Page 90 of Ondine

Hearing the soft pounding of footsteps against the snow, William expected to see Hardgrave, and he worried only how he would explain this latest turn of events, that the girl had escaped him to seek shelter in the forest, and that his son—as insanely lustful and vengeful as Hardgrave himself—was in pursuit.

But it was not Hardgrave who approached him so fleetly; it was a ghost, a beast. Tall and dark in black wool, wild with a blood-matted tangle of hair loose about his face. and swinging a sword as a heathen invader might have wielded a battle ax, Warwick Chatham swept the distance between them.

William was too stunned to think; instinct warned him to back away, but not in time, and he dimly thought that he was about to die.

He did not die; the breath was knocked from him by a ferocious strength, and he found himself in the snow then, the enraged man upon him, and a bloody sword at his throat.

“Where is she?”

The blade pricked against his flesh; he gasped and gagged, sickeningly aware then that he was a coward, that he wanted no part of pain, that he would say or do anything to get this man and his sword away from him.

But he could not speak; the sword was against his windpipe, and he could barely swallow. He tried to swallow, his own eyes widening to the devil’s fire of those that stared into him, threatening to burn him for eternity.

He waved toward the forest and the sword moved away from his throat.

“The forest!” he gasped. “She raced into the forest. Raoul—”

But the last was not needed, nor did it seem to have meaning. The great dark beast was off and racing like some majestic steed down the same path the others had taken.

William brought his hand to his throat and rubbed the pricked flesh. He staggered to his feet and started at a much slower pace in Chatham’ s wake.

Why, he wondered, did he follow? He should run away now, before he was forced to face the beast again. But he kept going, for Raoul was in that forest, and he knew not why, but William felt compelled to be there, too. Yet he could not hurry; he could only plod slowly, woodenly, through the snow.

Some voice hailed him; he did not hear it.

He just stared straight ahead, thinking that it had all been for naught.

He had come so far . . . He had taken the land.

He had brought off the most devious and tricky plan!

He had done it; he had done it all. And now it was falling down around his ears, all because of a slender golden-haired girl.

He had bested noblemen and a king, and he was about to lose it all to a girl who just barely reached his shoulder.

“Hold up there, man!”

He finally did so, shaken not by the voice, but by the arm that fell upon his shoulder.

He turned and almost smiled, for this indeed seemed to be a winter of ghosts. The smith had been the first, arising from the dead.

And now this . . . this strange and miscolored facsimile of the same man. He was slimmer, not quite so tall, but seeming a giant still, staring at him with eyes that blazed a wild emerald instead of a great cat’s gold.

William shook his head—there was another ghost behind him, massively shouldered.

“What goes on here?” the green-eyed monster demanded, shaking Deauveau with a fury.

William looked past the newcomers and saw another carriage in the courtyard.

Ah, a busy day for Deauveau Place! Rarely did more than one carriage come at once!

Beside the carriage two men and a woman, all elegantly dressed, lingered and watched.

William raised a hand slowly and waved.

But then the green-eyed stranger was shaking him again. “What’s happening? Where is Lord Hardgrave? Where is Ondine? Where is Warwick Chatham?”

William smiled and pointed. “Why, the smith and the duchess are in the forest. Let’s all go, shall we?”

“Hardgrave—”

“I believe he must be dead,” William said apologetically. He shook his head again. “I knew it. I knew I should have killed her the moment she arrived. Ah, but youth! Raoul just would have her, have her or die!” He started to laugh. “And I think now that he will, indeed, die!”

Justin and Clinton exchanged worried glances, but then as Warwick had, they chose to ignore Deauveau and raced into the wintry tangle of forest.

* * *

It was there before her, fined with tiny crystals of ice, gurgling and bubbling and beautiful where the sun filtered through the dead limbs of winter, casting its glow.

She paused just briefly on the snow-covered embankment, thinking that she only needed to cross it to reach the other side. It would probably not be deep enough now to cover a man’s height, but Raoul might not know that, and he was terrified of water.

“I’ve got you! And now, madam, you will pay!”

She screamed, for there was a tight grip upon her shoulder; she had not heard him come those last few steps, for the fresh powdery snow here had covered the tread of his footsteps. Raoul spun her about, her head fell back, and her eyes beheld him.

“Damn you!”

He shook her in a fury until her head rolled, until she felt like laughing. When she laughed, he struck her, and she sank into the snow, her head lowered, her laughter ceasing.

“Damn you, bitch! I can still save you! My God, do you value your life so cheaply that for its price you will not turn to me?”

She glared up at him, heedless of her words.

“You are insane, Raoul! Never, never, at the cost of my life or any other, could I turn to you! You killed my father—” Sobs caught in her throat.

“You killed my father with his own sword, and you slew Warwick—shooting him from behind his back! Never, never in a thousand years could I bear you! The thought of death is sweet in comparison with your treacherous bloodstained hands!”

His face turned crimson with rage; he shook, and a vein seemed about to burst from his forehead. He raised his hand, and she knew he meant to strike her again and again, until he had beaten her unto death.

But instinct caused her to lie prone and roll in an attempt to escape that first blow.

And in motion so, she suddenly discovered that she was rolling down the slope of the embankment.

She came to rest just at the water’s edge.

Gasping and looking up, she saw Raoul in grim-faced pursuit, carefully climbing down the slope.

“No!” she screeched, and with that sound came energy and desperate courage. She pitched herself into the water.

The cold was lethal; her coat too heavy. Its weight tugged upon her, and it seemed that her limbs had become like icicles, incapable of movement. The cold called to her and lured her; rest, it seemed to whisper; give up everything for peace . . .

She came to the surface and breathed deeply. Yet it seemed the current meant to carry her under again. She had no choice but to go with it and pray that in its whims it might choose to cast her upon the opposite bank.

“Wait!”

She heard the cry vaguely. It was like the enraged roaring of some wounded creature, yet it carried with it something poignantly familiar.

Ah, death! It seemed that surely the shadows were descending, for it was Warwick’s voice calling to her.

The sound of it was sweet, so sweet and gratifying, for even as icy fingers swept her along, it seemed that he was destined to meet her—upon that opposite bank as it were!

The current tossed her cruelly, for she had no strength. It would not pull her down and have done with her; she found herself above the surface again, hearing that same sweet haunting voice!

“Ondine!” A shrill cry of anguish. “Pray try, wait! I will help you!”

She smiled, for where could be the triumph in death, when he was there to meet her?

But then something swept around her; something strong, something unerringly sure. Something that held her against the current and cold; something that tightened about her like a burning forge of steel, carrying her against the current.

She looked up and saw him. She smiled, for his cheeks were unshaven still; his flesh still stained with smudge from the forge, and his forehead, even, still carried the bloody mark where the ball had taken him.

“My love,” she whispered.

And then she closed her eyes.

But they opened again suddenly, for she realized that she was not dead, just shivering furiously, wet against the chill of the breeze, and no longer held, but tossed upon the bank.

There was a great thrashing around her, as if all the ground were being torn asunder.

Struggling, she raised herself on her elbows and stared about.

“Fight, damn you!”

It was Warwick’s voice raging out the demand, Warwick’s soaked and powerful back she saw, standing higher on the bank. His hands were upon his hips and he was staring down at some creature he had dragged back from the woods, a creature that now cringed before him.

“Deauveau! I cannot slay a man from the back!” Warwick thundered. “Take your weapon and fight!”

“Spare me!” Raoul whimpered. “You have her; I never touched her! Take her—she’s yours!”

“Damn you! Get up like a man!”

The vision suddenly blurred before her, for the quiet, barren forest suddenly seemed to have come alive. There were footfalls everywhere.

Ondine closed her eyes, hoping to clear them. A sweeping warmth suddenly enveloped her, and with her teeth chattering furiously, she opened her eyes wide once again.

A man who had shed his great cloak was standing over her, covering her with its warmth, supporting her with strong sure arms, helping her to her feet; a man with anxious green eyes, and a dearly loved countenance she had thought never to see again.

“Justin!” She touched his cheek with affection. He nodded grimly, holding her to him, since the drama above them was still unfolding.

“Get off your knees, you sniveling coward!” a voice commanded Raoul, yet it was not Warwick who gave the order.

“He’ll kill me!” Raoul wept.

Suddenly—without Warwick having moved from his stance before him—Raoul pitched face first into the snow with only a little whimper escaping him. Ondine saw that a knife hilt stuck out from his back and that a blood stain was rapidly seeping around it.

Incredulous, she looked beyond him.

William Deauveau was walking toward his fallen son. Warwick, also incredulous, took a step backward.

William fell to his knees in the snow. He pulled his blade from his son’s back, then turned the body face forward and smiled strangely as he closed his son’s eyes in death.

He looked up at Warwick then, offering his odd explanation.

“He would not have stood up well in the Tower, you see. He would have suffered agonizingly, awaiting death by the executioner. Alas, he’d have had no honor, no dignity. This was best; quick, merciful.”

Silence followed his words, a silence touched only by the winter’s breeze.

Then Warwick spun about, dripping still from the stream, yet not shivering, looking only to his wife.

She could not smile; her face seemed frozen. Yet she lifted her arms, lifted them out to him in amazement, for they both lived.

“Warwick!”

The startled cry came from another man, behind them on the bank. Clinton! Aye, they were all here, her Chatham men. Yet she could not muse upon his appearance, for the cry had been a warning, and already Warwick was spinning back, ready to parry the danger.

For William Deauveau had risen and flown after Warwick’s back like a crazy, rabid dog. Warwick just barely had time to spin and raise his sword before the man shot on top of him.

But just like Hardgrave, William Deauveau hurtled himself onto his death blade, catapulting at Warwick just as Warwick moved his sword. He felt it searing through him.

Warwick bent slowly with that weight, easing Deauveau back to the ground.

Strangely the man still smiled. He moved his lips, whispering to Warwick. “Thank you,” he mouthed painfully. “I could not bear the wait for the headsman either . . . all for a girl . . . Ondine . . .”

Then his lips moved no more. Warwick stared at him a moment later. He left his sword where it was, stood, and turned.

She was waiting for him still, arms outstretched, trembling, her eyes as wide and brilliant as sapphires against the winter’s snow.

He came down the embankment, sliding, catching himself, determined only to reach her. From Justin’s arms she came to his, those sapphire eyes still upon him with awe.

“You live!” she breathed. “We live.”

It must have been too much for her, for her stunning eyes fell shut, and she collapsed against his chest.