Authors: Delilah Devlin,Myla Jackson
“One moment, Rufus.”
With a hand at the flap of the tent, Rufus paused to look back, “Yes, milord?”
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Delilah Devlin & Myla Jackson
“My spies also tell me that Braxton’s army already outnumbers our force three to one.”
This was disastrous news.
No wonder Albermarle’s eating like this is his last meal.
Rufus’ jaw hardened with resolve. “So be it.”
Ducking under the flap, he exited the tent with Donald on his heels.
“So that’s it,” Donald said under his breath.
“No, it bloody well isn’t.” Rufus’ hands curled into fists at his sides. “Gather the men.”
* * * * *
Present
As Jacq parked in the area designated for vendors and participants, her stomach roiled. Her excitement from the night before had faded, leaving her once again dreading the performance ahead.
Right about now, she’d rather be hefting a broadsword than heading to the storyteller’s stage. She’d never remember her lines.
Picking up her long skirts, she stomped toward the entrance. The closer she drew, the greater her resentment became. It was the last day of the Faire, and she’d miss her favorite events. Even the sight of the shingled rooftops of the semi-permanent buildings within the wooden fence, failed to lift her spirits.
Next year, she’d tell them to stuff it if they tried to get her into a dress.
The thought of another year passing had her feeling a little blue. Another year of teaching almost-twenty-somethings events they didn’t really care about—another year of waiting for something she couldn’t quite figure out was missing in her life.
As she passed through the participants’ entrance, she dropped her skirts and reminded herself not to walk like she was wading upriver. The heavy velvet of the garnet-colored overgown inhibited her natural, long-limbed stride. Now, she understood why women had “minced” their steps. Why the hell had they put up with it?
A rumble of thunder in the distance gave her pause, and she glanced upward.
Heavy, gray storm clouds provided a strange acoustical muffling of sound, as well as limiting the view beyond the fairgrounds. If she were fanciful, she’d let her imagination and excitement carry her away to another century.
But Jacq lived in the here and now, despite her odd hobby.
It was early, but vendors already bustled about, tying back tent flaps and shutters and arranging their wares for display. The smells of her favorite Faire foods, fresh funnel cake and roasting turkey legs, wafted from open grills and ovens, reminding her she’d skipped breakfast because of her unexpected case of the jitters.
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Jacq’s Warlord
All around, people were dressed in their favorite costumes of the first half of the previous millennium. Some dressed in rich fabrics fit for the men and women of the court during the Renaissance period. Still others wore peasant costumes, giving a good representation of all the classes of the era.
Of course, there were those who dressed with more flair than authenticity. The
“chain mail ladies”, as her father had dubbed them, wore tiny chain mail bras and baggy harem pants. A group of them passed by, giggling as a Conan the Barbarian look-alike, complete with horned helmet and animal-skin loincloth, grunted a greeting in pure barbarian-fashion.
Jacq shook her head and smiled ruefully. It definitely took all kinds.
Through the gaps between the tents, she could see the arena, gaily decked out with bright banners waving from the top of the wooden stadium. Horses snorted and clopped as they were led into position for the first of the jousts.
Damn!
She’d miss it all. Perhaps, if she took a few riding lessons, she could be among their ranks next year. Hargred’s horned helmet might be traded for a knight’s shining armor.
In the meantime, she had a job to do. Jacq pushed aside her resentment and the little twinge of melancholy and hurried to her stage to gather her thoughts about the story she wanted to tell.
* * * * *
1153 A.D.
After a sleepless night, Rufus walked among his men, checking final preparations for the battle to come. A cacophony of metallic creaks and clangs arose in the morning air as they donned their armor and weaponry. Horses whinnied and stomped their hooves.
With a hard knot of tension settling in his belly, Rufus instructed his men to spread out while staying within the edge of the tree line. Braxton’s forces were expected to cross the wide field stretching before them.
Clouds of early morning fog hovered near the ground, limiting visibility to little more than one hundred yards. The mist gave him little comfort. It would hide them from their enemy’s view, but would also allow the enemy to draw nearer to their positions before detection. For just that reason, he sent forward several men to watch for their arrival.
The soldiers spoke little. They too strained their attention for signs of the approaching enemy. Rufus knew they were anxious to begin. Anticipation was almost worse than a bloody battle—it sapped courage, undermined confidence. Action was what they wanted and needed to maintain focus on their objective.
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And that objective was to delay the progress of Stephen’s supporters and to kill as many of them as they could to keep them from moving on and attacking Henry’s gathering forces.
Suddenly, a horse charged through the mist. Rufus tensed for battle along with every soldier waiting at the forest’s edge. The rider lay slumped over in his saddle and was almost upon them before they recognized him as one of their own. One man grabbed the reins of the lathered horse as the wounded man slid from the saddle and into the arms of other men-at-arms gathered around.
Blood oozing from a deep slice across his back, the warrior looked up at Rufus.
“They approach.” He gasped once, then his life fled his body, the first of the day’s casualties.
A cold, burning anger built in Rufus’ belly. He hated losing even one man, but he knew the coming battle would take a terrible toll, if Albermarle’s information was correct.
“Mount up,” he ordered. Donning his helmet, he mounted his charger and leaned down to hook his arm through the heavy shield his squire strained to hand up to him.
Then he turned to his warriors. Their horses danced and snorted, smelling blood and sensing their riders’ growing tension. His men awaited his next orders, anxious to move forward to meet the enemy.
Rufus raised his sword high in the air. “Death to the enemy,” he shouted.
Soon the cry echoed through the ranks until it rose as a roar swallowed by the encroaching mist. He circled his sword above his head, and wheeling his horse around, leapt forward onto the plain, leading the charge.
The line of soldiers, both on horse and on foot, moved forward to meet the invisible enemy, each man poised for battle.
Rufus strained to hear the approaching troops. The sounds of his own soldiers and the muffling distortion of the fog frustrated him. They hadn’t moved more than a hundred yards when a cry arose, and enemy horsemen rode through the mist, rushing forward like a wave of screaming demons.
The battlefield was born instantly amidst the noisy mass of men and beasts hurling against each other, weapons slashing.
An enemy rider charged forward, swinging his sword in a mighty arc toward Rufus’ head. Bracing himself, Rufus raised his shield to deflect the blow before striking back with his own blade. His sword sliced through to bone, and the attacker struggled to turn his horse about. Even before the man’s lifeless body fell to the ground, Rufus turned to the next attacker.
He and the valiant soldiers fighting at his side struck down wave after wave of attacks. Rufus could tell that his soldiers were better trained than Braxton’s, but their training would not be enough to win the day against vastly superior numbers. As his men fell one by one, Rufus could feel his own strength slowly ebbing with each swing 22
Jacq’s Warlord
of his sword. How long could they last before they were slaughtered and left for the vultures to pick clean?
It never occurred to Rufus to pray. He didn’t have time for that luxury. His life and his land were at stake. His entire focus was on the task at hand—an increasingly elusive victory.
* * * * *
Present
Jacq waited nervously beside The Bard’s stage, composing her thoughts for the story she wanted to tell. She’d come early to run through her speech and get familiar with the small stage. But she’d stumbled over the words and forgotten half of the priest’s poem. Now she wished she’d written crib notes on her arm.
The arrival of the town crier marked the end to her wait. He was in his teens and dressed as a page in brown tights and a brown and red tunic. A narrow cap perched at an angle on his head with a feather stuck in the side.
“Are you ready, Jacq? Just give me the word and I’ll gather the crowd.”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she grumbled.
“You’ll be great,” he said. “Did I tell you that you look smashing?”
Smashing? That’s what she’d like to be doing—smashing a few heads.
Lord, just let
me get through the next few minutes without being laughed off the stage!
Turning her back to him and the front of the stage, she waited as he unrolled the scroll.
“Hear ye! Hear ye!” His voice boomed above the noise of the crowd moving among the stalls and tents. Those closest stopped and listened curiously.
Jacq watched the people coming from the opposite direction from beneath her lashes, but kept her head down to keep from drawing attention to herself. The town crier was all part of the flavor of the act and would get the crowd assembled and quieted before she began.
“Come ye hither, for ‘tis time for the bard to weave her tale.”
Jacq winced at the overly done language of the announcement. A few snickers from bystanders told her others agreed.
“Gather ‘round, oh ye of noble or lowly birth. The bard will tell her story to those who will hold their tongues and listen.”
Jacq heard the crowd gathering around the raised platform. As their numbers increased, their voices blurred into a low rumble except for the excited cries of the children jockeying for the best spot to watch the performance. When the noise died down, Jacq knew the crier had their complete attention, and he continued.
“I present to thee, Lady Jacqueline.”
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She paused, allowing the crier time to exit and to build the anticipation in the crowd. Then, lifting her long skirts, she spun, swirling them around her in a dramatic flourish, earning delighted squeals from the children dotting the front row. Jacq struggled to keep from smiling, as this was intended to be a serious story.
Wiping all humor from her face, she assumed a haughty expression and stared down her nose at the crowd. “I am the Lady Jacqueline of Rathburn Castle,” she began in a stern voice. “Listen as I speak, for I will not condone insolence. If you cannot hold your silence, I will have yon sheriff…” she pointed with a flourish behind the crowd,
“…lock you in the stocks.”
The crowd turned as one to see the actor dressed in green leggings and surcoat standing behind them next to a wooden contraption. There were three holes cut into it to fit the head and the hands of the transgressor.
The small faces in the front row turned back to her, wide-eyed and subdued.
“In the normal course of things, my life as a woman, even a noblewoman, is a great struggle and filled with hard work. While my husband sees to the castle’s defense, I see to its upkeep and to the welfare of the people who serve us.”
She narrowed her eyes at the little upturned faces, staring rapturously. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep a castle clean?” They shook their heads in unison, and she dared a quick wink to their smiling parents. “Well, I can tell you it takes dozens of servants. Why, it takes two boys, just about your size,” she said, pointing to two wide-eyed boys in the front row, “to scrub the hearth clean each day before the cook prepares our meals. And it’s nigh on impossible to keep the rats and mice out of the larder…” she said, shuddering, “…without fine fat cats to do the job.”
She clasped her hands in front of her and lowered her face for a moment, raising it to allow the crowd to see a glimpse of the inner anguish “Lady Jacqueline” felt as she continued her story.
“But now is not the normal course. And things are harder than ever before. For ‘tis the year of our Lord, eleven fifty-three, and Duke Henry of Normandy has landed on England’s shores to challenge our King Stephen. The lord of the castle, my husband Rufus, has joined the battle to wrest the rule of England from a villainous leader.
“I have just received word from my lord husband that his forces are outnumbered and he is in dire need of reinforcements.
“I fear for my lord’s life,” she said, wringing anguish from her expression as she paced the stage, a frown of concentration on her face.
“But I am helpless to lend him aid. I am but a woman. I cannot wield a heavy sword in battle. I haven’t the strength to cut down a man. Instead, I do my duty to my lord by caring for his people and defending his keep in his absence. If my lord is struck down, what will become of us?
“It is only my love, my loyalty and this prayer I have to offer my husband in his time of need.”
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Sinking to her knees with head bowed, she clasped her hands tightly together.
Then, recalling the prayer from the book, she recited it word for word.
“Almighty Lord, hear my prayer
for I fear all hope is lost.
Please arm Lord Rufus with your might
to spare the heavy cost
of wounded, scarred and dying men
upon the battlefield.
Spare his life, provision him
with courage as his shield;
help him know what he must do
to free this land from hate.