Once Upon a Kiss

chapter 31





Within the hour, Blaec rode out from Drakewich with a contingent of nine—Nial at his flank, bearing his banner high against the noonday sun, its golden threads glittering fiercely.

Yet no fiercer than Blaec’s mood.

Though the distance from Drakewich was a mere three and a half hour’s journey, it seemed to continue without end. His thoughts driving him like demon hounds, he pushed his men harder, faster, without mercy.

There would be no mercy for Dominique if he did not arrive in time.

He tried not to think about her—reflected instead on the ways he would torture Beauchamp. Never had he taken so much pleasure in the prospect of one man’s death, but he fully intended to make Beauchamp pay for all his treachery.

Before the sun set this day, he swore, one of them would writhe in the flames of hell.





“Lady Dominique... please... unlatch the door...”

Hearing Rufford’s voice instead of William’s, Dominique went to the door, speaking through the crack. “Why?” she asked warily. “What is it you wish of me, Rufford?”

She’d locked herself within last eve, and had sworn to die of hunger rather than come out and face her brother again. And at the moment, she felt as though it were a possibility, for her belly had been grumbling for the last hour. Still, she refused.

“Lady Dominique...” He sounded as dispirited as Dominique felt, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. If he would serve her brother in his heinous dictums, she cared not a whit what punishment would come to him.

“I’ll not open the door,” she said with certainty. “If you would come within... ’twill be by force, for I’ll not go willingly.”

“But you cannot stay in there forever, m’lady... You must needs eat sometime.”

Dominique snorted. “Why?” she asked with no small amount of hysteria. “He plans to kill me anyway, Rufford. What does it matter whether I eat, or nay?”

Silence met her proclamation. And then, “I do not believe he would truly do so, m’lady... He is but angry, I think.”

Once again Dominique snorted. “Aye? Well, I didst not believe him capable of what he has done to me, and yet he has. How can you know what William intends? Nay—I’ll not come out. I would as lief—”

There was a sudden commotion on the other side of the door, and Dominique backed away from it, fully expecting to see it fly from its frame. When it did not, she returned to it, placing her ear to it. “Rufford?” she called out.

She could hear him speaking in low, frantic tones behind it—to whom, she could not tell, but he did not respond at once... and then he did. ‘‘M’lady,” he said firmly now, rapping sharply upon the door. “I must insist you unlock the door. My lord William... he would have you brought to the castle walls.”

“Why?” she demanded to know.

“Blaec d’Lucy...”

Dominique’s heart tumbled violently at hearing his name. God—Blaec. He was here. Her hands trembling, she unlatched the door at once.





“Not good enough, Beauchamp!” Blaec called upward. His destrier pranced restlessly beneath him, snorting impatiently. He’d ridden in mere moments before, and had summoned William at once, issuing him a challenge he knew the bastard could not refuse. He waited now, negotiating the terms, whilst they brought Dominique before him. “I want her here below!” he exacted, pointing to the ground before him. “I want her here where I might see for myself that she is unharmed—not there upon your God-accursed walls, Beauchamp!”

A weighty silence drifted down from the walls.

“Come now, Beauchamp,” Blaec taunted, removing his helm to peer up at William’s silhouette standing arms akimbo upon the parapet above. Arrogant bastard! “You cannot be afraid to face me?” he mocked him. “Or can it be that the mighty Beauchamp has only the heart for deceit?”

“Afraid of you?” William snorted. “Hardly, d’Lucy! I merely wonder why I should give you any advantage at all. Look around you. I can do what I wish with a single command from my lips, lest you forget.”

“Aye, but then you must take Drakewich by force. A formidable task at best,” he reminded him. “Murdering me outright will not get you within those gates, and ’twill gain you Stephen’s wrath, besides.”

“Stephen is a milksop!” William shouted down to him, laughing uproariously at the prospect of earning the king’s ire.

Blaec could not argue when he thought much the same of their vacillating king. Though he was no coward, by far, neither was Stephen a daunting force, and justice was never imminent. It was said openly, in truth, that Christ and his saints slept whilst Stephen sat England’s throne. “Nevertheless,” he persisted, “accept my challenge and you gain yourself witnesses. What have you to lose? Unless you are afraid of me, Beauchamp?”

“Afraid of you?”

“Bring her down,” Blaec insisted, “or I ride away now and you will lose your chance at earning Drakewich.”

Again silence.

“Think on it, William... If you best me in hand-to-hand combat, I will commit myself into your hands—myself in exchange for Dominique’s freedom. ’Tis a small price to pay.”

Blaec could tell by his stance that he was wavering. “And you say Graeham is dead?” William relented at last.

This time it was Blaec’s turn for silence, though he did not hesitate long. One lie, for the good of all.

“Aye,” Blaec answered tersely, “my brother is dead,” he lied. If it would damn his soul to hell for eternity, then so be it. If William thought Blaec the last obstacle between himself and Drakewich, then it would serve him all the better. He doubted William would come down else wise, for he had nothing to gain, save to kill him—and that, he could do easily enough from where he stood. As he’d pointed out, he need only give the signal for his men to rain their arrows down upon him.

Nay, this way, if Beauchamp thought Graeham dead, and he believed himself, in his vainglory, able to defeat Blaec, then he would have the added incentive of securing witnesses to their bargain in order to carry his case before Stephen. Though it would do little more than facilitate his taking of Drakewich, it would save him much grief in the end—or so he would think.

Only Blaec didn’t intend to lose.

If there would be trickery here this day, then it would be his own, and he felt no dishonor in using it, for he’d never claimed to be the saintly one; that was Graeham’s role. He only knew how to survive.

“Come down, Beauchamp... and should you succeed in killing me, as well,” he challenged, “then Drakewich will be yours at long last. Isn’t that what you wish?”

“It is my right to hold it,” William called down to him, his tone bitter. “My right! Do you hear me? ’Twas stolen from my father!”

Blaec’s jaw clenched. “Aye,” he shouted back. “I hear you, Beauchamp! Come down now,” he challenged once more. “Come down, or you shall be evidenced as the coward you—”

The words died on his tongue as the figure of a woman appeared above upon the parapet, her hair a burning mass of ringlets, glinting red against the waning sun. She was dragged before William, only to be jerked about to face Blaec below.

Dominique.

Blaec flinched in the saddle, for his gut wrenched at the sight of her. He could not see her face from whence he sat, but he saw her shoulders were drawn back proudly, and he wanted to do nothing more in that instant than wrap his fingers about Beauchamp’s neck and squeeze until he breathed his last.

His own sister.

The very thought sickened him.

“You wished proof,” William called down to him. “Well, here she is, d’Lucy... Feast your eyes upon her now, because today you die—as does she, for her faithlessness, when I am through with you.”

Fury surged through him. “Nay!” he bellowed. “I want her here before me,” he shouted, beginning to lose his patience. His knees clasped his mount with such ferocity that it protested, rearing, and nearly unseated him. “God damn you!” he said. “Bring her down, Beauchamp! Do it now! Or the deal is done,” he swore.

William laughed from his perch above them. “Very well,” he relented at last, seemingly pleased with Blaec’s reaction to his words. “I think it would suit me well enough to have her see you die up close.” With that, he shoved her before him, urging her to walk the parapet. Blaec could see that she resisted, stumbling, but William lifted her up and propelled her swiftly along before him. They disappeared from view as they started below.

Blaec waited for what seemed an eternity as the gates were unlocked, adrenaline surging through his veins. And then, at last, they flew wide, and he caught his breath at the sight of her. Beauchamp—the coward—appeared with half his garrison at his back, but he saw none of them, only her.

His eyes drank in the sight of her. Like some dirty waif, she wore the same blue bliaut he’d last seen her in, though it was wrinkled now and unkempt. Her hair was wild, her ringlets uncombed. And her face—he watched Beauchamp’s approach with barely suppressed rage—it was swollen and bruised, her lips split and bloodied.

Cursing profusely, Blaec dismounted with a vengeance, unable to bear the sight of her, so abused, even an instant longer. Christ, but he would kill the bastard!

Without preamble, he replaced his helm upon his head, and then started toward them, scowling, uncaring that his anger was manifest within his eyes. “I’ll kill you, you filthy whoreson!” he exclaimed, never hesitating in his stride. He unsheathed his sword as he stalked him.

Seeing his intent, Beauchamp shoved Dominique away, into the arms of his men, and then moved to his right, away from her, backing away from Blaec, his own eyes gleeful. “It does my heart such good to see you so enraged,” he said, laughing, skipping backward as he retrieved his own sword from his scabbard.

“You bloody bastard!” Blaec exploded, and lunged at him, slicing the air between them with such force that the air sang. Yet in his blind fury, he missed.

Beauchamp laughed again, hideously. “Is she worth dying for, d’Lucy? Does my harlot sister lie so well beneath you?” He hooted hysterically.

Blaec snarled at him, once again slicing the air between them, his eyes glittering coldly, and this time he came too close for Beauchamp’s comfort. Blaec discerned the instant William’s mood changed, for he recognized the look of sudden apprehension in his eyes. With that knowledge, something inside him snapped, and he was propelled to protect that which he valued. Loved.

He loved Dominique—and he would protect her with his life!

“Tell me,” Beauchamp gibed, daring to provoke him still, “who will be left to protect her when you are gone to feed the worms?”

Blaec felt the change come over him, felt himself transform with rage. With a hellish battle cry, he positioned himself and wheeled with his sword, placing the strength of his body into his swing, crying out as he moved with blinding speed. Beauchamp was not quick enough to avoid the slice of his blade. Blaec heard the shredding of his mail, and was spurred by the metallic smell of blood.

Beauchamp cried out, falling backward with the impact, dislodging his helm in the fall. He ripped it off in order to see as Blaec charged him again. He lifted himself up, barely avoiding another swipe of Blaec’s sword. Standing again, he lifted his own sword and struck a blow.

Blaec met it with his own.

The clashing of metal rent the air.

Feinting and slicing, Blaec and William battled until both were perspiring with the exertion, and still Blaec continued, unrelenting.

Until he chanced to look up and spy the look of horror upon Dominique’s face... It took him aback enough that he evaded the next strike much too slowly, taking a slice upon the shoulder. He felt the warmth of his own blood run down his arm. The smell of it, coupled with the image of Dominique’s anguished expression, caused him to reel. With the next strike, he fell backward, staving off William’s blows with a strength and fervor that came from desperation. His helm went flying, leaving him, like his opponent, without protection against a blow to the head.

But he had no intention of dying—or placing his head within reach of William’s sword, for that matter.

If Dominique was repulsed of him for this, then so be it, but he could not allow her to remain within her brother’s vile hands. If it meant she would despise him for all eternity, it couldn’t be helped, he told himself. He intended to kill the bastard, once and for all—for Beauchamp’s perfidy against Graeham and his father, as well as his offenses against Dominique.

With a ruthless war cry, he struck out, knocking William off balance with the impact, and then thrust his sword above his head, and rolled, surging to his feet with ease, despite the weight of his mail and his wounds. Nor could he feel the blood dripping down his arm any longer.

With renewed determination, he went after William, slicing and hacking at the air between them. Once again, he spun, crying out, and this time he caught William’s sword, cleaving it in two with the force of his blow. The tip of his own sword went flying at the impact.

Startled murmurs filled the air about them.

With both of their swords destroyed, and William empty-handed, Blaec cast aside his own broken blade and went after him bare-fisted. Bellowing in outrage, he dove at him, driving him backward with the impact onto the bare ground. With a snarl, Blaec locked his hands about Beauchamp’s neck and began to squeeze.

Together they rolled upon the ground, each struggling to dominate the other. First Blaec gained the advantage, then William, yet Blaec’s hold upon William’s neck was so fierce that even when he prevailed on top, straddling Blaec, he could not retain the advantage. He tried to reach for his sword, but the effort lost him his balance.

Once again, Blaec rolled, jerking Beauchamp along with him, and then straddled him. His eyes burning with anger, he clutched Beauchamp’s neck tighter, pressing his thumb into the soft spot of his throat, feeling the life pulse beat against his flesh.

God help him, it would be so easy to crush it.

So easy.

William coughed, spewing, urgently seeking air, and in that instant of hesitation Blaec came aware of Dominique’s shrieks behind him. Yet he continued to squeeze until William’s eyes bulged and his face turned scarlet, and then blue.

And still her screams pierced his ears, driving him to distraction.

“Stop!” she was crying out. “Please—please stop!” she wailed at his back.

He tried but could not, so fierce was the hold his battle fury held upon his body and his mind. William reached up, groping, and in his desperation ripped the ventail from Blaec’s face.

And still her screams and shrieks split the air.

With a savage cry, he released Beauchamp’s throat, unable to finish the bastard off with Dominique witnessing it and screaming so hysterically.

Damn, but he could not do it!

Cursing in disgust of himself, he seized hold of Beauchamp’s head instead, slamming it repeatedly, fiercely, against the hard-packed ground until William’s eyes rolled backward into his head and then closed, and then Blaec surged to his feet, cursing, panting.

He spun to face Dominique, his expression murderous, and found her brother’s men restraining her as she struggled to free herself.

He spied her battered face again, and rage, black and potent, filled his veins. ‘Take your filthy hands off her!” he commanded them, and like a man possessed, he charged after them, vengeance burning in his eyes.

The two who held her released her at once, their expressions alarmed as they retreated.

Once again Dominique began to shriek, but he couldn’t stop himself; he kept going. He lifted up his sword from the ground as he passed it, fully intending to slice the heart out of each and every man who had dared to touch her. Like a madwoman, she shook her head frantically, screaming and waving her arms, and he paused, staggered by her reaction to him. It seemed for an instant that she was screaming in fear of him, and he shook his head, unable to bear it.

Didn’t she understand that he did it for her?

“Nay!” she shrieked, her face bloodless. “Nay! William! Nay!” she screamed, and waved her arms, racing toward him, and in that instant, Blaec understood.

He spun to face William Beauchamp.

William had revived, his face swelling already, and stood a staggered instant before coming at him, his half sword upraised, cursing.

Blaec wasted not a breath in his decision. Clenching his jaw, he raised his own destroyed sword and charged at William, driving his jagged blade with a single thrust through William’s chest. He heard the splintering of ribs, and still he was not appeased. With another savage cry, he drove William’s body backward, skewering it through and pinning him, with the might of his drive, into the very ground.

For an instant he watched with morbid fascination as William’s blood seeped into the unfertile ground, poisoning it again.

“Like father like son,” he spat, hissing the charge. “Only this time I will see you die!” he swore. “Before my eyes I will watch you breathe your last, Beauchamp!” With that, he drove once more, putting the weight of his body into the final thrust, pinioning William’s massive frame inescapably to the ground.

“By the by,” he added with great satisfaction, “I lied.” He wanted Beauchamp to hear the truth before he died, wanted him to writhe in hell, knowing he had succeeded at nothing. “Graeham lives,” he said with relish, and then he smiled fiercely.

William’s eyes burned with a hatred that matched his own, though only for a moment, and then with a gurgling sound, his head fell backward to stare sightless at the heavens above. In that instant, Blaec felt only a grim satisfaction, for all that mattered was that the bastard was dead at long last.

In his savage state of mind, it took him another befuddled instant to recognize that Dominique’s screams had ended at long last. He spun to face her and found her within Nial’s arms. Nial embraced her, facing him, staring in silence, his own face expressionless, as were those of the men surrounding him—his own and Beauchamp’s alike.

As he stood there, realizing the full impact of his actions—that she had witnessed the murder of her own brother, by his own hands—his face drained of blood.

Why was it the unloved fought so hard to gain what could not be held? The old question came back to haunt him.

As yet he had no answer. He only knew that it had not mattered what his father had done to him; he had sought Gilbert’s love to the bitter end, and then, upon his death, he had grieved—as hard as any other.

And with that bit of knowledge, another question burned: Could Dominique forgive him?