Julie Garwood: Honor's Splendour

England, 1099

They meant to kill him.

The warrior stood in the center of the desolate courtyard, his hands roped together and tied to a post behind his back. His expression was devoid of emotion as he stared straight ahead, outwardly ignoring his enemy.

The captive hadn't offered any resistance, allowing himself to be stripped to his waist without so much as a fist drawn or a word of protest spoken. His rich, fur-lined winter cloak, heavy hauberk, cotton shirt, stockings, and leather boots had all been removed and placed on the frozen ground in front of him. The enemy's intent was clear. The warrior would die, but without a new mark added to his battle-scarred body. While his eager audience watched, the captive could look at his garments while he slowly froze to death.

Twelve men surrounded him. Knives drawn to give them courage, they circled and jeered, yelling insults and obscenities as they stomped their boot-clad feet in an effort to ward off the frigid temperature. Yet one and all kept a safe distance lest their docile captive change his inclination and decide to break loose and attack. They had little doubt he'd be capable of the feat, for they'd all heard the tales of his Herculean strength. Some had even witnessed his superior prowess in battle a time or two. And if he tore through the ropes, the men would be forced to use their knives on him, but not before he sent three, possibly even four of them to their own deaths.

The leader of the twelve couldn't believe his good fortune. They had captured the Wolf and would soon witness his death.

What a reckless mistake their captive had made. Aye, Duncan, the powerful Baron of Wexton holdings had actually ridden into his enemy's fortress completely alone, and without a single weapon for defense. He had unwisely believed that Louddon, a baron of equal land title, would honor their temporary truce.

He must believe his own reputation, the leader thought. He must truly think himself to be as invincible as the great battle stories exaggerated. Surely that was the reason he seemed so unconcerned over his dire circumstances now.

A feeling of unease settled in the leader's mind as he continued to watch his captive. They had stripped the man of his value, shredded his blue and white crest proclaiming title and worth, making certain that no remnants of the civilized nobleman remained. Baron Louddon wanted his captive to die without dignity or honor. Yet the near-naked warrior standing so proudly before them wasn't complying with Louddon's wishes at all. He wasn't acting like a man about to die. Nay, the captive wasn't pleading for his life or whimpering for a quick end. He didn't look like a dying man either. His skin wasn't pale or covered with goose bumps, but sun-bronzed and weather-toughened. Damn, he wasn't even shivering. Aye, they had stripped the nobleman, yet under all the layers of refinement stood the proud warlord, looking as primitive and as fearless as the whispered tales boasted. Before their eyes, the Wolf had been revealed.

The jeering had ceased. Only the sound of the wind howling through the courtyard could be heard now. The leader turned his attention to his men, huddled together a short distance away. Every one of them was staring at the ground. He knew they avoided looking at their captive. He couldn't fault them for this show of cowardice as he, too, found it a difficult task to look directly into the warrior's eyes.

Baron Duncan of Wexton land was at least a head taller than the largest of the soldiers guarding him. He was just as massive in proportions, with thick, muscular shoulders and thighs, and with his long, powerful legs braced apart, his stance suggested he was capable of killing them all… if he became so inclined.

Darkness was descending, and with it came a curtain of light snow. The soldiers began to complain about the weather in earnest then. "Ain't no need for us to freeze to death right along with him," one muttered.

"He won't die for hours yet," another complained. "Baron Louddon's gone over an hour now. He'll not know if we stayed outside or not."

The agreement by the others with vigorous nods and grunts swayed their leader. The cold was beginning to irritate him too. His unease had grown as well, for he'd been convinced that Baron Wexton wasn't any different from other men. He was sure he would have broken down and screamed in torment by now. The arrogance of the man infuriated him. By God, he looked bored with them all. The leader was forced to admit that he'd underestimated his opponent. It wasn't an easy admission and one that sent him into a rage. His own feet, protected from the harsh weather by his thick boots, were nevertheless stinging in agony now, yet Baron Duncan stood barefoot and hadn't moved or shifted balance once since being restrained. Perhaps there was truth in the tales after all.

The leader cursed his superstitious nature and gave the order to retreat inside. When the last of his men had departed, Louddon's vassal checked that the rope was secure and then came to stand directly in front of his captive. "They say you're as cunning as a wolf, but you're just a man, and you'll soon die like one. Louddon don't want fresh knife cuts in you. Come morning, we'll drag your body miles away from here. No one will be able to prove that Louddon was behind the deed." The leader sneered the words, furious that his captive wouldn't even look down at him, and then added, "If I had my way, I'd cut out your heart and be done with it." He gathered spittle in his mouth to hurl into the warrior's face, hoping this new insult would gain a reaction.

And then the captive slowly lowered his gaze. His eyes met those of his enemy. What the leader saw there caused him to swallow loudly. He turned away in fright. He made the sign of the cross, a puny effort to ward off the dark promise he'd read in the warrior's gray eyes, muttering to himself that he was only doing the bidding of his overlord. And then he ran toward the safety of the castle.

From the shadows against the wall, Madelyne watched. She waited several more minutes to be certain that none of her brother's soldiers were going to return, using the time well to pray for courage to see her plan carried through.

She risked everything. In her heart she knew there was no other choice. She was the only one who could save him now. Madelyne accepted the responsibilities and the consequences, knowing full well that if her deed was discovered, it would surely mean her own death.

Her hands trembled but her steps were quick. The sooner the deed was done, the better for her peace of mind. There'd be plenty of time to worry over her actions once the foolish captive had been released.

A long black cape covered her from head to foot, and the baron didn't notice her until she was standing directly before him. A fierce gust of wind pulled the hood from her head, and a mane of auburn hair fell well past shoulders of a slender frame. She brushed a strand away from her face and looked up at the captive.

For a moment he thought his mind played tricks on him. Duncan actually shook his head in denial. And then her voice reached him and he knew what he was seeing wasn't a figment of his imagination. "I'll have you undone in just a moment or two. Pray don't make a sound until we're away from here."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. His savior's voice sounded as clear as the truest of harps and as beckoning as one of summer's warm days. Duncan closed his eyes, resisting the urge to shout with laughter over this strange twist in events, considered giving the cry for battle now and be done with the deception, and then immediately decided against that idea. His curiosity was too strong. He determined to wait awhile longer, until his savior revealed her true intentions.