Stuart, Elizabeth (3 page)

Robert
fought his way across the bailey like a man possessed. He and his small force
had to hold the gatehouse and bailey and take the entrance to the keep. And
even with the skeleton force that was all Belavoir could muster, it was a
near-suicidal quest, for it would be some minutes yet before Geoffrey and the
rest of his men could arrive.

He
slashed at a soldier blocking his way, shifted his weight mid-stride and swung
at another coming in from behind him. He felt a familiar impact as the weapon
cleaved through leather armor, lifted a foot reflexively to kick the body free
of his blade, to ready himself for the next man swinging at his head.

He
ducked, pivoted, dealt the man a glancing blow and swept onward. Three of his
own men were struggling to catch up with him. He knew it was unwise to get so
far ahead, but they had to take the wooden stairs up to the keep before one of
these fools thought to burn them.

Hurry,
Geoffrey. For the love of God, please hurry!

He
had almost made the stairs. Belavoir men were swarming near the base, a host of
aroused hornets. Then the blessed sound of hoofbeats rang out, the excited
shouting of men fresh and eager and certain of victory.

Robert
knew a moment of intense relief, sent up a brief prayer of thanks for the
deliverance. Then he caught sight of a man at the top of the stairs sluicing
liquid about from a small keg.

Grease!
They were going to fire the stairway. He might never take the keep. He and his
men would be sitting ducks, caught between the archers inside the great
stronghold and whatever assault that jackal Montagne could mount from outside
the walls.

Robert
threw back his head, shouting the age-old cry of his house—a cry that sent
chills down the spines of his enemies, but had been unheard for well over a
year. "
De Langley... for God and for us. To me!"
he shouted
furiously.

With
a wild cry of fear, the man before him crossed himself and stumbled backward.
Others followed, holding their swords, murmuring superstitiously.

Robert
held himself very still. And then he began to laugh, a wild sound, an insane
act, here amid the fire and the blood and the carnage. But he couldn't help it.
These fools thought him a ghost.

"Robert!"

He
glanced back. Geoffrey was fighting like a madman, struggling through the
crush. "Robert wait! Don't chance those stairs alone."

His
men were rallying to his war cry. They would be with him in minutes. But the
grease was splattering down the length of the stairs. In seconds they could be
an inferno.

He
caught hold of the wooden railing, lunged forward up the slippery treads.
Halfway up, the man with the grease keg blocked him, sword drawn.

On
a lower rung of the stairs, Robert was at a decided disadvantage, but he fought
as he had never fought before, because he'd never had so much to lose. And
gradually the man gave way, backing up the grease-covered stairway.

The
door of the keep swung open. A soldier darted out, waving a flaming brand in
his hand. With a strength powered by desperation, Robert drove himself against
his opponent.

The
man stumbled, lost his balance in the slippery footing and went down. Robert
kicked him down the stairway, lunging past up the last few steps in an effort
to stop the man holding the torch.

But
the man had already touched off the grease. It flickered, caught, spread
rapidly, and the platform before the door was aflame.

The
door to the keep stood open. Robert could see into the shadowy, firelit hall.
So
close...

The
flames were already licking at the grease on his boots. The heat rushed upward.
Rage and frustration swept him. And fear.

Not
again. He couldn't go through this hell again!

But
he was so damned
close!

With
an animal-like snarl of his war cry, Robert launched himself through the
flames. The guard stumbled back through the entrance, hastened to slam the
great door.

But
a stick of firewood jammed it, a grubby kitchen lad clinging desperately to one
end. The guard kicked the boy aside, but those few precious seconds were
enough.

Robert
caught the door, put his shoulder into the crack and shoved his way through the
entrance.

And
he was inside!

The
interior of the great hall was smoky and dim and a hush of fear lay upon it. In
the raised central hearth, a dying fire sputtered. Rushlights burned near the
entrance and long, wavering shadows barred the floor.

Robert
hesitated in the doorway. Save for the soldier before him, the near portion of
the room lay empty. The man held his sword at the ready, his shield well up,
but he was ashen-faced, the whites of his eyes showing.

Robert
lifted his sword and stepped forward, but the man began backing away.
"T-the Lion," he stammered out. "Christ save us! 'Tis the Lion
of Normandy up from the dead!"

With
the smoke and flames behind him, Robert knew he must look like some specter
from hell. He didn't hesitate to press the advantage. He was only one man
against an unknown number back there in the dark.

He
lunged forward, hoping to finish the man, but the soldier whirled and fled,
disappearing into the great gaping blackness at the far end of the hall.

Robert
held his breath, listening. The thud of boots told him the man had made the
stairs to the upper floor. His ears told him something else as well. The hall
wasn't empty. There were hushed sounds of movement, stifled breathing, back
there in the dark.

Straightening
slowly, he gathered himself, fighting for control of his twitching, tingling
limbs. The fierce struggle for Belavoir had lasted scarcely ten minutes, yet he
felt he'd been fighting for hours. His heart was pumping wildly, his blood
surging with the battle lust that made him long to seek out his enemies.

But
that would be the act of a fool. There could be any number of men back there
waiting to fall on him. Here, he had only to hold fast and defend the door.
Geoffrey and the rest of his men would be moving heaven and earth to get up
those stairs.

"My
lord... be you demon or man?"

With
a violent start, Robert swung around, lifting his sword. A few feet away a face
peered out from behind a stack of trestles—the boy who had wedged the door.
With the face came the memory.

Robert
caught a steadying breath. "Man, lad... at least most of the time I think
so."

The
boy hesitated, looked him over with eyes that were obviously unsure. "We
were told you were dead. Burnt to a crisp, so men swore."

"But
I'm not as you see."

"Your
pardon, but I can't see anything of the kind."

Robert
glanced down at himself. He was soot-blackened and singed, his surcoat and mail
liberally spattered with blood. No wonder the lad was unsure. But if that were
the case, why had he held the door? "A bit of this blood is my own, lad. To
my knowledge demons don't bleed."

The
boy crept out of the shadows. In age he appeared to be some nine or ten years,
though he was gaunt as a reed, his dark hair long and matted.

Robert
jerked his head toward the rear of the hall. "Who's back there?"

"None
you need worry about. Only servants. The men-at-arms have all fled above. The
cowards!"

The
boy's contemptuous tone amused him. "Lucky for me they hadn't your pluck,
lad. Have you any notion of their count?"

"Less
than the fingers of both my hands. No more. The rest all went out at the first
sound of fighting."

There
was a sudden increase in the noise from outside. Geoffrey was calling
frantically. Robert stepped back to the door. The flames were nearly out; the
oaken supports had never caught. "All's well," he called down. We
hold the hall."

"We
hold the bailey and gatehouse as well," Geoffrey shouted. "Wait,
Robert! Don't go any further. I'm coming up."

Within
seconds men were pouring into the hall, conquering the shadows with torchlight
and herding the cowering, terrified servants from beneath benches and tables
and gathering them near the hearth.

In
the confusion of giving orders and preparing to take the rest of the castle,
Robert lost the boy, then found him standing unobtrusively against the wall. "You,
boy, I've not yet offered my thanks. We'll speak later. I've not forgotten your
aid."

He
turned to Walter le Foret, the knight responsible for the men holding the hall.
"Mark that boy well. Guard his life as you would my own, for it's just
possible we owe this hall to him.

"And
now," he continued giving a nod to the cold-eyed veterans ringed about
him, "I've a notion to rid my castle of some vermin. Quarter to those who
throw down their arms. And to those who don't," he said coldly, "no
quarter."

***

The
smell of burning lay heavy in the room. From down the corridor came the faint
sounds of shouting, then screaming. The intruders had reached the women's
quarters.

Jocelyn
slammed the door to the outer chamber and dropped the bolt, amazed to discover
that her hands were steady, still followed the command of her brain. If only
she had awakened sooner, if only her bedchamber fronted the bailey instead of
the rear wall. But she'd chosen this room herself for its quiet and because
from here on a clear day, she fancied she could see the Welsh hills.

She
turned back to Adelise, her thoughts whirling, fighting for a plan where no
plans were possible. "It's too late to reach the back stair," she
said, forcing a steady tone. "The men must have won the hall before we
were even awake. When I find that wretch Edgar of Tutbury, he'll wish he'd
never been—"

She
broke off. Adelise looked near to swooning, and Hawise was already moaning,
working quickly toward hysteria. Besides, it was likely the surly garrison
captain was already dead. And she was wasting precious time.

"Quick,
back into our chamber!" she said, gesturing toward the small inner room
the sisters shared. "Dress yourselves in whatever you can get on quickly.
These doors won't hold them off long."

At
that, Adelise cried out, and Hawise began a high-pitched wailing. Jocelyn moved
toward them. "Stop that noise! Hawise, help your mistress. Quick now, or
I'll put you outside that door myself!"

Catching
hold of her sister, Jocelyn half-pushed, half-carried Adelise back into their
bedchamber. The room was in darkness save for the narrow circle of light
illuminated by the single night candle. She reached for it and hastily lit
more. There was something about light that made the terror more manageable.

Stooping
beside her clothes chest, she flung back the lid, grabbing up the first thing
that came to her hand. She dragged the loose yellow tunic over her shift,
hesitated as the glint of a dagger caught her eye.

It
was the weapon she carried on her solitary rambles outside the keep. She knew
well enough how to use it; her Welsh kinsmen had seen to that. For a moment,
she stared at the blade, then she picked it up.

The
intruders had reached the door to the outer chamber. She heard shouts as they
realized it was barred, then the ring of an ax against wood. Who would dare?
Who would dare attack Belavoir?

She
spun around, dagger in hand. Adelise was dressed in a loosely flowing blue
tunic with high neck and tight sleeves—there wasn't time to worry with the
lacings of a bliaut overtunic—and she was clutching her arms around herself,
trying hard to be brave but shaking badly. Hawise was doing her best not to
scream. Jocelyn doubted the girl's best would be enough.

The
noise of splintering wood filled the room, then a man's triumphant shout. She
could hear voices and the tramp of footsteps.

Jocelyn
stepped forward and put an arm around Adelise. This was insane. It couldn't be
happening! What fool would make an enemy of the powerful Montagnes?

Someone
was speaking in a soft, calming voice. It was several seconds before Jocelyn
realized the words were her own. "It will be all right. We're far too
valuable to be harmed. We'll be ransomed in a day or two, a week at most.
You'll see."

The
men were testing the bedchamber door. A rough voice demanded entry. Adelise was
shuddering uncontrollably in Jocelyn's arms. Hawise screamed. Someone outside
said, "Women!" and began to laugh.

And
then the thud of the ax began. Jocelyn counted the blows. Who could it be...
and would they be willing to settle for ransom?

Three...
four...

The
smooth, age-darkened oak began to fragment before her eyes.

Five...
six...

Holy
Mary, Queen of Heaven, pray for us sinners now in the hour of our death...

The
door gave way. A grimy, ax-wielding soldier grinned at them through the
wreckage. Several men crowded close, peering through the hole.

Jocelyn
hid the dagger behind her back and waited, her heart beating wildly, her breath
coming shallow and fast.

The
man with the ax kicked the splintered timber aside and stepped through. The
remaining men poured over the threshold, all four of them dirty and
bloodstained, the lust for blood and conquest setting their eyes aglitter.

Jocelyn
drew in a deep breath and gripped her dagger tightly. She'd half-expected to
see badges proclaiming the men in the earl of Chester's service. Though her
father supported Stephen, he had worked out a truce of sorts with his greedy,
quarrelsome neighbor. But Ranulf of Chester was an avowed supporter of Henry of
Anjou and famous for his treacheries.

However,
these men wore no identifying markings at all. They were gaunt and hard-edged,
their clothing faded and shabby. They put her in mind of a pack of wild dogs,
outcast and living by wits alone.

Outlaws.

And
they were staring avidly at Adelise in all her golden, disheveled beauty,
staring as if they'd not seen a woman in years.

Jocelyn
shifted slightly, putting her sister behind her. "This is the lady Adelise
Montagne, and I am the lady Jocelyn. Our father is Lord William Montagne. He
will pay well if we remain unharmed."

"So
you're Montagne's get."

Jocelyn
sent a swift glance toward the door. Another man had entered. Though he was
dressed as poorly as the others, was even more dirty and bloodstained than
they, he was cloaked with a regal self-assurance, an instinctive arrogance,
that would have set well on the highest-born lord.

And
if his men had made her think of wild dogs, this man put her in mind of some
far more lethal predator. She had no doubt he was the outlaw leader. A renegade
knight perhaps. Seventeen years of civil war had certainly produced a surfeit
of those.

He
moved across the floor toward her, tall, and long-limbed; grace and power and
danger incarnate, his sword lowered, dripping blood. Jocelyn caught his eyes
and held them. They were emotionless and cold, an odd golden color shimmering
in the candlelight. Involuntarily, she lifted the dagger.

The
man stopped. One side of his sharply chiseled mouth shifted upward, the
slightest mockery of a smile. "I think, my lady, that you'd best give me
that. You'll not like it if I have to take it away. And you know that I
can," he added softly.

Behind
her Adelise whimpered. Hawise began to sob loudly. Jocelyn swallowed and held
tight to the knife. This was unbelievably foolish. Of course he could take it
away.

Her
tongue flickered out, wet her dry lips nervously. "What terms do you
offer? What promise of safety do you make us?"

The
man stood motionless, holding her gaze. She had the oddest notion she couldn't
look away—the cat charming the hare, both frozen until the spring.

"Terms?
You want terms of surrender?"

The
voice was incredulous, indignant. It came from one of the watching men, but
Jocelyn didn't even glance his way.

The
man shifted his weight. Jocelyn drew her knife closer, instinctively readying
herself.

But
the man merely pushed his mailed hood back, handed his sword to one of his men.
"Of course that's what she means, Aymer. These Montagnes were ever an
audacious breed. Now, my lady, just what terms will it please you to
consider?"

His
voice held a cold, smooth courtesy, more mocking than if he'd laughed outright.
He turned back to her, amber eyes narrowing beneath a rumpled head of thick,
tawny hair. "I might just mention for your consideration, madam, that I
hold the entire castle save for this room, of course. That your garrison is
either imprisoned or dead. That the thought of negotiating terms for the
surrender of my own home does
not
amuse me."

He
hesitated, then added softly, "That I am a man you'll do well not to
cross."

"Your
home?"

"My
home!"

The
words were said with a fierce possessiveness that rang through the room.
Jocelyn felt a frisson of dread slide through her, a foresight that had led
some at Montagne to label her witch.

Her
nerve endings twitched and tingled. She took an involuntary step back. And
though she'd never laid eyes on the man—she'd scarce been toddling about when
he'd left England—there could be no mistaking that wild tawny hair, those
predatory golden eyes of legend. "Who are you?" she whispered.