A Knight's Vow Part 42

It was not her words, but rather her proximity, her warm breath upon his cheek and the womanly scent

of her, that instantly cooled his wrath. He wanted to take her in his arms again, to feel the slender nape of her neck and the playful caress of her hair. Forgive her? He wanted to envelop her.

But when he didn't respond, she withdrew her hand.

"Forsooth," he sighed with a twinge of disappointment, "you say naught that hasn't been said a thousand

times."

"But you clearly care for him to leap so quickly to his defense. He must count himself fortunate to have such a loyal va.s.sal."

Ryance didn't know how to answer her.

She didn't seem to require an answer. "Tell me, what is it about him you admire?"

He puzzled over the question. Was there anything left of Sir Ryance in The Black Gryphon? Anything he

could be proud of? He supposed his stoic suffering counted for something. And there was still his sense of justice. He was generally a man of peace, preferring diplomacy to the sword. And he was unflinchingly loyal to the King. But Hilaire was probably too young to understand any of that. She still believed in s.h.i.+ning knights who saved damsels from dragons.

Quietly, she added, "Tell me why a woman should desire to marry him."

His heart skipped a beat. Was she reconsidering her escape? Was she asking him to persuade her to stay?

He could not. Not in good conscience. He might convince her that The Black Gryphon was not an ogre, that he was undeserving of the taunts that dogged him. Indeed, he longed to purge that poison from his soul. But naught would lift the curse destiny laid upon his wretched name.

"He is... fair," he decided, "in trade and in battle."

She muttered low, "Yet he lays siege to my father's keep."

"Only to claim what is his by rights."

She mulled that over. "What else? How else is he worthy?"

He thought for a moment. "He works hard. He trains hard. His hospitality he gives freely. His coin he

spends frugally." Upon reflection, that last might not seem a virtue to a young lady. His own daughter had

begged him endlessly to spend his coin on ribbons or cloth dolls or a jeweled trinket every time a peddler

came to the gate.

"Does he play music?" Was that hope he heard in her voice?

"Nay."

"Oh." She sounded discouraged.

He added quickly, "But he likes to hear it. At least he used to."

"You mean, before he started ki-Before his wives started dying?"

Ryance bristled. She still doubted him. Pointedly, he told her, "Aye, before his wife and daughter fell in

the river and were drowned.""What about his second wife? Was she not poisoned?""She died from sickness," he said wearily."Ah. Like your wife.""What?""Like your wife. You said she died of sickness.""Oh, aye.""And what about his last wife, the one they say he beat?"His blood began to simmer. He bit out a reply between his teeth. "He'd sooner cut off his arm than lift it against a woman."

"But he pushed her from a tower and..."

"Nay!" he shouted, startling even himself with the vehemence of his denial. After that, against his better judgment and against his will, his thoughts poured from him like ale from a cracked barrel, and there was naught he could do to stop them. "She flung herself from that tower. He had no part in it." Ryance wondered at the verity of his words. Was he truly blameless? Could he have stopped her? Could he have reached her in time?

"Why would she do that?" Hilaire pressed.

He blew out a quick breath. "She was afraid... very, very afraid."

"Of him?"

"Of herself." He swallowed hard. He'd never spoken to anyone about the horrible agonies Bess had endured.

"Herself?"

He rested his head back against the rock wall. "It started as voices she heard whispering in her head, telling her evil things. She tried to ignore them, but they wouldn't go away. Then she began speaking to them, yelling at them, cursing..." That had been the most painful, listening to gentle Bess shriek in a voice that no longer belonged to her. "But they wouldn't leave her alone. Soon she could see demons. She imagined they were attacking her. She'd beat herself purple with a poker trying to pry their hands free. Her arms were laced with cuts from her own dagger and then, when I took that from her, her fingernails. She shunned her clothing, claiming they'd only steal it from her, and oft wandered naked through the halls of the castle. She tore out her hair, and once she lit her veil on fire." He took a shuddering breath. "One night, her mind cleared long enough for her to see what had happened to her, how mad she'd become, and she couldn't bear to live with the fear any longer. Before I... before anyone could stop her, she leaped from the tower ledge... and broke on the stones below."

Hilaire could scarcely breathe. It was a horrifying story. But it wasn't the story itself that paralyzed her. It was the telling of it.

The truth was too amazing to believe, but it had to be.

Sir Rag.

The Black Gryphon.

They were one and the same. Ryance was his given name, but no matter what he called himself, he was The Black Gryphon. His slip of the tongue had betrayed him, but she would have discovered his secret anyway.

Who but a husband could speak so intimately of a woman's mind? Who else would know her so well? The ragged timbre of pain in his voice described not the distant suffering of a va.s.sal, but the agony of a loved one.

This was him. This was The Black Gryphon.

A frisson of cold panic raced along her spine. She was trapped with him. Alone. In the dark. He knew who she was. He knew she feared him. Merciful G.o.d-what would he do to her?

He was cursed. It was certain now, for though they'd not yet spoken the vows of marriage, already he brought her death.

Her heart stuttered, and she felt the walls closing in again. But before she raced into headlong anxiety, he spoke.

"Forgive me. 'Twas not my intent to sadden you."

The words stuck in her dry throat. " 'Tis... 'tis... it must have been dreadful for y-your lord."

He grunted in agreement. "He has lived with much sorrow."

They were only a few words, but he spoke them simply and from the heart. And suddenly their truth rang

out like a hollow bell in the melancholy dark. Her fear evaporated. The Black Gryphon was no ogre with a diabolical plot for revenge. He was but a man, a sad and lonely man. Suddenly, inexplicably, she yearned not to cower from him, but to console him, this lost soul with the broken spirit.

"Mayhaps," she allowed, "I have been too hasty in my judgment. Mayhaps he is not cursed so much as...

"Nay, you have it aright," he snapped. "He is cursed. But by Fate, not by his own deeds."

She could hear it now-the bitterness, the anguish-hidden appreciably by his gruff voice, but there nonetheless.

"Well, then," she murmured in all humility, "as you say, I should not judge him by his misfortune."

A weighty silence ensued. If she hoped he'd reveal himself now, she was disappointed. Instead, he

returned to his labors. She, too, sc.r.a.ped at the wall, but her mind flitted about so wildly she scarcely heeded her own progress.

After a long while, he rested, and his weary panting filled the cave. "Pity 'tis a harp you play and not a

clarion," he said in a rare moment of wry humor. "Else we might be able to fell the walls as Joshua did."

She giggled at his unexpected wit, which threw her into an even more complex melee of thoughts.

Who was he? Who was The Black Gryphon? All she knew of him was what she'd heard, largely

improbable tales about his vicious nature, his dark moods, and the curse that followed him. Certainly this

was not the man with her now.

This man spoke kindly, n.o.bly. He offered her comfort. He'd dug his way to her when she cried out for help. He'd breathed with her, bandaged her injured hand. He'd held her when her fears got the best of her and anxiously seen to her when she'd fainted. He'd even promised to get her out, even though he must know...

He must know they would never escape.

She tried to swallow the knot of dread choking her, but it lodged like a gallows noose against her throat.

He knew. He knew, because he was cursed. The pall of misery hung over him. All his wives had died