Black Dorn [submission/punishment/bondage] Read online

  Chapter Eight

  The bright spring sun warmed Branwyn's face. It had been a long time since the sun shone so brightly. Branwyn rubbed the growing bulge in her stomach. Spring meant hope. Hope that Malack would return.

  She heard the trumpet's call and hurried from the garden to the courtyard, as did others. A lone rider rode into the yard, handed his reins to a page, stopped by the well, grabbed the ladle, splashed his face, took a long drink, then walked over to the gon, who had just stepped onto the dais. The rider dropped to his knees. "They arrive tomorrow or the day after. Some are wounded. They travel slow."

  "Uplands has been returned to Black Dorn?"

  "Yes, Gon."

  A spontaneous cheer broke out among the people.

  "What of my sons?" asked the gonness.

  The rider looked at the ground. "Pettra was wounded, but lives. He shall return with the others. Nalar was taken prisoner. The gon-dra has gone to rescue him."

  Branwyn held her gasp. Malack lived. He would not return with the others, but he lived.

  "Nalar?" The gonness' voice trembled.

  "He was betrayed. The traitor captured him and dragged him away in chains."

  "What of this traitor?"

  "The gon-dra brought him back to Uplands then gutted him like a fish and tossed him over the battlements."

  "As it should be." The gon stood tall. "Go to your quarters. Rest. Food will be brought to you." He signaled a guard, who hurried over to help the messenger stand.

  Excited chatter filled the hallways long into the night as people gossiped about the return of the soldiers and Malack's justified treatment of a traitor. Morning came, midday passed with no sign of the soldiers. The slightest noise brought people to their windows and doors. Castle life did not run smoothly. Evening came, and no soldiers arrived. The castle fell asleep knowing that the next day would bring their loved ones back.

  It was almost midday when a shout from the battlement announced the soldiers. The news raced throughout the castle and surrounding farms. People poured into the courtyard—excited and anxious. Excited for the return of their loved ones, but anxious he might be among the dead.

  Branwyn stood next to Malack's mother. She did not speak. Like Branwyn, the gonness was taut with emotion. The first soldiers rode into the courtyard. They left their horses by the water troughs, knelt before the gon then hurried to their waiting families.

  The gonness stiffened as a rider jumped off his horse, staggered, then limped toward the gon. He bowed his head. The gon pointed to a guard. "Escort Pettra to his chamber. Eat. Rest. We will join you later."

  While the gon remained noble and calm, the gonness hugged her son in a tight, mother's embrace and kissed his dusty cheek. She did not leave with her son. She remained in her position, next to her husband.

  Branwyn watched Duncan cross the courtyard. He was filthy with road dust and held his side. With difficulty, he knelt. "Gon."

  "Why are you not with M…the gon-dra?"

  "He sent me away."

  Branwyn heard a tremble in Duncan's voice.

  He raised his head. "He is gone to find the one who captured Nalar."

  "You are hurt?"

  "He bound my wound and told me to return with the others." Duncan looked into the eyes of his gon. "My wound is not so bad that I could not serve him."

  The gonness held out her hand to help him stand. "You are a loyal servant to Malack. He sent you home to heal. Rest."

  Head sagging, Duncan walked toward the castle.

  Branwyn signaled to Leah, who hurried to stand by her mistress. "Go to Duncan. Bathe him. Feed him. See to his wound. And I do not wish you to serve me until tomorrow." Leah dropped a quick curtsey then hurried to catch up with Duncan.

  Grim silence fell on the remaining people. A wagon carrying the dead entered the courtyard. The gon and gonness walked toward it. Branwyn remained close. As a soldier pulled back each blanket, a face was revealed, a name called and a mournful wail released. The gonness spoke to each family, offering brief words of condolence.

  When the soldiers delivered the last body to his family, the gon and his wife returned to the castle. "Branwyn, join us. Come and meet Malack's youngest brother."

  As they entered his bedchamber, Pettra dropped to his knees before his father. "Gon, I humbly apologize from my very soul that I lost Uplands. I was deceived."

  The gon sat and indicated that his son do the same. "You are young and have much to learn. But we will talk of this later. What of Nalar?"

  "Stephan of Langor was the traitor. He captured Nalar and wanted to ransom him for title to all of Uplands. Malack dispatched Langor. We sent soldiers in every direction seeking Nalar, but," He shook his head. "Nothing." Pettra turned to Branwyn. "I have a message to deliver. My brother told me to find the most beautiful woman in the castle. You are Branwyn?"

  "Yes." Her heart pounded as she waited for the message.

  "Malack swore me to tell you that he remembers his vow. He will return."

  The gonness pointed at Branwyn. "Now you, off to your chambers and rest. It has been a tiring day. Standing out in the hot sun for so long." She mother-henned Branwyn to the door. "Where is your waiting-lady?"

  "I sent her to help Duncan and forbad her to return to me the rest of this day."

  The gonness snapped her fingers. A young girl ran over. "You serve Branwyn today. Take her to her room."

  Days and weeks passed, and still Branwyn waited. No messenger delivered news of Malack or Nalar. The castle resumed its daily routine, but an anxious tension hung in the gon's chambers.

  The gonness' day of birth celebration brought a joyful distraction from the monotonous waiting. The servants brought wondrous foods to the table. They enjoyed a spectacular new food called chocolate. It was warm and liquid. It filled Branwyn with a pleasant feeling.

  The troubadours entertained for the evening. A young girl started singing about a lost love when suddenly, the doors flung open and a dozen soldiers marched into the hall. The majority hung back a respectful distance while the tallest stood before the gon. He did not bow or offer any salute of respect. "Gon."

  The troubadours scurried to the safety of sides where the castle guards stood alert, ready to defend their gon. The gon rose. "Timous."

  Branwyn caught her breath. Malack's most hated rival was his twin brother. Their physiques were similar, but where Malack displayed power, Timous showed contempt.

  "I have come to claim my possession. I purchased a dune, yet I get nothing but messages. One cannot bed a message."

  Trea walked to the head table and knelt before the gon. She did not look at Timous.

  The gon's voice held a hint of anger and curiosity. "Explain."

  "The dune selected for Timous was not trainable and is no longer under my instruction." Her voice was controlled.

  The gonness slipped her hand into her husband's and squeezed. With forced casualness, she reached for her wine, caught Branwyn's glance and sent a silent message.

  Branwyn picked up her linen napkin and daintily wiped an invisible crumb from her face. She remained expressionless and still, not wanting to attract Timous' attention.

  Her mind raced and her body trembled. Malack's hated rival had purchased her and was supposed to be her master. Thanks the gods, Malack was keeping her from that fate. Tragor to him would have been torture. Someone who looks like her lover, but was as different as a moonless night from a sun-filled day.

  "Not trainable?" Timous' eyebrows rose. "A mere woman could not be trained by Black Dorn? Is the castle growing weak? Maybe I should take it and return it to its once great power." His mouth curled into an ugly sneer.

  A roar rose from the crowd. Several men stood and pulled their swords, ready to do battle with anyone who insulted Black Dorn. Timous' men drew their swords and formed a circle around their leader. The gon rose and held out his hands, shouting, "Silence! There will be no fighting here."

  A voice rang out from the doorway. "Black Dorn is
strong, and can not and will not be taken by you."

  Malack? Branwyn gasped and turned.

  He entered the great hall. Filth stained his clothes and weariness etched his face. He strode up to his brother, but said nothing. Timous signaled his men to return to their places at the sides. Malack continued to cross the hall and bowed his head before his father. "Gon, I have failed." He placed a broken sword on the table. "I return alone. Nalar was dead when I found him."

  The gon placed a hand on his dead son's sword as painful wail resonated from the gonness. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  Malack ran his hand across the top of his head. "I buried him in the abbey at Uplands. The monks have promised to pray for his soul."

  "And his executor?" The gon's jaw clenched as he spoke.

  "Dealt with."

  The Gon bowed his head. "I thank you for all that you have done for Black Dorn."

  Timous mimicked his father. "I thank you…Bah! Nalar was a weak and ineffectual soldier."

  Malack turned, drew his sword and pressed it into Timous' neck. "He was your brother."

  Timous' sword was in his hand. "I have no brothers." He tapped Malack's sword with his. "I did not come here to fight. I came to get my dune. The one I purchased, but never received."

  Malack lowered his sword, looked at Duna Trea, and followed her eyes to Branwyn.

  A cold chill shivered down his spine.

  Timous licked his lips. "If I cannot have the one I purchased, I shall take another. Maybe two."

  "You may take nothing from Black Dorn."

  "You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do."

  "I am Gon-Dra of Black Dorn."

  "I am the stronger soldier, smarter and more cunning. I should be gon-dra." He threw his chest forward. "I could make Black Dorn the most feared castle in all the land. The riches and power should be mine."

  "The title, by birthright, is mine."

  Timous waved his sword in Malack's face. "Only if you do not die."

  Malack slapped Timous' sword away.

  "Worried I might give you another scar?" The sneer on his face matched the tone of his voice.

  "Why are you here? It is not for a Dune. Or do you need twelve strong soldiers to help you control a mere woman?" Malack waited until the patrons had stopped chuckling. Scratching his chin, he tilted his head to the side. "Or are you trying to take the castle with twelve men? I rode in behind you. There are no others to help you fight. You cannot hope to win with such a small garrison."

  "I only need to kill one."

  Malack stared at his brother for a moment. "Your hatred of me is that strong?"

  "I should be gon-dra!" Timous held his sword to his chest, the hilt forming a cross.

  Malack flinched. Branwyn noticed, but did not understand what had startled him. Neither brother spoke.

  A lecherous grin crossed Timous' mouth as he pointed his sword at Branwyn. "That is quite a beauty that sits in the place next to the gon-dra's. I imagine she beds well."

  Malack turned to the gon. "This must be ended or Black Dorn will always have a suspect neighbor. If the castle is to be truly safe, all must be loyal to it. Timous and I will fight. By birthright, I am gon-dra. Let us see what the fates decide." He faced his brother. "We fight. Alone. In the courtyard. The one who returns is gon-dra."

  "Malack. Timous." The gonness stood. "My sons."

  The gon grabbed his wife's hand and pulled her to her seat. "It must be. Malack is right."

  "But my son…our son?"

  Malack bowed his head to his mother. Timous sneered in contempt. Side by side, they strode out the door. Neither spoke.

  The great hall remained silent. Timous' men grouped together. The gonness quietly cried into her napkin, while the gon conferred with his captain of the guard. Soldiers clustered near the royal table. Their swords were drawn.

  Branwyn was torn between panic and numbness. Malack looked exhausted. His shoulders slumped forward and dark circles underlined bloodshot eyes. Slashes in his clothing hinted at bloodied wounds hidden beneath. When had he slept or eaten last? Could he beat a healthy, well-fed, well-rested opponent?

  If Timous won. If Timous won? The terrifying thought circled her mind--would she be given to him, as he would be the gon-dra? To be handed to him? To have to tragor to his touch, his kisses, his manhood? Her stomach lurched. She tasted bile.

  Thoughts tried to push their way into her mind. She fought to suppress them, but they floated through. What about her baby? Her hand rubbed her belly. Would Timous allow her to keep it? A cry escaped her. Malack might never know he had fathered their child. A jolt of fear made her tremble. What if the baby is a boy? Malack's son. Would Timous allow him to live? The son of his hated rival. What if it is a girl? Would he sell her to be a dune as she had been sold? Tears began to pour down Branwyn's cheeks.

  Never again to be kissed by him. The harder she fought to stop her wild and random thoughts the more they wormed their way into her consciousness. To be touched by him. To feel his hand caressing my breast. To stop the sensations of remembering his touch, she attempted to take a sip of wine. She could not. Her hand shook too much.

  She balled her napkin into a tight mess, squeezing so hard her knuckles turned white. How long had it been? She looked to the gonness for comfort. The fear on the gonness' face showed she also thought the fight had taken too long.

  What if? What if? What if? whirled around her brain.

  The doors opened. Timous stepped forward. The gonness screamed and threw herself onto her husband. Branwyn could not react. She refused to believe what her eyes saw.

  Then, with the tip of his own sword pressed into his back, Timous stopped before the gon.

  Malack growled, "Kneel!" Sweat poured from Malack's face. His breath came in labored gasps. Both men had fresh wounds dripping blood.

  Timous stood. His icy cold gaze never left his brother's face. Malack swung the sword at his legs. He crumpled to his knees. Grabbing Timous' hair, he pulled his face up. "Tell them what you did. Tell them why I have the right to kill you."

  Timous spat at Malack, but missed.

  Malack jerked his brother's face up. "Tell them!"

  "Damn you to hell!"

  Malack slammed the hilt of his sword across Timous' back. He fell face first, to the stone floor. With his foot pressed on his brother's neck, Malack raised Timous' sword to the room. "When I found Nalar's executor, I tried to force him to speak. I wanted to know who the traitor was. Who started the battle against Uplands? Who was trying to break our power? He died before he spoke the traitor's name. A farmer described the traitor's sword—dripping in blood. Look at the hilt." He held it high.

  On the sword were small red stones placed to look like a river of blood running from hilt to blade. "The abbot at Uplands told me if I was light then the traitor was darkness. I did not understand until I saw this sword—your sword." He pressed his foot harder on his brother's neck. "The abbot meant us—as brothers."

  He closed his eyes, gathered his thoughts, then spoke in a clear voice, "You ordered the raid on Uplands in order to breach a crack in Black Dorn's power. Cunning? Bah! Cowardly! You were not at the castle when I arrived. I traveled to Uplands to defend it. You ran and hid after ordering the death of my brother. You could not kill him yourself. Again, a coward. And you may not have Branwyn!" He raised the sword. "For Black Dorn! Rot in hell!" He drove it through his brother's back.

  Timous screamed and convulsed. Blood spurted from the wound, spraying Malack and the floor. He ripped his sword out of his brother and brought it down across Timous' neck. The metal clanked against the stone floor. His brother's head rolled to one side. Blood gushed from the severed flesh. Malack stepped across the corpse and removed Timous' sword from his lifeless hand. He spun around and faced Timous' men, rivulets of blood trickling down his face. "Your castle belongs to Black Dorn. Submit or die." He drove Timous' sword downward into his brother's shoulder until the point hit the stone.

  * * *
*

  Malack dropped to one knee, still holding his blood-drenched sword. He had killed his brother. He had killed his brother's killer. His eyes closed. He had protected Branwyn. His fingers refused to release the sword. He was tired of killing. Death saddened his heart. He wanted joy. He wanted Branwyn. His chest heaved. Air burned in his lungs. He wanted nothing more than to sleep in her arms.

  Branwyn slipped her small hands around his arm and helped him stand. Taking his hand, she started to lead him away. He spun and with an enraged howl, swung his sword snapping Timous' sword in two.

  Dropping his sword, he pulled her face to his and rested his forehead on hers. "I said I would return and I—" His gaze caught sight of her belly. He glanced up at her, down at her belly and back at her face. With a whoop of glee, he picked her up and spun her around.

  The tension in the great hall broke with a ring of shouts and laughter. The troubadours broke into a joyful song. The servants peered into the room then returned to their duties.

  Tears filled Branwyn's eyes. "I was so afraid." She used her sleeve to wipe the blood from his face and mouth.

  His lips met hers and with the last bit of strength, he made the kiss tell her everything was as it should be. He was back. Black Dorn was safe. She was safe. He loved her. He staggered as he released her.

  "To bed with you." She caught his arm.

  The gonness stood next to Branwyn. "She is right. To bed."

  Malack chuckled. "The defender of Black Dorn ordered about by two women."

  Duncan stepped from behind the gonness. "And—respectfully so—one man." Duncan indicated the way.

  "Make that two men." The gon pointed to the exit.

  Without resisting, Malack allowed Branwyn to lead him to his chambers, where his washed, wounds would be tended, After eating some food, the gon–dra settled into his bed. Leah helped Duncan straighten the room and began to close the bed curtains.