“He is my brother, too,” the boy added. “I am Nicholas de Burgh.”
With a vicious oath, Fitzhugh drew his sword and leaped at Robin, but the younger man sidestepped him easily and swung his own weapon in a fatal arc.
“No, Robin! He is mine!” Dunstan shouted, and Robin stayed his hand, while the Wolf gave chase to the fleeing villain.
Down the darkened hallway they ran before Fitzhugh turned to fight upon the stairs. “How is your head, Wessex?” he taunted. “Can you keep your balance? ‘Tis steep and slippery here.”
Once, Dunstan would have overpowered the older man in a single blow, but now, bruised and weakened, he struggled to parry and make his way down the steps at the same time. Below, hushed voices greeted the sight of the dueling enemies, Fitzhugh richly and immaculately garbed and Dunstan dressed in a torn tunic, stained with filth and blood.
While Fitzhugh danced about, agile for his years, Dunstan stood his ground and advanced, slowly but surely. Impatient, the older man finally jumped to the floor below and ran across the tiles, but his flight was blocked by three tall, dark men, who looked suspiciously like de Burghs. Cursing, he swung back to Dunstan, fighting with renewed energy to what he knew must be his death.
He was frenzied, his blade sliding under Dunstan’s guard to slice a bloody line across the huge chest. Fitzhugh’s glee was short-lived, however, as Dunstan did not falter at the wound, but brought his sword down like a hammer. Fitzhugh fell back, his eyes wide with stunned surprise when Dunstan’s blade buried itself deep.
Drawing in great gulps of air, Dunstan stood over the body of his neighbor and felt not the sweetness of revenge—only a cold sense of justice done. Wessex was now his, and let no man dispute it. With an overwhelming yearning, he hoped that perhaps he and his people could know peace.
Vaguely, he heard Nicholas’s cheers and the shouts of admiration from his other brothers as he removed his weapon from Fitzhugh’s corpse, but the sounds dimmed to a dull roar. Lifting a hand to his bloody chest, Dunstan watched his sword fall to the tiles. Then he swayed upon his feet, suddenly too weak to stand, and crumpled to the floor after it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Dunstan awoke, it was to sharp pain. He opened his eyes to see an old servant cleansing a wound upon his chest. He was in his bed at Wessex and, for a moment, wondered groggily what had happened. Every muscle in his body ached, his face throbbed, and his throat was dry and sore. Had he been in some battle?
Glancing blearily around the room, Dunstan saw his brothers Geoffrey and Simon…at Wessex? He shut his eyes in an effort to concentrate, and suddenly the past day came rushing back to him, along with a sense of peace. Fitzhugh was dead, his castle was his own, and he could now turn his attention to putting it to rights. All was well again, and yet…something was missing.
Marion.Day of God, where was his wife? Dunstan’s mouth seemed inordinately dry and his lips slow to work, but he finally croaked out her name. “Marion.”
“What?” Geoffrey stepped closer, his voice heavy with concern.
“Marion,” Dunstan whispered.
“Marion? Oh, Marion! She is well. We left her at Campion,” Geoffrey said.
Relief spilled through him like sunlight. The wren was all right! But why was she at his father’s house? Dunstan frowned. “Have someone fetch her here.” He wanted her with him. She was his wife, whether she would or no, and her place was at his side. He scowled more deeply as the old woman probed his injuries, and then he grunted aloud, his eyes flying open to glare at her.
“Is that rib broken, my lord?” she asked him, a pensive look on her aged face.
“No,” Dunstan barked, rising onto his elbows. His brothers must have carried him upstairs and stripped him of his clothes, for now he lay in bed, like a babe, and it pleased him not. He growled out a protest, but it came out more like a cat’s mew than the angry cry of a wolf. “Cease your poking, woman. I am fit,” he managed to snarl.
“You were beaten most severely, my lord,” she argued. “‘Twas terrible. I saw it all.” She opened her mouth as if to expound upon the episode to his brothers, but Dunstan grabbed her wrist, proving he still had strength enough to quiet her, should the need arise. Catching his warning glance, she paused before speaking again in a more positive tone. “Food and water, that is what he needs most. Here, my lord, have a drink.”
The water revived him, and Dunstan sat up, surveying the room while he sipped some obnoxious gruel obviously meant for someone frail and weak. Nicholas was watching him with wide-eyed admiration, Geoffrey’s brows were drawn together in worry, and Simon paced the floor impatiently, unhappy to be in the sickroom. Dunstan’s lips curved into a reluctant smile. How long had it been since he had spent time with his brothers? In his single-minded quest to prove himself, he had missed something important—getting to know the men they had become.
“I believe I owe you my thanks, brothers,” he said.
Nicholas beamed happily at his words, while Geoffrey seemed to relax, and Simon swung around with a stiff nod of acknowledgment. By faith, they were dear to him, Dunstan realized with some surprise. What had kept him from sharing his life with them?
“We were happy to help you,” Geoffrey said. “Now, you must rest. You gave me some gray hairs, Dunstan, when I saw you take on Fitzhugh, alone and in your condition.”
Dunstan snorted, but in an affectionate way. “‘Twas but little, compared to my brothers’ contributions to my cause,” he said. “And I am well enough to hear the state of my castle, if you please, Simon.”
Simon smiled grimly, eager to impart the details of the battle, the casualties, the number of Dunstan’s men who had been freed, and how many of Fitzhugh’s soldiers were willing to pledge their lives to Wessex.
“And what of my former vassal, Walter Avery?” Dunstan asked roughly. The pain of that betrayal still stung, making the meat he swallowed go down hard. Perhaps a man was wise to trust none but his own brothers….
“Escaped,” Simon said tersely. “He and a few went out the gates before we could close them, and I could not spare the men to give chase. He is probably halfway to Fitzhugh’s manor by now.” Simon’s face was taut with anger and disgust.
Dunstan recognized the frustration Simon was feeling, for he had wasted plenty of his own energies in the futile exercise of hindsight. “You did well, Simon,” he said. “None would fault you.”
The sharp, quick glance Simon sent him showed surprise, disbelief and, finally, greedy acceptance of his praise. It stunned Dunstan to realize just how much worth his brothers placed upon his words.
