protect him. He was a remarkable man, the more so because of the travails he had suffered and conquered along the way.

“I am very glad to see you again, Raf,” Henry said quietly. “I have missed you very much.”

“I missed you, too,” Raf replied in a little voice. “Will you stay at Gunlinghorn now, Henry? Will you stay forever?”

Henry did not glance at Jenova. “I will stay until you are safe again,” he said. “I will protect you and your mother as long as it is necessary.”

“Until I am big and strong and can protect her myself,” Raf added, and he gave a sigh and cuddled into Henry’s shoulder. “I am very tired,” he announced with a jaw-cracking yawn. “Can I go to bed now?” Then, as another thought struck him, he lifted his head, his eyes widening. “But not if Agetha is still here. I do not like Agetha anymore.”

“Agetha is locked away,” Henry assured him. “She has been bad and must be punished. Perhaps we can talk about Agetha in the morning.”

Raf seemed content with that, and within moments he was fast asleep in Henry’s arms.

Baldessare barely glanced behind him at Alfric’s bloodied body. The boy had fought hard, harder than he had expected—Baldessare felt a sting of pride through the red haze of his anger.

He pushed through the doorway, Alfric’s sword in his hand. Where was the priest? This had all been Jean-Paul’s idea—Baldessare would have been just as happy to have forgotten the subtleties and taken Gunlinghorn by force. Jean-Paul had talked him out of it—the king must not be angered, he had said. You must not break his laws, he had said, but you can bend them.

Bend them! Well, Baldessare would bend Jean-Paul….

“Where’s the priest?” he bellowed.

Armored men backed away, their eyes fixed nervously upon him.

“Where is that monstrous priest!”

“In the chapel, my lord,” someone was brave enough to finally give him the answer he wanted. “He’s barred in there. ’Twas Lord Alfric’s orders—”

Baldessare fixed them all with a furious look, just to remind them who was really in charge of this keep. When he turned toward the chapel, no one said a word.

In truth Baldessare still felt foggy from whatever potion his foul offspring had given him. His eyes narrowed. Rhona; it was she who was behind this, and she would feel his wrath. Perhaps, he thought as he reached the chapel, he would give her to the garrison as punishment. Aye, she would be more pliable after they had had their use of her.

“Priest! Are you there?” Baldessare’s fist crashed against the thick wooden door.

A step sounded from inside, and that harsh, husky voice came to him, slightly muffled. “Baldessare? Let me out.”

“Oh, I will,” Baldessare muttered, gripping the bar across the door, lifting it and tossing it to one side. “I’ll let you out, Priest, and then I’ll kill you.”

All his pent-up anger and loathing where Jean-Paul was concerned flared in his eyes as the chapel door swung open. The priest stood there, dark against candlelight. Even as Baldessare lurched forward toward him, bringing up his sword, he felt a cold droplet of terror spill into the boiling cauldron of his fury.

“My lord, predictable as always.”

That harsh voice was the last thing Baldessare heard before the knife blade entered his chest and pierced his heart.