“Give him a sword,” Stephen said tersely. Stephen? Surely, Dunstan was lost in some fevered vision to imagine his wastrel brother Stephen crawling about underneath Wessex! Perhaps Fitzhugh had put some herb into his food, and even now he lay still in the hole, locked in vivid imaginings, rather than standing here arguing with his young siblings….
Before Dunstan could marvel further, a weapon was thrust into his hands and he was dragged along, stumbling up the stairs into blinding light. He flinched against the brightness after long days spent in the dark, and he fell back against the wall of the buttery, blinking, until his eyes could focus. Then Geoffrey pulled him along as they rushed into the great hall.
“Fitzhugh cannot be found!” someone shouted from across the room, and several figures separated themselves from the group to run up to the solar to search. Before him, the vast space stood empty, but a few overturned tables gave testimony of some upheaval, and through the open doors, Dunstan could see the signs of battle in the bailey. Who? And why? Shaking off Geoffrey’s help, he took a step forward. By faith, Fitzhugh’s men were surrendering!
“Nicholas, you stay here with Dunstan, while I help them look for Fitzhugh,” Geoffrey said. Without waiting for reply, he took off, disappearing into the kitchens.
Nicholas?Nicholas?Was that his baby brother beside him, taking his weight? Dunstan cursed his foggy head as he stepped back to look. “Nicholas?”
“Yes, it is me, Dunstan. I remembered the passage you showed me, so we came in to retake your castle.” The boy looked up at him, young, smooth-faced and proud.
“You did well, Nicholas,” Dunstan said, his voice breaking oddly. “I fear I am a bit slow yet.”
“Simon has the opposing force well in hand,” Nicholas explained with a nod toward the doors, “but your enemy has not been found.” Nicholas’s dark eyes brightened with excitement. “Is there some place where he could hide?”
Fitzhugh, somewhere inside the castle…Dunstan stopped to think. There was an odd sort of hidey-hole in the great chamber that he had always thought of as a place to secret a lover, but the small space, more confining even than his cell, gave Dunstan the chills.
Still, a man could sneak in there during a battle and walk out later, unscathed. Dunstan lifted his head, gesturing toward the stair with a tilt of his jaw. “Up there,” he said to Nicholas. Then he moved over the rushes faster than he would ever have thought himself able, his baby brother hurrying to keep up.
Perhaps it was the hope for revenge that finally cleared his benumbed brain, pulsed renewed strength through his weakened body, or maybe it was the scent of victory. Whatever the cause, Dunstan found himself taking the stairs swiftly, hell-bent upon the great chamber.
They passed Robin in the hall, and Dunstan barely blinked, having grown accustomed to the sight of his siblings. Without a word, Robin joined them, and the three burst into the room to find it silent and still—and empty.
Dunstan did not hesitate, but walked to a large tapestry that draped one wall and, reaching up, pulled down the material with one fierce yank. Nicholas’s soft hiss of surprise sounded behind him as a wooden door, flush to the wall, was revealed.
“Come out, you bastard!” Dunstan shouted.
No noise emerged from within, so Dunstan tugged at the ring, but it held fast. Someone was inside.
“Burn him out,” Dunstan said, and Robin rushed from the room, shouting for fire. The threat must have penetrated the door, for just as Robin left, it swung open and Fitzhugh stepped out, looking positively regal in his colorful finery—and totally untouched by the events around him.
“Well, well, Wessex,” he said smoothly. Although he held his head high, Fitzhugh’s eyes darted around the room like a cornered hare’s as he took in his situation. “So, you are still standing, are you? Amazing. But for how long?” His gaze finally settled on Nicholas. “You, boy. See my way out of here and you will be well rewarded.”
While Nicholas stared at him in awed surprise, Fitzhugh moved slowly around the perimeter of the room, giving Dunstan a wide berth. “Quick, boy, take the hulking brute, so that I might make my leave,” he ordered. When Nicholas did not respond, Fitzhugh smiled slyly. “Well, obviously, you are not a threat to anyone, boy, and as for you, Wessex, I am surprised you can even keep your feet—”
With a deceptively swift movement, Fitzhugh made it to the door just as Robin filled it.
“You! Out of my way,” he snapped in frustrated anger. “Know you who I am?”
“Although we have never met, I suspect you are Fitzhugh,” Robin said, his normally bright countenance dark and somber.
“Yes. I am Fitzhugh, and I would go below. Give me an escort, good fellow, and I shall see you are well rewarded.”
“I care not for the kind of rewards you would dispense,” Robin said. Although more accustomed to merry japes than making war, he assumed a fighting stance, his feet apart, and put his hand to the hilt of his sword.
Fitzhugh’s voice rose, high and harsh. “Listen to me, fool! I am wealthier than you would ever dream. Serve me, and I shall gift you with all you could desire—gold, jewels, manors, land—whatever you will.” He was babbling now, while his eyes flew to each of them in turn. “My daughter’s hand!”
Robin snorted. “I want no part of that shrew—I have heard of her temperament.”
Fitzhugh did not even flinch at the insult, but glanced behind Robin toward freedom and licked his lips nervously. “‘Tis well-known that Wessex has nothing. Hurry, man, and let us go.”
Robin made a low noise of disagreement. “You are wrong, Fitzhugh. Dunstan has more than you ever will. You see, he has us.” Robin sent his hand in a sweeping gesture that took in Nicholas and himself.
“Us? You need feel no loyalty to Wessex, fellow. His own vassal, Walter Avery, has joined with me, as should you,” Fitzhugh argued, desperation now evident in his tone.
“Pah! I spit upon Avery. He is nothing but a boughten whore,” Robin said, in a voice more grim than Dunstan could ever have imagined from the carefree youth. “Save your breath, Fitzhugh, for you cannot purchase me. I am Robin de Burgh, and Wessex is my brother.”
Dunstan’s chest tightened as a mixture of amazement and pride swept through him, touching him more deeply than he would ever have thought possible. Fitzhugh blanched. The hand that had reached out to Robin trembled and faltered, and he looked sharply to Nicholas, as if finally seeing the resemblance between them all.
