Lord of Vengeance
Prologue
England, 1140
The ground no longer rumbled with the thunder of horses' hooves and the clash of weapons. The air, still acrid with smoke from the smoldering ruins of the castle perched high on the motte and the sacked village at its base, was quiet. The damage was done; the enemy hadn't lingered. After all, it wasn't the castle he'd come to claim.
From across the trampled, body-littered field, a gentle breeze began to stir, drifting like a ghostly tendril over the carnage to where a boy lay, face-down and wounded. It ruffled his dark hair, coaxing him back to consciousness as it caressed his bruised and bloodied cheek.
“Mother?” he murmured, though he knew she was gone, slain before his very eyes just hours ago by Baron Luther d'Bussy, one of King Stephen's more ruthless warlords, when she refused to become his whore. Refused to share her bed with the man who had killed her husband three days past in a tournament gone awry.
Ten-year-old Gunnar Rutledge sobbed at the memory, gasping in a ragged breath and choking on the sweet, pungent scent of Wynbrooke's soil and the metallic taste of his own blood.
Just out of his grasp lay his father's signet ring, the token his mother had tearfully removed from her husband's stiff, dead finger as he'd lain in state. Despite the tremors of siege which had set the tiny chapel's stone walls quaking that morning, her voice had remained strong.
“Keep this always,” she had said as she pressed the ring into his palm. “And remember your father's courage...his honor. When you are grown, wear it and make me proud.”
But he hadn't made her proud. Instead to his shame, he'd watched her die. Helpless and afraid, his arms twisted behind him by a large guard, he had pleaded with the baron to spare her. Withstood his drunken, taunting laughter. Weathered the physical blows.
And screamed in terror an instant later when d'Bussy's blade ended her life.
How he had managed to break free of his captor's iron grasp, Gunnar could not recall. His last memory had been of running. Running out of the castle, down the motte, and through the field as fast as he could with a knight on horseback close behind him. Legs pumping, lungs near to bursting, he headed for the stream, thinking he might be able to hide in the bramble that flanked it. The thought had scarcely formed when, over the pounding hoof beats, he'd heard a sword rasp from its scabbard. Then, in an instant, his world, his life, had gone black.
Now, through the haze of pain enveloping his senses, Gunnar heard the squeak of a cart wheel and the murmur of voices. Men's voices. Two of them, one close, the other several paces behind. Footsteps halted near his head.
“Merrick, come!”
Gunnar knew the name of the man summoned, recognized the old healer's limp in the crunch of twigs and pine needles beneath his heavy gait as he approached, the familiar smell of herbs clinging to his clothes.
“Look ye what I found near this unfortunate thief.”
Merrick clucked, his voice somber. “'Tis the Rutledge signet ruby.”
“Are ye certain?”
“Aye. Yestereve it rested on milord's lifeless hand in chapel. And lest you mean to keep it for yourself, my friend, think first on the price this lad paid for stealing--” Merrick suddenly sucked in his breath. “Jesu,” he exclaimed, falling to his knees. “This is no thief bleeding at our feet, man. Look closer. 'Tis young lord Gunnar!”
Heavy fingers inspected Gunnar's ravaged back, tore the sticky linen of his rent tunic away from his wounds. The old man swore an oath. “'Tis by far the worst damage I've ever seen suffered on a child.”#p#分页标题#e#
“Is he dead?”
“Nay, but soon enough, I reckon.” Gunnar heard a rustle of fabric then felt the rough wool of the old man's cloak cover him. “Half-dead or nay, I'll not leave him to rot out here like some hapless beast. If I cannot heal him, I can at least provide him comfort in his final hours. Come, help me lift him.”
Limbs numb from loss of blood, Gunnar felt himself rise from the ground, heard the men's scuffling footsteps in the grass as they hefted him several paces from where he had lain. The sweet tang of moldy hay assailed his nostrils before he felt the crush of his own weight and he was placed on his stomach atop a straw-lined litter. His rescuers hurriedly dragged him across the field toward the village.
Each rut they hit, every furrow, nearly jolted him senseless with pain but his broken heart continued to beat. God help him, but he did not want to live. He had proven a coward; he deserved to die. Living would mean every day facing his guilt, his dishonor. He was too weak; he could not bear it.
He prayed for deliverance from his suffering, from the anguish of his shame. His family was gone, his home destroyed. What reason had he to live? What purpose?
England, 1140
The ground no longer rumbled with the thunder of horses' hooves and the clash of weapons. The air, still acrid with smoke from the smoldering ruins of the castle perched high on the motte and the sacked village at its base, was quiet. The damage was done; the enemy hadn't lingered. After all, it wasn't the castle he'd come to claim.
From across the trampled, body-littered field, a gentle breeze began to stir, drifting like a ghostly tendril over the carnage to where a boy lay, face-down and wounded. It ruffled his dark hair, coaxing him back to consciousness as it caressed his bruised and bloodied cheek.
“Mother?” he murmured, though he knew she was gone, slain before his very eyes just hours ago by Baron Luther d'Bussy, one of King Stephen's more ruthless warlords, when she refused to become his whore. Refused to share her bed with the man who had killed her husband three days past in a tournament gone awry.
Ten-year-old Gunnar Rutledge sobbed at the memory, gasping in a ragged breath and choking on the sweet, pungent scent of Wynbrooke's soil and the metallic taste of his own blood.
Just out of his grasp lay his father's signet ring, the token his mother had tearfully removed from her husband's stiff, dead finger as he'd lain in state. Despite the tremors of siege which had set the tiny chapel's stone walls quaking that morning, her voice had remained strong.
“Keep this always,” she had said as she pressed the ring into his palm. “And remember your father's courage...his honor. When you are grown, wear it and make me proud.”
But he hadn't made her proud. Instead to his shame, he'd watched her die. Helpless and afraid, his arms twisted behind him by a large guard, he had pleaded with the baron to spare her. Withstood his drunken, taunting laughter. Weathered the physical blows.
And screamed in terror an instant later when d'Bussy's blade ended her life.
How he had managed to break free of his captor's iron grasp, Gunnar could not recall. His last memory had been of running. Running out of the castle, down the motte, and through the field as fast as he could with a knight on horseback close behind him. Legs pumping, lungs near to bursting, he headed for the stream, thinking he might be able to hide in the bramble that flanked it. The thought had scarcely formed when, over the pounding hoof beats, he'd heard a sword rasp from its scabbard. Then, in an instant, his world, his life, had gone black.
Now, through the haze of pain enveloping his senses, Gunnar heard the squeak of a cart wheel and the murmur of voices. Men's voices. Two of them, one close, the other several paces behind. Footsteps halted near his head.
“Merrick, come!”
Gunnar knew the name of the man summoned, recognized the old healer's limp in the crunch of twigs and pine needles beneath his heavy gait as he approached, the familiar smell of herbs clinging to his clothes.
“Look ye what I found near this unfortunate thief.”
Merrick clucked, his voice somber. “'Tis the Rutledge signet ruby.”
“Are ye certain?”
“Aye. Yestereve it rested on milord's lifeless hand in chapel. And lest you mean to keep it for yourself, my friend, think first on the price this lad paid for stealing--” Merrick suddenly sucked in his breath. “Jesu,” he exclaimed, falling to his knees. “This is no thief bleeding at our feet, man. Look closer. 'Tis young lord Gunnar!”
Heavy fingers inspected Gunnar's ravaged back, tore the sticky linen of his rent tunic away from his wounds. The old man swore an oath. “'Tis by far the worst damage I've ever seen suffered on a child.”#p#分页标题#e#
“Is he dead?”
“Nay, but soon enough, I reckon.” Gunnar heard a rustle of fabric then felt the rough wool of the old man's cloak cover him. “Half-dead or nay, I'll not leave him to rot out here like some hapless beast. If I cannot heal him, I can at least provide him comfort in his final hours. Come, help me lift him.”
Limbs numb from loss of blood, Gunnar felt himself rise from the ground, heard the men's scuffling footsteps in the grass as they hefted him several paces from where he had lain. The sweet tang of moldy hay assailed his nostrils before he felt the crush of his own weight and he was placed on his stomach atop a straw-lined litter. His rescuers hurriedly dragged him across the field toward the village.
Each rut they hit, every furrow, nearly jolted him senseless with pain but his broken heart continued to beat. God help him, but he did not want to live. He had proven a coward; he deserved to die. Living would mean every day facing his guilt, his dishonor. He was too weak; he could not bear it.
He prayed for deliverance from his suffering, from the anguish of his shame. His family was gone, his home destroyed. What reason had he to live? What purpose?