Chapter Sixteen #3
They passed Robin in the hall, and Dunstan barely blinked, having grown accustomed to the sight of his siblings. Without a word, Robin joined them, and the three burst into the room to find it silent and still—and empty.
Dunstan did not hesitate, but walked to a large tapestry that draped one wall and, reaching up, pulled down the material with one fierce yank. Nicholas’s soft hiss of surprise sounded behind him as a wooden door, flush to the wall, was revealed.
“Come out, you bastard!” Dunstan shouted.
No noise emerged from within, so Dunstan tugged at the ring, but it held fast. Someone was inside.
“Burn him out,” Dunstan said, and Robin rushed from the room, shouting for fire. The threat must have penetrated the door, for just as Robin left, it swung open and Fitzhugh stepped out, looking positively regal in his colorful finery—and totally untouched by the events around him.
“Well, well, Wessex,” he said smoothly. Although he held his head high, Fitzhugh’s eyes darted around the room like a cornered hare’s as he took in his situation.
“So, you are still standing, are you? Amazing. But for how long?” His gaze finally settled on Nicholas.
“You, boy. See my way out of here and you will be well rewarded.”
While Nicholas stared at him in awed surprise, Fitzhugh moved slowly around the perimeter of the room, giving Dunstan a wide berth.
“Quick, boy, take the hulking brute, so that I might make my leave,” he ordered.
When Nicholas did not respond, Fitzhugh smiled slyly.
“Well, obviously, you are not a threat to anyone, boy, and as for you, Wessex, I am surprised you can even keep your feet—”
With a deceptively swift movement, Fitzhugh made it to the door just as Robin filled it.
“You! Out of my way,” he snapped in frustrated anger. “Know you who I am?”
“Although we have never met, I suspect you are Fitzhugh,” Robin said, his normally bright countenance dark and somber.
“Yes. I am Fitzhugh, and I would go below. Give me an escort, good fellow, and I shall see you are well rewarded.”
“I care not for the kind of rewards you would dispense,” Robin said. Although more accustomed to merry japes than making war, he assumed a fighting stance, his feet apart, and put his hand to the hilt of his sword.
Fitzhugh’s voice rose, high and harsh. “Listen to me, fool! I am wealthier than you would ever dream. Serve me, and I shall gift you with all you could desire—gold, jewels, manors, land—whatever you will.” He was babbling now, while his eyes flew to each of them in turn. “My daughter’s hand!”
Robin snorted. “I want no part of that shrew—I have heard of her temperament.”
Fitzhugh did not even flinch at the insult, but glanced behind Robin toward freedom and licked his lips nervously. “‘Tis well-known that Wessex has nothing. Hurry, man, and let us go.”
Robin made a low noise of disagreement. “You are wrong, Fitzhugh. Dunstan has more than you ever will. You see, he has us.” Robin sent his hand in a sweeping gesture that took in Nicholas and himself.
“Us? You need feel no loyalty to Wessex, fellow. His own vassal, Walter Avery, has joined with me, as should you,” Fitzhugh argued, desperation now evident in his tone.
“Pah! I spit upon Avery. He is nothing but a boughten whore,” Robin said, in a voice more grim than Dunstan could ever have imagined from the carefree youth. “Save your breath, Fitzhugh, for you cannot purchase me. I am Robin de Burgh, and Wessex is my brother.”
Dunstan’s chest tightened as a mixture of amazement and pride swept through him, touching him more deeply than he would ever have thought possible.
Fitzhugh blanched. The hand that had reached out to Robin trembled and faltered, and he looked sharply to Nicholas, as if finally seeing the resemblance between them all.
“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.