It was some time later that Rafe regained consciousness. He was aware of the coolness of the floor beneath him, and as he opened his eyes he saw that he was now inside a large building.
In the time it took him to gather his wits, his eyes traced the path of the beams down to where they joined the walls. They continued their journey down the bare wooden wall to find a large open fire, roaring fiercely, and two rough chairs set each side of its warmth.
He turned his head, wincing as pain shot through him, and his cheek touched the cold dirt floor. There was no pretence to elegance: the furniture was ugly but serviceable, the unadorned walls merely a shelter from the elements, giving the room an air of functionality rather than homeliness.
The chair directly across from him caught his attention. It was occupied by a large framed man, tending slightly towards paunch but strong looking for all that. He lounged across the chair, leaning on one of the arms, sunk so deeply into the furs that covered it that he lay almost full stretch. His hair was dark and a beard covered the lower half of his face. His eyes, as they lazily surveyed Rafe, were shaded by thick brows that jutted ominously.
They were eyes, Rafe noted, that held recognition, a recognition that was no doubt reflected in his own. Though he could not recall ever having spoken to Daegmund of Gradock, he did know him by sight.
“I would never have believed you to be so foolish as to stray onto my lands, Valrek.”
Rafe was pulling himself upright, a hand gently cradling his sore head, but at these words his eyes jerked up to meet Daegmund’s.
“Your lands?”
“My lands,” affirmed Daegmund. “My esteemed father died at harvest time… fortunately for you. He would have had you drawn and quartered, and sent the pieces back to Valrek! Some would say ‘tis no less than you deserve.”
Rafe’s fingers traced the lump on his head gently, wincing slightly at its tenderness.
“What happened between your brother and I was ill chance, I meant him no harm.”
“However ill chanced it may have been, Gradock blood was spilt. There is only one way that can be made right; the letting of more blood.”
“You will be punished for whatever revenge you take upon me,” returned Rafe shortly.
Daegmund grunted and reached out a hand for the goblet of ale at his elbow.
“A fine? What is money to pride? My father would have cared nought no matter how high the price; you killed his favourite son.”
Rafe studied his captor carefully. Nothing in Daegmund’s demeanour indicated violence or bitter anger, he seemed in fact lazily unconcerned.
“You need not go the same road as a grieving old man.” He stood, swaying slightly, and reached out a hand to brace himself against the second chair.
“I am sorry for what happened, truly I am. Do not think that I treat the thing lightly. I feel the weight of your brother’s death, but it was an unfortunate event, one that you must believe I did not wish for.”
Rafe passed a weary hand over his eyes, not sure why he was even trying to convince Daegmund of his innocence. The man had lost his brother, then his father, he was immersed in grief, what time did he have for explanations? Grief was a strange thing, it made people act irrationally, did he not know that himself? Nothing could alleviate the pain.
He remembered back to the battle of Calis, his first battle. The battle in which he had lost one of his greatest friends, Finan’s younger brother Evoric had died that day. He could remember everything with such clarity, so stark and completely unsoftened by the sixteen years that separated that day from this one. He remembered the mud that had seeped slowly through his clothes as he had sat beside Evoric, the fear that bound him to his side, the horror of knowing that soon he would be gone.
Crippling sadness had engulfed him as he had realised that never again would they laugh together. Never again would they lay on the grassy bank of the river at Valrek enjoying a companionable silence. He remembered the agony of Finan’s despair, the hurt and anger that had filled his foster brother with misery. If he had been presented at that moment with Evoric’s killer, if that man had then excused himself and said that Evoric had fallen upon his sword, that he had not wished him any harm, would he have listened, would he have cared for anything that the man might have said?
“You think I care ought for your explanations?” asked Daegmund. “My honour is at stake and you think I could care anything for your penitence?”
Rafe set his jaw, his fingers curling into fists.
“I meant your brother no harm, and had he not been so full of drink he could hardly stand upright no harm would have come to him.”
“So now you think to shirk the blame?”
“I shirk nothing! I know the part I played and I know that it was in innocence that I played it. I beg off from nothing; not from punishment or culpability, but the fault was not all my own and you are wrong if you suppose that any revenge that you could devise for me would be more keen than the promptings of conscience I have suffered.”
Gradock laughed softly, his voice mocking and filled with genuine amusement. Rafe heard the sound of someone clapping, and turned to see the youth he had spoken to earlier sitting in the shadows down one end of the hall.
“He seems a little naïve, Brother.” The youth strolled lazily forward to stand next to the fire. “Not a quality I had expected to find in the great Rafe of Valrek!”
“Not naïve, Anlaf,” replied Daegmund. “Merely uncomprehending.”
Daegmund’s eyes returned to Rafe and he made a little gesture of introduction.
“You do not know my younger brother Anlaf, I think?”
Anlaf inclined his head a little, and Rafe wondered at the incongruity of such a polite introduction under the circumstances.
“And so now we come to the crux of the matter,” continued Daegmund of Gradock. “What do I do with you?”
Rafe looked from one to the other of their matter of fact faces; he felt angry and sick at their gloating. Their grief over their brother’s death he could understand, he even understood their wish to punish him for the accident that had taken Bertolf away from them. What he could not understand was the way they wished to torment him. It was something he had no craving to comprehend, and it was certainly not an activity he intended to participate in.
Daegmund saw him fall silent, saw his attitude change, and an expression enter his eyes that, for some reason that Daegmund could not fathom, caused him to experience a sudden sensation of wariness.
It irritated him.
“As I have explained, for the sake of family honour there is only one thing to be done: I must avenge my brother, and you must die.” Daegmund paused and spread his hands. “However, as you have stated such a course of action would not be without its consequences. I have no desire for a wergild over my head for I have heard, and here I must bow to your superior knowledge, that they are an unpleasant burden.”
“They are, very unpleasant,” replied Rafe stiffly.
“You have to say that to convince me to spare you!” reasoned Daegmund.
Rafe’s eyes met his a steely light in their depths.
“I see your dilemma.”
“But you have not even begun to see!” objected Daegmund. “Added to all of this is the fact that I am indebted to you!”
“You surprise me.”
“Yes, I rather thought I would. If it had not been for your… intervention… my brother’s premature demise might not have occurred for some time.” Daegmund paused looking thoughtful. “Although knowing what I do of Bertolf, it is entirely possible he could have achieved his end without help, the useless, drunken, sot!”
Rafe’s startled eyes met those of Daegmund and found them to be full of mirth.
“Of course it did not occur to you that I might be pleased to have him out of my way. He was an embarrassment, a fool who had no thought in his head except for that of his next drink. To him was entrusted the wealth and prosperity of our House!” he muttere
d disgustedly. “Your family is bound together by love and affection. Mine is bound by the bonds of honour, for goodness knows that we have no love for each other. The only reason we have survived this long is pride in our family name. We may hate each other, but others are not allowed the same luxury. So you see, through you I have attained my brother’s station. It seems to me a little ungracious to kill you after you have done me such a good turn. Yet I cannot be seen to allow you to escape without punishment.”
“I do not see how you will address the matter satisfactorily then, it seems to be hopeless.”
“Can you not?” queried Daegmund. “The answer is before you, just the same.”
For a moment there was silence between them and Daegmund leant forwards in his chair, a contented smile creasing his face.
“You are being followed.” Daegmund fell back in to the comfort of the furs, and lifted his eyebrows triumphantly. “Surely the great Rafe of Valrek must have known he was being followed?”
“I was aware.”
“Did you really think that I would not know also?”
“It may surprise you, Daegmund, but I am not in the habit of giving any thought to you at all.”
Sharp colour rose in Daegmund of Gradock’s cheeks and, for the first time, Rafe saw a resemblance between him and the youth, Anlaf.
“You are a fool, Valrek.” A rather ugly look entered Daegmund’s eyes, displaying the temper that the House of Gradock was famed for. “So know your fate: I will turn you back onto my lands without horse, bow, axe, or spear. Sword I will allow you, for I like to see some sport! We will see how long you can evade those who are pursuing you. When they catch you, and catch you they will, I will have avenged my brother’s blood, restored my honour, and all without any action for which I can be punished!”
“And if I escape?”
Daegmund tilted his head to one side, gazing at Rafe with an amused and thoughtful air.
“Hang it!” He slapped the arm of his chair. “If you escape then this business will be at an end, you will deserve the reprieve. Do you not agree, Anlaf?”
The youth pulled out his knife, twisting the blade so the jewels in the hilt caught the light.
“It seems reasonable, Daegmund,” his eyes narrowed, “but I would not be so sure that he will not escape.”
“That is because you are nought but a foolish boy,” smiled Daegmund fondly.
Anlaf smiled and shook his head.
“You saw not how he fought today, Brother,” he replied softly. “Who was on the other horse?”
The question startled Rafe and Anlaf, sensing that he had unsettled him, leaned forward.
“That is it, is it not? You fought like a madman; t’was for whomever was on that horse.”
Rafe looked from Anlaf’s eager face to that of his brother. Daegmund’s eyes had lost some of their laziness and had become surprisingly keen. For the first time Rafe felt the acceleration of his heart at the thought that Daegmund might guess that it had been Adele who had accompanied him. If he sent out riders after them would they have a sufficient head start?
Rafe wondered where they were, if they were safe? What if they hadn’t made it to the border? What if some accident had befallen them? His imagination began to take over his more rational thoughts, and he envisioned all manner of unlikely things to have occurred.
A raiding party from Mercia could well have come upon them and two such beautiful prizes would be a temptation that was hard to resist. And what of those who had been following them from the start, waiting, for all he knew, for just such a moment as this? Adele could even now be helpless in their power!
Rafe took a deep breath and sank into the chair before him. Such foolish flights of fancy were not helpful, nor were they something he usually indulged in.
“If that is how this will be settled, then return my sword and let me go.”
Daegmund looked surprised.
“Now?”
“If you have not changed your mind, those were the terms of the agreement and now I want to leave.”
“If that is your wish, I merely thought that you might care to rest a little and take some food first.”
“You thought I might what?”
Daegmund struggled upright and raised a hand, the gesture was placating.
“I fear I have not made my position clear to you, ‘tis my temper curse it. I wish you no ill, but I must be seen to do something: my family expects it. To them it matters not whether you wished to harm Bertolf, all that matters is honour. That does not mean that I wish to see you fail in this endeavour.”
“Your family will hardly be satisfied should I triumph,” replied Rafe.
“Still you do not understand!” Daegmund shook his head exasperated. “You still suppose this is about love. Allow me to assure you that that is not the case, how could it be for you know what Bertolf was! This is about retaining our pride, about being seen to have extracted some revenge, some recompense.”
“The wergild I handed over to your family was not recompense enough?” asked Rafe dryly.
Daegmund waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal.
“The wergild we were forced to take. King Ine demanded that we accept payment rather than demand retribution with the sword. It lost its significance; it was no longer a way to end the wrong, but became a further degradation to make us appear weak. This arrangement restores to us the element of choice that was denied us before.”
Rafe was silent for a moment, his head bent and his eyes fixed on the floor.
“That is what this is all about?” he demanded eventually. “You perceive that your hand has been shortened in some way?”
“It has nothing to do with perception! We have been imposed upon and our movements restricted as though we had been children!”
“Perhaps if you had not displayed such an unwillingness to end the matter without further violence, no one would have seen fit to force your hand!”
“And if you had not meddled in an argument that was not your own, you would not have found yourself in the situation to begin with!”
“Such an argument as this achieves nothing,” he stated, biting back the next recrimination that sprang to his lips. “I have business to attend to; allow me to leave that I might see to it.”
Daegmund’s anger ebbed and he shook his head. Standing, he made his way to the table at the other side of the room and lifted Rafe’s sword from its surface.
It was a particularly fine sword, one that had been in the Valrek family for generations. It had never left Rafe’s father’s side during all his years of service to King Ine. It was only when Lord Brogan had retired from the king’s service that he had passed it, and all of the responsibility it symbolised, on to Rafe.
He could remember the first time that he had taken its jewel encrusted hilt into his hand, knowing it was his, and had felt the pride of his forbears flood through his veins. Now Daegmund of Gradock held it out towards him, and he reached out to take hold of its familiar weight.
“If you should elude those who follow you it is the word of Daegmund, Lord of Gradock, that you have paid off any debt of guilt which you owed to the House of Gradock.”
Daegmund released the sword, and Rafe returned it to its sheath at his side.
“Who was she?”
Daegmund’s question, coming so wholly without warning, caused him to pause momentarily, his grip on the hilt becoming a little more purposeful.
“Who?”
Daegmund gestured to the sword.
“Ebba; her name is written on the blade.”
Rafe looked down at the sword in relief.
“’Tis the name of my mother. My grandmother and great-grandmother’s names are above it.” Rafe held the sword up for Daegmund to inspect. “’Tis a family tradition. Every man that bears this sword inscribes the name of his wife upon it so that, even in battle, they are not separated.”
Rafe looked up to find Daegmund gazing at him with an uncomfortably
penetrating stare.
“I see. You had best be on your way, Rafe of Valrek, you have no time to spare. Anlaf will show you the way.”
He knew.
Rafe did not know how, but he was sure that Daegmund knew exactly who his travelling companion had been.
He knew about Adele.
Chapter Fifteen