Page 93 of The Darkland

Sword raised defensively, Spencer turned to the darkened doorway. It was difficult to see anything but he could hear faint whimpers emitting from inside. Moving slightly to gain a better look, he kept his weapon leveled in front on him.

A long metal spit suddenly came hurling out of the darkness, striking Spencer’ sword. He grunted with surprise as the weapon went flying, taking a step back as Johanne emerged from the kitchens. She collected the spit from the ground before the knight could reach it and Spencer raised his armored forearm in time to fend off two heavy blows.

Taking another step back, he slipped on a pile of animal dung and nearly lost his balance. Howling like a fiend, Johanne took the opportunity to thrust the spit at his groin and Spencer could no longer deny the fact that his life was in serious jeopardy. The woman was determined to kill him and he was equally determined to defend himself. But he needed his weapon.

It was several feet away. Robert, seeing that Spencer was in trouble, broke from the frightened cluster of women and children, hurling himself toward the steel blade. Losing his footing, he ended up on his buttocks, spinning wildly through the mud. But the slick motion deposited him next to broadsword and he grabbed the thing, using all of his strength to toss it in Spencer’ direction.

“Sir Knight!” he shouted. “Your weapon!”

Spencer’ hand was up, catching the clumsy toss. Instantly, he lifted his sword in the path of the screaming lady, knowing that very shortly it would be life or death for one of them. Johanne jabbed the spear again, this time at his neck, and Spencer had no choice but to respond. Without regrets, he deftly parried her thrust and drove his broadsword deep into her fragile chest. Gasping and twisting, Johanne fell to the ground in a dying heap of blood and foam.

Spencer stood over the woman as she cursed him soundly and breathed her last. Raising his visor with a shaking hand, he turned to the huddle of women and children behind him.

“God’s Blood,” he exhaled slowly. “What in the hell has happened here?”

Micheline stared at Johanne’s contorted form, her eyes wide with shock. After a moment, she released Valdine and made her way, however hesitantly, toward Sir Spencer.

“She… she went mad, my lord,” she breathed, still too fearful to draw any closer to Johanne’s corpse as if it would rise up and attack her. “She killed her brother in a rage when she learned that Kirk loved my sister.”

Spencer’ pale eyes stared at Micheline a moment before passing a long glance at the lady he had killed in self-defense. He simply shook his head.

“I did not want to kill her but she gave me no choice,” he said hoarsely. “I fear she would have killed us all.”

Micheline nodded firmly, pulling the scarf away from her head. Soft brown hair tumbled down her back as she stared at the dead woman, hardly daring to believe that it was over. The madness, the fear, the torture; with the swift stroke of a broadsword, the conclusion had not been pleasant, but it had been swift. And she wasn’t sorry in the least.

“I realize that,” she said quietly. “You were simply protecting us, Sir Spencer, and I am ever grateful.”

Spencer couldn’t decide if he was disturbed over what had happen more than he was satisfied. He had killed a woman, which went against everything he believed in. But given The Darkland’s reputation, he suspected he had done a great service to many. And paid vengeance for others.

He turned to Micheline, noticing in a softer, more average way that she resembled her sister. In fact, he thought her to be rather pretty.

“And you, my lady?” His baritone was soft. “Are you well?”

Micheline nodded. “Well enough. Better still now that Johanne and Edmund have been sent where they belong– to the bowels of hell to pay for their horrible sins.”

Spencer did not know what else to say. Around them, the occupants of the kitchen yard emerged from their hiding places, daring to come forward to see what had become of their mad mistress. She was dead, as was her brother, disemboweled on the floor of the great kitchen. Though it was wicked to think of celebrating such an event, Micheline realized she was considering that very thing.

Spencer thought he caught a glimpse of a very relieved smile.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The funeral forKirk’s parents had been short, to the point. A lass from the kitchens of Wicklow sang a sorrowful Irish folk ballad, driving Steven to tears as the grave was filled. Ryan Connaught was buried holding his wife, the two of them wrapped in the linens from their wedding bed.

Somberly, the small collection of mourners made their way back to the Castle, the walls slowly rebuilt by a workforce of soldiers and peasants. Kirk had personally screened every one of the Irish peasants before allowing them to repair his beloved Wicklow. Convinced there were no spies or rebels among them, he was satisfied with the progress.

Niles and Albert had already been sent home on one of the de Cleveley boats. With all of the chaos finally quieted and a sense of order taking hold, Kirk had time to reflect on Niles’ death and realized he missed his friend a great deal. But he still had Corwin, a fine fighter and companion, and he comforted himself in the fact that he had not lost the both of them. One, most certainly, was enough.

Corwin, too, seemed particularly pensive over Niles’ death. But he had been unusually quiet since setting sail for Ireland, going about his duties with silent efficiency, though Kirk had not lingered on the man’s subdued mood. Mayhap it was the gloom of leaving his wife, or the distaste of battle altogether. For whatever the reason, he was unconcerned when Corwin wandered up to him after supper on the night of his parent’s burial.

The moon was full, the landscape ghostly silent. Kirk glanced at Corwin as the man came to rest beside him on the battlements, exchanging a few pleasantries before slipping into silence. As his eyes swept the countryside and keep, Kirk happened to pass a glance at Corwin and noticed the man was sweating profusely.

“Corwin?” he asked. “Are you well, man?”

Corwin seemed to be shaking. “Why… why do you ask, Kirk?”

“Because you’re soaked with perspiration. Are you feeling ill?”

Corwin coughed nervously, the trembling in his body growing more evident. Kirk’s brow furrowed with concern.