Stuart, Elizabeth (2 page)

"It's
such a long way to Oxford and the roads aren't safe. There are outlaws everywhere.
Hawise told me so."

Jocelyn
was still staring at the sky. She made a silent vow to speak sharply to Hawise,
Adelise's fanciful new maid. "They're a large company of knights and
men-at-arms, Adelise. No outlaws will come anywhere close."

Adelise
fumbled for Jocelyn's hand and squeezed it. "I'm so glad we're together,
Jocelyn. That we've gotten to know each other at last. I just wish—" She
broke off.

Jocelyn
smiled then, turned her head and waited patiently. Just what could a young
woman like Adelise possibly have yet to wish for.

"I
just wish we could have come to know each other sooner," Adelise was
saying wistfully. "That we could have had more time together. But I want
you to know, Jocelyn, that you'll always be welcome wherever I am."

Jocelyn
frowned. "Whatever are you talking about, Adelise?"

"It's
possible I may be betrothed when Father gets back. Nothing's settled yet, of
course," she added diffidently. "The negotiations have barely been
opened. But Father spoke of it this afternoon. He wished me to know he favored
the match."

Marriage...
Adelise was leaving. Life would be unendurable.

Jocelyn
searched for something to say, tried to inject real happiness into her voice;
Adelise certainly deserved it. "Who is it, Adelise? What poor man have you
smitten this time?"

Adelise
caught both Jocelyn's hands, laughing softly as she squeezed them together in
hers. "Oh, Jocelyn... it's Edward! Lord Pelham, I should say. Isn't it
wonderful? I scarcely dared dream, Jocelyn... didn't dare speak my hopes aloud even
to you! Oh, Jocelyn, was there ever a woman so fortunate as I?"

Jocelyn
sucked her breath in sharply, felt the cold biting deep in her lungs.
"Congratulations, Adelise. You'll be the most beautiful bride in all
England. And the happiest."

For
a few moments Adelise chattered on, but the cold and the wind were too much
even for such happiness. "Jocelyn, I'm freezing! Let's get downstairs to
bed. I just wanted to tell you here where no curious ears could hear. Father
swore me to secrecy. This might not come off, you know." She hesitated.
Her voice dropped. "And then I don't know how I should live."

Jocelyn
forced herself to say something comforting, to wrap her arms around her sister
and give her a quick hug before pushing her gently toward the stairs. "You're
shivering. Go inside before you catch your death."

"Aren't
you coming?"

Jocelyn
smiled. "You go on. I'll be along in a few minutes. I like it up here, you
know."

She
heard the soft patter of her sister's feet on the stairs, then the distant call
of a sentry pacing somewhere out in the night. Then all was quiet save for the
wind.

She
leaned against the wall, searching the darkness above for any hint of stars. Of
course the marriage would come off. Adelise was a considerable heiress from her
de Valence mother, quite apart from whatever substantial dowry their father
might add. At the ripe old age of nineteen she'd had more offers than there
were rats in the granary stores, for she was beautiful, with a slim blond
radiance that drew men like moths to a flame.

But
Lord Montagne had always declined the offers. With the civil wars waging for
England's crown, first between Stephen and his cousin Matilda, then between
Stephen and Matilda's son, Henry of Anjou, their father had been loath to make
close alliances. Loyalties changed too swiftly these days, and a man's word was
no longer to be trusted. Too many men had been sucked into the maelstrom
because of a hasty marriage and a politically disastrous blood bond.

But
Pelham? No father in his right mind would refuse such a prize. The man was heir
to the earldom of Colwick and a warrior all men admired. He sat high in King
Stephen's esteem, yet was distantly related to young Henry on his mother's
side. A welcome awaited in both camps— whichever way matters turned out.

And
Adelise would be happy, Jocelyn told herself woodenly. Unbelievably so, she
imagined.

But
sweet Mary in Heaven, why did it have to be Pelham?

A
single star appeared through a rift of wind-torn clouds. It glowed alone in the
darkness, then shimmered and haloed as if through a mist.

Jocelyn
blinked once angrily and then started for the stairs. God, she despised women
who wept easy tears!

***

The
priest finished the last whispered benediction. The men had confessed and been
shriven. Now they rose to their feet, shadows blacker than darkness, the hush
of another world still upon them as they climbed aboard oxcarts and mounted
impatient horses.

Robert
de Langley shifted in the saddle. These were good men all, and had followed him
for love and loyalty, leaving homes and families far behind.

For
seven long years he had led them, led them against increasingly impossible
odds, into hopeless battles and out of them, through ambushes, betrayals, and
at last over hundreds of miles of hostile land and a cold and cheerless sea.

And
in a very short time the running would stop. One way or another, it would stop.

He
frowned and drew his mantle tighter against the chilling bite of the wind. No
mortal man could have foreseen the chaos that had ensued when King Henry's only
son was drowned, leaving his overbearing daughter, Matilda, and her husband,
Count Geoffrey of Anjou. The king had forced his barons to swear fealty to her,
but at his death they had repudiated her and the hated Geoffrey, for the enmity
between Normandy and Anjou had run deep.

Grasping
the sudden opportunity, the king's nephew, Stephen of Blois, had seized the
throne. Thus had begun the intermittent civil wars that had annihilated farms
and villages in whole sections of England. Though Stephen was a great warrior
and an affable, well-liked man, he had proven a weak king at a time when
England's need was strength. He had failed to control his unruly barons, and
many attacked their neighbors, stole and killed and set up petty kingdoms where
they ruled by the power of the sword.

In
the confusing struggle, Stephen could scarcely hold his throne in England.
Normandy had been wrested away by Geoffrey of Anjou—the very Angevin the barons
were fighting to keep out of England. Thus most of the great families had either
lost their dominions in Normandy or been forced to change sides and support
Matilda and Geoffrey and their eldest son Henry of Anjou who now called himself
duke of Normandy.

Robert
frowned as he always did at thought of the young duke, for if there was any man
on God's earth he hated, it was that overweening son of Satan, Henry. The man
had sworn to take England and Robert believed he would try. And somehow, some
way, he was going to fight Henry again and win.

His
eyes narrowed, his thoughts sliding back to that time last year when even his
hatred for Henry hadn't been enough to keep him running and fighting, to make
him care if he lived or died. Only for his men had he clung to life, a life he
no longer wanted. He couldn't abandon them, masterless, in enemy lands; he
couldn't let them down as he had Adam.

Now
he wanted to live, wanted it desperately! In fact, he'd sworn on that small
cold grave back in Normandy that he would live. That he would live and that he
would win. Or at the very least that he would die on his own land, on Belavoir
land. And he wasn't about to let Adam down again.

He
swung his horse out of the shelter of trees, heading for the road. His men
followed slowly behind him. In another few minutes the torches they carried
would be visible from the castle, and the die would be cast.

But
then there had never been any real question of going back. Henry was the
acknowledged duke of Normandy. Even Robert's erstwhile ally, King Louis of
France, had been forced to admit that.

Robert
had nothing—absolutely nothing—left to go back to.

They
rumbled on, over the crest of a hill, down the last long slope before staring
the steep climb up to the castle. Robert's breathing was steady but his heart
had begun to hammer, his insides to quicken as they always did in the last few
moments before a battle.

Then
a sentry called out a challenge from atop Belavoir's stone wall. And so it
began.

Merciful
Father God, don't let me let them down.

"Ho!
You the wall!" he shouted, halting at the great earthen ditch that surrounded
the castle walls. "We're from Shrewsbury town, escorting a load of salt
and supplies from the merchant Walter of Rouen. I was told we would be
expected."

By
now several torches had appeared atop the gatehouse. "You were," the
man shouted back. "Over a week ago."

"We've
had the devil's own luck," Robert returned. "First one broken axle
and then another, then a band of whoreson outlaws to contend with. We've had no
sleep in days and we're three-parts frozen besides. Judas, man, let us
in!"

"Can't.
Not till morning anyway. You'll have to camp outside."

Robert
let out a string of curses as creative as they were obscene. The soldier must
have been impressed, for in a matter of moments another voice was heard, this
one with the unmistakable tone of command. "It's past midnight, you fool.
We can't let you in. You should have made camp somewhere."

"We're
out of food. Haven't had a bite since the dawn," Robert shouted angrily.
"With all the delays we ran out."

"You
won't starve before sunrise."

"No...
no, we won't. We've a pipe of good Gascon wine for the lord's table and two
barrels of the best Cheshire ale for the rest of the household. Gifts from
Walter of Rouen to the lord of Belavoir." With a harsh laugh, Robert
wheeled his horse. "A pity you won't be tasting the ale. I'll let you know
what you missed come sunrise."

"Wait!"

Robert's
fingers tightened on the reins. His heart was pounding in earnest and every
second seemed a lifetime. Then the drawbridge was starting to move, the heavy
portcullis beginning its creaking ascent. The gate swung open and he was
staring into the darkened bailey of Belavoir.

He
crossed the echoing drawbridge, rode through the arched stone gateway of the
castle, holding his emotions in check, trying not to think of the last time he
had passed beneath this gatehouse. It was sixteen years ago. He'd been naught
but a boy of eleven, flushed with eagerness and pride and the foolish boy's
belief that life was good and all things possible. It had been a lifetime ago,
before Normandy and Marguerite and that devil's spawn Henry.

Before
Adam.

The
thought of his dead son steadied him. He sent a quick glance around the bailey.
There were scarce a dozen men about. There'd be more on the walls, a few posted
inside in the castle. But the remainder of the garrison would be sleeping. It
was his only chance, and he was counting on it.

He
glanced toward the gatehouse stairs. A shadowy figure moved swiftly upward.
That would be his man, Raoul le Bent, the supposed messenger from Lord
Borthwick. It was his job to get inside the gatehouse, to overcome the guard
and disable the drawbridge mechanism.

Robert
swung down from his horse. The greedy garrison captain stood beside him. The
man was a fool, didn't deserve command of an important fortress like Belavoir.
He felt inside his surcoat, drew out some bound parchment and held it out to
the man. "Letters. From Walter of Rouen to the Lord Montagne."

"Give
'em to a clerk in the morning." The man turned his back and began moving
toward the first cart. "Now, let's have a look at that ale."

Robert
slid the parchment back into his clothing, removing a dagger.
"Certainly," he murmured courteously. "It's here. Second
cart."

One
long stride brought him alongside the captain. His blade found its mark with
the ease of long practice. One deft movement and the garrison commander went
down, kicking but quiet.

Robert
caught the body as it fell, shoved it quickly beneath the cart. But it wasn't
quick enough.

A
cry rang out. A soldier raced toward him, sword drawn. Others followed.

Robert
drew his sword with the sliding hiss of well-polished steel. The hilt was
comforting, familiar in his hand. His heartbeat steadied, his insides settled
as they always did once the fighting began. Then a wild exhilaration swept him.
He was home. On Belavoir soil. No one was going to drive him away again!

The
need for secrecy done, his own men poured from the wagons. One wedged his cart
deftly into the entrance so that the gates couldn't be closed. Another set fire
to a load of straw they carried. With one fluid movement, he ignited a
pitch-soaked arrow and sent it arching against the heavens, a flaming signal
for Geoffrey and the men waiting back in the hills.

Robert
stole a glance over his shoulder. Sweet Jesu be praised! The drawbridge was
still down.

In
seconds all was blood and smoke and confusion. Arrows began to rain from the
walls. Half-dressed men stumbled from the barracks. The first were cut down
easily enough, but those that followed weren't so readily handled.