Her Dark Knight's Redemption

‘I saw...you at court,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘Then in the carriage.’

No one had told her who he was...and she had told no one who he was. Even as she carried his child. While she couldn’t earn coin, while she grew sick. A hint to his family and that child, squashed between her rotting body and the mouldy bench, would have been used against him.

Everyone was alive, so he knew she had told no one of this child because she didn’t want anyone to know it was... It was—

Two steps over and he snatched the child. No cries, no sounds. Was it mute? Was it deaf? It was aware, as he was in that moment. Dim light, but enough to see what he thought he never would. Grey eyes. Black hair. A girl by all accounts. But his.

His.

An almost keening sound burst from deep in his chest. One he barely held in check. But the emotion was there and it flooded him, made his knees weak and he locked them tight. If he fell.... Below his feet was the blood of sickness and human waste.

His child wouldn’t touch any of this. Shouldn’t be touching him, but he couldn’t let her go. Now that he held her, now that he knew the truth. That hope, that longing, coiled around his blackened heart. Everything within him changed.

His.

This child...this child was vulnerable. To him, to the elements, to his family. To the sickness saturated into the air they breathed.

‘Foolish woman!’

He could kill her for risking his life, for risking his child’s. Was his reputation so horrific she thought this was better?

The answer was obvious. Of course she did—and perhaps she was right. Death was here, but it was an honest one. He hadn’t been honest since he was a babe. All softer emotions were wrenched from him. They had been replaced with survival, and tricks, and games and weapons a long time ago.

‘What is her name?’

Brows drawn in. ‘You...are different.’

Over several years, he’d threatened many, killed more than that. Relished his brother’s murder by another’s hand. Black deeds left scars visible to all.

‘You...wanted to spare her.’

The servant. ‘A ridiculous lie,’ he lied.

‘You want to keep...’ a harsh breath ‘...the name I gave her. Different. You never asked for mine. It’s Grace,’ she whispered.

For the first time, he looked at the child he held. Grey eyes absorbing him. No greed, no cruelty. Nothing of his life or her mother’s affecting her. Yet she watched him. Watched him. Grace. Yes, the name was hers.

‘I’ll send a healer,’ he said, having no intention of returning.

The woman released a defeated sound. It was as grief stricken as the sounds he heard before she knew he was here. Before she knew he’d come to take the child.

‘No,’ she said, one hand raised to stop him. ‘Take me.’

A rustling and she pushed the blankets covering her to the floor.

He was accosted by the sight, by the smell. This was the decay, not the house or the chamber pot or the bloody coughs. The decay was her flesh decomposing while she still lived.

She wanted him to kill her. Before he could check himself, he glanced at the servant.

Her eyes widened as she took in his hesitancy. ‘You...can’t?’

Of course he could. He needed to. It was...the child. He didn’t want to kill in front of her.

‘You’d let me suffer?’

Legs, shredded. Mere holes to her bones. She was no more than a corpse still alive. And she was in so much pain. Why was he caring?

‘No one,’ she repeated, ‘can save me.’

No. No, they couldn’t.

‘I need you to kill me. What will you tell her? That you let me die...in agony?’

For the first time in years, Reynold’s heart sped in indecision. For once, he felt torn between what he should do and what he wanted to do.

He had hesitated killing the servant. He didn’t want to kill this child’s mother. Both were necessary if he wanted to truly protect himself and Grace from his family’s revenge.

‘You have Grace. Now do what—’ a wheezing breath ‘—you came to do.’

Keeping a child wasn’t what he came to do. Cleverly constructed life, carefully planned so his game could be played out.

‘I came to kill you, the servant and the babe.’ He said the words, but there was no heat in them.

‘You won’t kill her,’ she wheezed again. ‘You know...her name. Kill me.’

Grace. The name fit, just as the child fit in his arms. His child. Setting her on a broken chair, away from the rags, far from the spilled refuse. As far away from the stench of decay, from the heap of a crumpled corpse, from the death of her mother.

A child. So young. And though they’d just met, he hadn’t protected her from the darkest parts of his life, from the stench of avarice, greed, fear.

Grace had watched it with her grey eyes. Absorbed it as she would his final act of the night. The act of taking her away from the mother who loved her.

That soft expression, that comforting hand on her bared head and the sobbing from before when she thought her child gone forever. This woman loved her child enough to protect her against him.

He straightened and took the few steps to the bench. Loomed over her as Death with a scythe. This woman, this stranger, laid still. No flinching to flee, no cries of mercy or coughing because her battered soul and body knew their suffering was about to end.

There were no more words to say. There were no answers and the longer the child was in this house, the more chance for her to fall ill. For him as well.

He held the blade up so the glint of the waning moonlight through the windows played with it; so she’d know his purpose. She kept her eyes on him, bent her neck to give him access. To make the blade cut cleaner, more swiftly. This way, if he chose, he could make it painless.

His hand trembled.

The woman’s eyes flashed with alarm, hatred. ‘Do it!’

He adjusted his grip.

‘I intended to keep her from you,’ she panted. ‘Denied forever. Your child. Denied her. Grace.’

His body changed. He had the child, vulnerable, exposed to his family, to the elements. To this woman who couldn’t care for her. But for a greedy servant, he’d never have known she existed. A child. His. A family he wanted and she had meant to keep from him. Hatred coursed and burned in his veins. Familiar. Needed. His hand steadied. Seething rage. Unfettered malevolence and he let this noblewoman see it all.

‘You monster.’ She spat blood. Her head lolled to the side. Her eyes full of anger, of relief, closed. She’d asked for mercy and he gave her death.

‘Yes, yes, I am.’ He raised the knife and held.

The woman before him was already dead.

Chapter Four

One stroll through the marketplace and it was all too easy to discover the baker whose loaves were stolen. Gabriel picked his place well if he wanted to escape with four loaves. It was in the busiest part of the market and one of the more luxurious stalls with actual shelves carved like animals. The loaves of bread left were golden, baked from the finest of flours and artfully displayed. The baker’s design was clear though the morning light was dim.

She’d walked past this particular stall many times to smell the honey used in each loaf. Never, ever would she had thought to be in possession of them or how the loaves must have smelled to a starving child.

Why hadn’t Gabriel taken from one of the smaller venders where she stood a chance to negotiate? There would be no negotiating here.

Not with the crowd forming or with the owner waving the loaves. Not with his words describing Gabriel to the watch guards, who even now pointed in different directions.

Gabriel had stolen the fresh loaves while they were being unloaded from cart to stall when it was dark. But it had taken too long to travel from the bridge and now the day was dawning. Early patrons were there and they adored a spectacle as much as fresh bread. Gabriel could never scamper through the market again and they had months to go before the worst of the weather changed.

If caught, he wouldn’t survive again. He’d already lost an ear and, though it was unusual, his hearing in that ear as well. To lose another and possibly never hear anything? She couldn’t suffer it.

It was up to her to make amends. Once she was out of the shadows, the baker would notice his loaves and so would the guards. If they didn’t accept her apology and offer of free work, she’d be sent to gaol, to the gallows, could lose her ear or hand. Any of those scenarios were unacceptable. She had three people depending on her now. She made a promise to return.

However, if she didn’t return the loaves they’d search for Gabriel. He couldn’t hide forever. With one ear missing, he was unmistakable. And since he was a known thief his punishment would be worse.

A child’s future or hers?

There wasn’t a question.

She stepped out of the building’s shadows.

A few hours to return to the house and for Reynold to notify the most loyal of mercenaries of what must be done with the bodies.

By the time morning arrived Reynold was back to staring out of the window at the top of the building. Everything was as it had been before the servant approached him. Everything except the child who slept in his arms. Both of them needed washing. But not yet. Much time had gone by since he left in the late evening and nothing now could be left to chance.

He had to think. To plan, to add another factor to his games. Perhaps the most important one and he was already pressed for time. Time was his only true enemy. Not because of his death. That was a certainty since he’d been born to a father who had killed his brother. Since his own brothers intended to kill him.

Time was his enemy because his plan depended on it. Assignations. Manipulations. Hiding, concealing, enquiring after legends. All these matters required time, a schedule, which was why he hid in one home after another. Always hiding while he played his games. He was close to securing victory over his family this last year when an Englishman bungled the capture of the treasure, the Jewel of Kings, a legend much like Excalibur. Except the gem was real and his family wanted it very much.

He thought the Englishman a clever foe, but he was only a fool. A dead fool when he was found by his family. And so he remained ahead in the game, for only he knew the legend’s true worth. Only he kept track of all the players in the game so he kept his advantage.

Until then the child, Grace, could not exist. This child was his, he did not want to let her go, yet he could not claim her. To claim her would spell her death. At least outside the walls of his home, he needed an alternative to him. Dark hair, grey eyes. Every feature of a Warstone and some that were his own.

Had he been this quiet at her age? He couldn’t remember. She hadn’t clung to her mother, to Cilla. She hadn’t cried out. Just kept those eyes open, absorbing everything. Depending on no one, observing all.

‘You like the shadows, too, my girl? You like to watch. So do I.’ How many times had he stood in darkened hallways and around shadowed corners? As a boy for protection, to wait and see if the room was clear and safe, and later to listen to private conversations.

But she was only a child. His child. A liability. A gift. His greatest weakness. His mind never found problems, but for once he could think of no solutions.

A commotion in the marketplace caught his eye. The baker, Ido, was making a fuss again. The man thought his loaves of bread were sanctified by God. They were good, but not divine. He knew of one baker in a village south-east of Paris, where the loaves were superior.

A large crowd was forming. This was more than Ido being cross over an opinion of his bread, much more than being shortchanged coin. A brute of a watch guard clenched the arm of a thin black-haired woman. In front of them, Ido was brandishing two loaves at her as if they were weapons. The woman was pulling, trying to get away. A theft.

Commonplace, barely worth his notice. But he knew immediately, incredibly, what it was: a solution.

With rapid strides, he swung the door to his room open and gave the guards outside precise instructions and his bag of coin.

‘Let me go!’ Aliette yanked her arm to ease the manacled grip of the guard who held it. After her feeble attempts he tightened it. She’d been concerned with bruises, now she was terrified he’d tear her arm away.

It had been years since she’d been caught. It had hurt then, too. But when she left the shadows and approached the stall, her attention had been on the baker. The guard had caught her by surprise. A deadly mistake.

‘I’ve returned the loaves,’ she said.

‘Ruined!’ The baker hoisted the loaves over his head and made a slow turn. It was a gesture for the growing crowd. ‘I can’t feed these to pigs now!’

There were hungry, barely clothed children who were eagerly in position in case he dropped or tossed that ruined bountiful bread.

She should have kept them. But she thought it early enough that she could return them without him knowing. What she hadn’t been aware of was the baker had already reported it to the guard, who dragged her across the market to confirm the loaves...and thus confirm the thief.

Very fine loaves, and an extremely arrogant baker. She was a woman grown and felt the scrutiny of shoppers. Gabriel would have been in tears with no chance to negotiate.

‘They’re not ruined. I returned them and I’ll work for the other two.’

‘Other two? I’m missing four loaves this morning. Four! And these...things! I’ll never accept bread from your filthy fingers! If I sold it, I’d be ruined as much as these loaves!’ He waved them again. A section fell to the ground and disappeared.

It wasn’t true that Gabriel stole four, but with the bruising grip of the guard and the salivating baker, it wasn’t the time to argue. ‘I’ll work for the others as well.’

‘You’ll go to gaol,’ the watch guard said.

‘Cut off her hands now!’ Ido said. ‘Gaol is too kind for one such as her.’

‘No. Please! I meant no—’

The crowd parted and two men silently approached. One whispered low and heatedly in the guard’s ear. The other flanked her right side. Neither touched her, nor gazed at the crowd. Neither acknowledged the abruptly silent baker. The men were identically dressed, hair identically cut. Their size the same, their build the same. Their manners the same. If not for the colour of their hair and eyes, she’d think them twins.

Hired mercenaries, but for whom?

A look at Ido told her much. His face unearthly pale, mangled bread fell from his hands to disappear before it hit the ground.

‘See here.’ Ido looked from one man to the other. He looked to the crowd who had backed several paces away. Some of them continued to jeer. Others had gone quiet or vanished.

‘I didn’t know she was part of his house,’ Ido said. ‘I have no grief with his house.’ He scampered to shelved loaves and proffered several to her. ‘Take these if you wish. They are the best I made today.’

The guard let her go. Startled, Aliette gaped as the mercenary gave him a small bag with the unmistakable jingle of coin. Without a backward glance he walked away.

But the mercenaries stepped closer to her. She couldn’t run. The crowd that was left stood solid at her back, their attention on the baker who looked as if his hand was to be chopped.

‘I was mistaken.’ Sweating, Ido was almost stabbing her with the loaves he held. ‘Take these. They’re yours for free. Tomorrow’s as well.’

‘I don’t want them. I told you, I’ll work for the ones already eaten. Free me and I’ll work twice what those loaves are worth.’

Ido stepped back. ‘Free you. I can’t—’

The men snatched the loaves in one hand and took her arms in the other.

‘Wait! Who are—? Please!’

They dragged her away from the baker’s stall. She yanked and fought, but these men weren’t a fattened guard or an even fatter baker. These men were warriors. Deadly. Paid well, with weaponry tucked at their waists.

‘Where are you taking me?’

They didn’t answer. Panic set in. She’d been worried to go to gaol, for her arm, for her hand. For Gabriel. But this was far worse. In gaol, there were people to plead with, to beg for mercy. These mercenaries dragged her away from anything she knew to take her somewhere she didn’t know. She’d made promises!

Stomping on a foot caused one mercenary to curse in surprise, the other swiftly wrenched her arm behind her back and brought her to her knees.

Sharp agony in her shoulder and she cried out. The other mercenary gripped her assailant’s arm until the wrenching eased, but not enough for her to break his hold. Just enough to be aware of the two men over her, and others walking by, but not offering help.

She was in trouble. The kind with consequences she couldn’t return from. The men didn’t talk, but maybe she could talk to them. ‘I need to return. Please, I don’t want to do this.’

Nothing, although the second mercenary didn’t ease his grip from his comrade.

‘At least...tell me what you want to do with me.’

Silence while she was held down, while she heard the regular sounds of the marketplace. Shoppers going about their day while hers was turned upside down.

‘Please—’

‘Orders will be followed,’ the kinder one said.

She waited for him to explain, but he offered nothing else. No words that all would be well, or what would happen when they arrived at whatever destination they took her to. All she knew was that these men weren’t from this city. As large as it was, she would have noticed them before now, and she wasn’t sure they were French because the accent was strange. Yet she was to go with them, away from Gabriel, Helewise and Vernon.

What were the alternatives? None. Slowly she stood again, but now her knees and arm throbbed. On and on they threaded her through the parting crowd.

Around the stalls and a building or two until they abruptly stopped at large double doors. It was one of the many tall residences in the area that overlooked the market.

‘This isn’t my home.’ She wrenched her arm. If she entered, she feared she’d never return. ‘Let me go.’

The doors in front of them remained closed. The men remained still, waiting for something.

For what? This wasn’t a grand home that had servants. It wasn’t in much better condition than the boarded house she occupied.

But the men flanking her were rich, or at least well provided for, and they had parted with that bag of coin as though it was simply a loaf of bread. The owner of such men should have had a great estate or, if in town, a residence in the more luxurious boroughs.

Two other men opened the great doors and her captors marched her through the entrance. The house was larger than it looked from outside. As if one house was constructed to appear like many. Gawking, she was walked through a courtyard. More men swiftly crossing the small space as if they had great distances to go, or important matters to attend.

The home was a crumbling palace and a battalion occupied it. All mercenaries, all men. There was only one commodity she had that would be of any use to them. One commodity that she fought to protect ever since it was the only thing she was left with: herself.

‘No!’ she called out.

Some men looked their way, but none paused in their duties.

When she dug her heels in, her capturers tossed their bread loaves to men around them and bodily carried her to another large door that was opened effortlessly by others. Nothing in this small room but stone and a staircase that looked new.

Up and up, her feet hitting each stair until they reached the landing. There they released her and she flexed her tingling fingers.

‘Now what?’

Neither said anything, but both blocked the stairway down.

A short landing, nothing but three closed doors. Two at her front and another to her left.

‘I’m to go through those?’ She pointed to the ones at her front.

Again, silence.

A few stolen bread loaves had brought her to this dark door. Bread she hadn’t eaten so she was hungry. Scared. But if going forward meant getting this day over with and back to Gabriel as she promised, it was what she would do.

Releasing the latch, she stepped into the room. The men behind her closed it.

Then there was only her. And a man cradling a child.

Chapter Five

Reynold did not wait to turn as he had with the wench before. He needed to know immediately if the thief he’d spotted at the market would suit his purposes.

If not, he’d have his men march her to gaol and start again. So he turned, expecting no more or less than what he always expected. Except... Something was different.

Maybe it was the night of no sleep, that underneath it all he felt his hand still tremble at a killing he couldn’t complete and one he didn’t want to make. Last night had shaken him and he’d altered his course from past deeds because he had Grace, who remained quiet and watchful.

It was different and he blamed the child in his arms for his reaction to the woman in front of him. Standing still, remaining quiet, letting her gauge him as a man with her large eyes.

What did she see? Dirt, blood, his weariness. Running, always running, and last night his mind unable to let him sleep since he held his greatest vulnerability. He didn’t have the advantage he usually desired.

He never allowed strangers to simply stare at him. Customarily, he hid in corridors or corners and waited to emerge. He liked watching. The waiting made the person he watched reveal more than they wanted to.

Most never knew he was inspecting their mannerisms for weaknesses as they paced and twitched. As they lifted his enamel boxes off his tables or inspected his books. When he’d eventually emerge, to hide their moment of vulnerability they’d cover their shock with spilling words.

There’d been an exception to this once. Not so long ago, a maiden, scarred and far too loyal to another knight, taunted him out of the shadows, but she was a rarity. He knew immediately that this woman in front would also be an exception. How she would, he didn’t know, because he’d been foolish.

For a while he ruminated on his situation and last night. He’d been standing in front of her, so that he was fully exposed to her, revealing his weaknesses and vulnerabilities. It was time to inspect her in turn.

She reminded him of a pixie. Despite the years of filth marring her skin and dishevelled clothes, everything about her was delicate and frail. The only abundance was the length of her thick wavy black hair, bound in an irregular plait, and the freckles across her nose.

If there wasn’t such poignant awareness in her large eyes and the tell-tale sign of soft curves under her threadbare gown, he’d mistake her for a child instead of a woman grown.

Her eyes were not dark as he’d thought. Blue? Difficult to tell with the curtains closed in this room. But her hair was so dark it was almost as dark as his own. This would be useful when it came to his daughter, to his plan.

There were questions in her eyes. Fear, too, but not the sort he was used to. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but she wasn’t skittish as though she worried about her own life. Another’s, perhaps. He’d seen that once before.

She was quiet, which surprised him, as she made a perusal of him, of Grace in his arms, and then her eyes took in the room.