Page 89 of Ondine

Jem had not tarried outside the cottage once he had been deserted by the living, but had rushed within, lamenting his foolish decision to cloak his old bones, for if he’d come just a moment sooner, he might have warned the lovers within that Raoul was almost upon him.

The lord Chatham might then have turned, might well have ducked or escaped the ball that had cost him his life.

Near tears, Jem hurried to the body, determined to see that the man’s eyes were closed, that he might receive that small dignity in death. He rolled the body over, shaking as he saw the blood congealed on the forehead, then starting like a hare as he heard a soft groan shudder from the man’s lips.

“You live!” he gasped, and then some form of youth came to him; he was spry as a lad as he hurried to the water ewer, ripped away a piece of his shirt and soaked it, and returned to kneel by the downed man.

Carefully, tenderly, Jem cleared the blood away and saw that though there was much of it, the damage was in truth minor; only the flesh had been grazed and ripped; the skull remained untouched.

“Awake, sir, awake!” Jem muttered feverishly, smoothing cool clear water over Warwick’s face. “Please, oh, I pray thee God, let him awake! Sir, disaster is upon us!”

Another groan issued from blue lips just now regaining some normal color, and then Warwick’s eyes opened, eyes golden and sizzling as they stared into Jem’s, keenly battling confusion.

“Jem!”

He moved to sit up, then groaned once again, grasping his head.

“I’d thought you dead!” Jem cried. “They think you dead.”

“Ah, it would be kind in comparison to the thunder in my temple!” Warwick claimed, but then he threw his hands upon Jem’s shoulders, pain forgotten, memory returned.

“Where is she? Ondine?”

“Taken, sir, in a daze, for she believes you slain! She asked for death herself, but was cruelly reminded of—of your child.”

Warwick scrambled to his feet, wavered, and leaned upon Jem for a minute, near to breaking the old man’s shoulders.

He shook his head, in an effort to clear it, and seemed to cast away all the mists about him.

He strode with long firm steps to his bunk and reached beneath it, drawing out a long lethal sword.

He stared at Jem once again and asked hoarsely, “They’ve taken her—to the house? ”

Jem caught his lip between his teeth and nodded; already, the blood was flowing thick upon Chatham’s temple again.

“So I believe.” He ambled over to the door and cracked it, peering out. Then he inhaled sharply.

“Milord! Someone comes this way, firm of stride, noble in dress!”

“Hardgrave!” Warwick swore. His eyes came sharply to Jem’s. “Get to the house, Jem, see what happens there. Pass him humbly, as if you have not come from here.”

Jem swallowed nervously, thinking this man not well enough to battle the broad-shouldered aristocrat plodding his way so determinedly through the snow.

“Go, Jem!”

He saw that Warwick Chatham was lying down once again, where he had fallen.

“Go!”

Jem left the cottage, torn. What good that Chatham survived death once, if only to fall in truth? Yet perhaps it was true, too, that he needed to make haste, for in some small way he might find a chance to give aid to his mistress.

As he shuffled past the newcomer, he felt despair chill him again, more deeply than the cold. The man with the limpid blue eyes looked like the very angel of death.

* * *

Hardgrave slammed into the cottage, furious still, yet suddenly quite gratified, for he felt keen satisfaction to see Warwick Chatham, the great and powerful Earl of North Lambria, nothing but lifeless flesh and crumpled bone upon the floor.

He laughed, sauntering into the room, thinking it a shame he felt no need, for he would like to relieve himself upon the body. He moved closer, thinking to kneel down, grasp a handful of that thick hair, and see how the ball had destroyed that noble head.

He crouched down, then inhaled with a startled gasp, for the corpse moved! Piercing gold eyes seared into his, seared with all the fire and fury of hell, and all the loathing he had ever borne himself.

“Chatham!” He whistled, quick to stand, ready to battle, excited himself that the death might still be upon his hand.

“Aye, Chatham! Alive, my friend!”

Alive, leaping with instant agility to his feet, balancing his weight on slightly bent knees, the sword he had shielded beneath his prone body now lethally raised in his hand.

Hardgrave let out a cry, a battle cry, and drew his own weapon. Steel clashed against steel. Hardgrave ground his teeth together and swung again, sending out a shuddering blow, once again received upon steel rather than flesh.

But then . . . then he knew that he was doomed.

Warwick became the aggressor, driving swing after swing against him.

Hardgrave was forced back . . . back against the wall.

He saw Warwick’s face—saw the cold hard resolve in it—and knew that he did indeed battle a demon.

Warwick swung again, catching Hardgrave’s sword in a mighty blow, sending it flying.

Hardgrave slunk to the floor; Warwick’s sword tip came to his throat.

“Yield!”

“Kill me! I do not yield.”

“Yield!”

“Nay! Never!”

Warwick’s lip tightened to a white line. His fiery eyes never left Hardgrave as he walked over to his fallen sword and kicked it back to him.

“Then fight.”

Hardgrave smiled, thinking Chatham a fool. He clutched his sword, bounded to his feet, and made a hasty sprint toward Warwick, thinking him ill prepared to parry the straight blow of his weapon.

But Warwick was not unprepared; he stepped aside neatly and leveled his own weapon.

Hardgrave impaled himself upon it.

He stared into Warwick’s eyes, even as the realization of death touched his own.

Even then he smiled crookedly, as if having lost some chess match, and lost in good spirit. He clutched the weapon in his back, staggered back, emitted some sound, lifting his hand . . .

And then he died, closing his own eyes almost peacefully.

Warwick stared down at him a moment, bleakly trying to recall the long-forgotten event that had driven them both to become such bitter enemies.

Then he remembered that his wife remained in dire peril, and he drew his sword from Hardgrave’s body without a thought and rushed from the cottage.

* * *

They were almost upon the house when William Deauveau suddenly paused, muttering that Hardgrave was a fool—more idiotic than even his son. Staring at Ondine he frowned as he eyed the bruise caused by Raoul’s attack.

He released her, thinking her little better than a mindless simpleton at that moment anyway, and dipped down to the ground to pack a ball of snow to set against her face.

At first Ondine didn’t move. She stared dumbly at his graying head and listened idly as he continued to rant against Hardgrave: Then it suddenly sank into her that William intended to hand her over to Raoul, and then to Hardgrave.

This man who had betrayed not only her father, but had brought destruction to her husband, would only further prosper by her degradation and sale.

She was not at all sure yet that she really cared to live, for what hope could she give her child?

She knew only then that William Deauveau should prosper for his evil greed no more. A soaring life suddenly came to her; she kicked him hard, with all her strength, and watched as he tumbled facedown into the snow.

She turned and ran, back through the snow, past the stables, smithy, barns, and cottages, through the snow-covered clearing, and toward the trees.

Her heart thundered like a cacophony of drums; she was no longer cold, but burning with heat. Seeing that the thick forest of trees was before her at last, she dared to double over and gasp for breath and stare back toward the main house.

There was a sudden shout. She stood straight again, seeing that Raoul had found his father stumbling to his feet.

William pointed toward the trees, and for a brief moment she thought she might have felt the rage of Raoul’s stare, meeting hers, crossing all that distance.

That he did see her, she knew well, for he started off in a run. directly toward her.

Panting, gasping, near sobbing, she crawled over the root of an ancient oak, naked and barren with winter, and plunged into the trees. She was wild, not knowing where to go, clinging only to the hope that the forest had succored her once before and might well do so again.

Through dull trails cast in somber winter grays, she forged on, her breath escaping her in little cries that seemed like the mournful toil of winter. Dead spidery branches came as obstacles in her way.

Something crashed behind her. She caught her breath, and her heart quickened to a still greater pace.

“Ondine!”

Raoul, Raoul calling out to her . . .

Once, long ago, he had called out thus to her before. She had been running then, too. Running and running. He had caught her, but she had eluded him, found her freedom by pitching into a stream, deep beneath the summer waters.

She had eluded him . . . because Raoul could not swim, and because some glorious knight, cast in chivalrous armor of old, had come to stand between them.

There was a stream, a stream that ran beyond the length of the property, a stream that ran all the way eastward, until it met the icy Thames. If she could but reach the stream . . .

It was winter now; she would surely freeze within those waters.

She had to try for them; they were her only hope.

* * *

Coming from the cottage, his sword still dripping Hardgrave’s blood, Warwick must have appeared like some avenging angel as he bore down upon William Deauveau, a man still engaged in dusting snow from his body, still engaged in abusive mutterings about Ondine, his son, and Lyle Hardgrave.