Chapter Nine #2
For a long moment, Marion stood transfixed, her brain registering the facts that met her eyes without emotion as something built inside of her.
Each gruesome sight added to it, until she felt a great weight upon her, threatening to burst her heart.
Then she chanced to see the battered corpse of young Cedric, and whatever had held her distant from the horror gave way, letting pain rush through her like floodwaters through a dike, drowning her senses and making it difficult to breathe.
And suddenly the terrible scene before her was replaced by another vision of carnage. Marion fell to her knees, covering her eyes, but it rose before her, erupting into her mind so vividly that she could neither stop it nor deny it.
She could only watch helplessly as outlaws charged forward like fiends from hell, bent upon killing them all without a single word of treaty.
Young John, little older than Cedric, was cut down immediately.
Marion saw him fall herself and heard Enid’s screams. She pulled out her knife and turned to strike at the man who threatened her maid, but fear stayed her hand. And then it was too late.
The assassin’s evil face rose before her, mottled and filthy, his eyes glinting with malice, the silver ring in his ear glittering coldly.
He struck her, sending her off her palfrey to the ground, but before the pain exploded in her head, Marion felt the sharp sting of recognition. She had seen that earring before.
The man who wore it might masquerade as a common robber of the road, but she knew him as one of her uncle’s men.
Marion shuddered, weeping silently and gasping for breath, until she felt a heavy hand upon her neck, pushing her head down to the ground so that she would not faint.
Her dizziness passed then, and she simply cried silently, for the men who lay before her, for her own people, dead these past months, and for the memory that had returned to haunt her.
“We cannot stay here,” Dunstan said. Marion heard the words but did not respond.
Beyond her grief, fresh and wrenching, was the overwhelming sensation of remembering.
Where once there had been nothing but a void, there was a lifetime, for all of it came back.
Her uncle, her treacherous uncle, had sent his men to kill them all!
She heard Dunstan mumble a low oath, but remained still, retreating inside of herself.
“Marion, Marion!” He crouched beside her, exasperation edging his voice, and took her arms in a fierce grip.
“Marion! We cannot stay here, for this was no ordinary attack. The thieves took nothing from the train. They came in silently at night to do murder, and they may not be finished.”
“My uncle.” The words were a dry, hoarse croak struggling up from her throat.
“Forget your uncle!” Dunstan said, giving her a shake. “I know not who has slaughtered my men, though I suspect those two from last night were a part of it. I know only that it was not common thieves who did this, and whoever it was might still be about. We must fly and watch our backs!”
He loosed his fierce hold on her, his voice growing gentler. “Take whatever you can—a change of clothing, money, valuables and food if you can find it. But hurry.”
He helped her to her feet, and moving as if in a dream, Marion crawled into the cart, her numb fingers making a bundle out of a blanket and some clothes.
Even while she worked, images danced before her.
She was a child again, sitting at her father’s knee and smiling at her mother’s sweet laugh.
Oh, dear Lord, she had once had a family and a loving one!
But they were gone—all but her mother’s treacherous brother who, even now, reached out to kill her.
Jumping down from the cart, Marion lost her balance and nearly fell. She reached out for Dunstan and felt a moment’s panic when she did not see him. It never occurred to her to try to flee from him now; she was too shattered to scheme of escape. And Dunstan was all she had.
Overwhelmed by terror and tragedy, she needed his strength, his warmth, to cling to, now more than ever.
When she spotted him at the edge of the wood, pulling an arrow from the body of the sentry, her relief was palpable.
Her love for him swelled and steadied her, dulling the sharp edges of her anguish.
She ran to him, weaving her way among the dead and scattering the carrion birds that had returned to feed upon them.
And when she reached him, Marion flung herself heedlessly at him, throwing her arms around him.
For once, he did not snarl at her or turn away, but pulled her to him, crushing her against his mail and lifting her from the ground.
“Ah…wren,” he whispered brokenly, and in his voice, Marion heard the pain, the aching, crushing pain that he was carrying around inside.
His people had been slaughtered. Some he had known for years; some, surely, were his friends, but the Wolf of Wessex could not fall to the ground and cry like a maid.
He was a knight, and he had to get them to safety.
He was holding all that rage and hurt inside of his great body, and Marion wanted to weep anew—for him.
Slowly, he let her slide back down to the ground.
“Without horses, it will be a difficult journey, but there is a town within a day’s walk, I think.
We shall get new mounts there.” He glanced up at the sky, his eyes narrowing, and Marion followed his gaze.
After so much clear weather, they were due for rain, and from the looks of the darkening clouds overhead, it would come soon.
With a low oath, he led her into the woods.
They stayed among the trees near the edge of the forest, close enough to the road to keep their bearings, but under cover of the oaks and beeches. They walked along in silence, each brooding over what had happened, each grieving for their dead as they picked their way among the heavy undergrowth.
They had gone perhaps a mile before Marion’s numbness finally wore off. One moment she was moving along, following Dunstan’s long strides with her own smaller steps, and then suddenly, she was on her hands and knees in the dirt, retching.
Of course, there was naught that could rise from her empty stomach, but still she knelt there, heaving and crying until Dunstan crouched beside her. The touch of his hand, awkwardly stroking her brow, made her weep more piteously, for she knew that if not for her, he would not be suffering so.
“My fault,” she gasped. “‘Tis all my fault.”
“Nay.” His voice was low and gruff.
“Yes! They are all dead because of me.”
“Nay,” Dunstan countered, more insistent now, but Marion would not be comforted.
“You do not understand,” she said. “My uncle did it. He killed them all.”
“Stop it!” Dunstan’s hands grasped her shoulders, and she lifted her head to look at the handsome features that were now twisted into a fierce grimace.
“Stop this nonsense about your uncle. I know not who murdered my men, but your uncle would have no reason to do the deed. As far as I know, he has done nothing, to you or anyone else. And until you can prove aught else, give me no woman’s prattle about vague dreads! ”
“You do not understand,” Marion said softly. She raised her hands to her face, burying her swollen eyes in her palms, trying desperately to regain control of herself. When she finally lifted her head, he was still there, his green eyes intent upon her, his mouth a tight line.
Nothing showed in his face, and yet, she could sense his concern for her.
She knew, without seeing it, that something blazed inside of Dunstan de Burgh, something besides grief and anger and frustration.
Hope, like some long-forgotten strain of music, threaded its way into her heart. Perhaps, if she told him…
“I remember now,” she said brokenly. “I remember everything.”
* * *
Why should he believe her?
Dunstan had listened to the wren as she sat with head bent, her eyes trained upon the hands folded neatly in her lap while she recounted the miraculous return of her missing memory.
And he could not countenance it. By faith, the woman had lied to him time and time again.
Why should this new, fantastic tale be any different?
And yet something in her calm delivery made him more inclined to trust her—this time.
By faith, he did not need this nonsense!
Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck, but the tension there seemed to have moved to his head, making it difficult to concentrate.
And concentrate he must, for their very lives depended upon it.
For the millionth time, he cursed this wretched errand and the woman he must escort home.
His men were murdered, and he could not pursue the killers because he was burdened with a maddening female!
They were alone and defenseless in the middle of nowhere, without even mounts to make an escape.
And since his train had been slaughtered by no ordinary robbers, Dunstan had to face the possibility that whoever had done it could be out for more blood.
He looked over his shoulder, knowing full well that they might be followed, even now.
Although he had a fairly good idea of where they were, he was not certain how far away Wisborough lay.
The wren was doing her best, but they were not making good time, and if the rain started…
Dunstan closed his eyes against the throbbing in his temple.
He needed to get her safely delivered to Baddersly as soon as possible so that he could go back to Wessex and avenge the deaths of his people.
Now, more than ever, he worried about his absence from his holdings.
And now, more than ever, he needed to be up and on the move instead of listening to fanciful stories from a troublesome piece of baggage.
“You do not believe me.” The husky tone of her accusation pricked him, and he grunted.