Stuart, Elizabeth (9 page)

His
men streamed out behind him, shouting and eager. Montagne's forces saw them and
hesitated. They bunched together in confusion, then straightened and surged
forward with an angry, pulsating roar.

Robert
shifted the comforting weight of his shield to his left, settled himself more
deeply in the saddle. This was the life for which he'd been born. It was what
he did best.

He
lifted his sword, focused on his target, a tall knight on a rangy chestnut.
We
are in the right. God make us strong.

The
two sides met with a shuddering shock of bodies and steel, a deafening clamor
of noise. Belisaire struck the chestnut in the shoulder, the force of the
stallion's body knocking the smaller animal backward and down. The hapless
rider was powerless even to get in a blow as he was trampled by steel shod
hooves.

Robert
fended off a sword-thrust with the upper corner of his shield, then matched
blows with the enemy knight for several seconds. He maneuvered his mount with
his knees, drawing alongside the man, bashing him in the face with the edge of
his shield, finishing him quickly with a sword stroke the man never even saw
coming.

He
heard the familiar grunt of thrashing, struggling horses, the heavy breathing
of men fighting for their lives. He laid about him with his sword, striking at
everything that moved. A surge of power and excitement carried him. Montagne's
forces outnumbered them, but his own men were fighting like devils. He was
going to win.

Two
knights came at him at once. He fended them off with sword and shield. His
great blade swung and fell, swung and fell, in an effortless hypnotic rhythm
that drove the men back.

He
swept past, then swung around, driving Belisaire broadside into one of the
horses. The animal stumbled but regained his footing, his rider lifting his
shield, protecting his right side.

Robert
shifted his knee. Without hesitation the stallion checked and moved left.
Robert followed swiftly with a powerful, crippling stroke, feeling the
satisfying crunch of separating mail, the silken passage of fine steel through
soft flesh.

He
freed his sword, readied himself to face the other knight. But the man was
backing off, had already swung to take on another opponent.

Robert
hesitated. He could hear the sound of his own labored breath whistling through
his nose guard. He lifted his head, allowed himself a moment to search the
field. Horses snorted and squealed, men shouted in triumph and screamed in
agony. And above it all rang the clatter and rasp of steel against steel.

He
narrowed his eyes, searched the field through the anonymity of his helm's eye
slits. Montagne's men were beginning to fall back, but Robert wasn't ready to
return to the keep. Not now. His blood was up and he wanted Montagne.

As
if in answer to his need, he sighted the red boar insignia Montagne had taken
to wearing. He spurred toward the man, his shout of hatred ringing down the
field. With the heat of the fighting upon him he wasn't going to proceed by his
plan.

He
wanted vengeance. He wanted it now!

***

Jocelyn
gripped the edge of the wall oblivious to the fact that the rough stone had cut
her hand. She had seen men practice at fighting, had even watched one rough
tournament melee Brian had told her was almost like battle. But never had she
imagined anything like this.

The
fighting was spread out on the plain below her. Men surged first one way and
then the other, then dropped out of sight in a sickening crush of shimmering
steel, flailing hooves and spreading circles of red. Screams came to her easily
on the wind along with the clatter and ring of steel.

Jocelyn
held her breath, watching as Robert de Langley surged across the plain like an
angel of death. His sword rose and fell with a grace that was both beautiful
and terrifying to behold, with a stark economy of motion that was unstoppable.

The
arena of fighting narrowed, tightened, until the struggle was centered on one
small area of the field. Opponents came at de Langley from all sides. In the
crush, he disappeared, and Jocelyn's heart slid into her throat. It seemed
impossible he could come out alive, but she caught glimpses of his gray
stallion, knew he was still upright in the thick of the fighting.

It
seemed unthinkable that he might die. Not now. Not after all he'd been through.
God keep him. Please, God, don't let him fall.

In
the press of men and horses, she recognized a bay stallion her brother often
rode. She spared scarcely a glance for Brian; she couldn't drag her eyes from
de Langley.

She
swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat, blinked against a surge of
tears. Robert de Langley was fighting with all of his heart and all of his soul
for all in the world he had left, his home and his people and three boys who
might yet become men.

She
gripped the crenel edge tighter and leaned out, her heart hammering painfully
in her throat. Her eyes were riveted on that gray horse, on the legendary man
who rode as if the animal were a part of him. "Please, God," she
whispered, in what had become an impassioned, involuntary litany. "Please,
God, please, God... please, God..."

The
fighting went on. She couldn't bear to watch yet couldn't drag her eyes away.
And then for no reason she could see, the battle abruptly shifted.

De
Langley broke free. His men began streaming back toward the keep while de
Langley himself and a dozen others circled and fought a rear-guard action with
a handful of Montagne men brave or foolish enough to try to follow.

All
around her the men on the walls began to cheer. Jocelyn came to herself with a
start. Caught up in the drama below, she had forgotten she wasn't alone.

The
Belavoir men clattered across the drawbridge and swept through the open gates.
The archers atop the walls sent a volley of arrows hissing toward the Montagne
men. Then the gates swung shut, the drawbridge groaned upward.

The
men were safely inside, her father and his forces raging in impotent fury
outside. A host of catcalls and taunts followed the arrows over the wall.

Jocelyn
was surprised to find her legs weak, her heart racing as if she'd been fighting
alongside the men. Her sweat-dampened shift clung to her body, making her
shiver in the icy wind.

She
drew her cloak close, shaken by what she had witnessed, by how it had affected
her. And she was more than a little surprised and ashamed to realize her eyes
had been all for de Langley, that she hadn't looked once for her father, hadn't
thought once where her own interests lay.

The
knights were dismounting. In the grip of a bewildering awe, she watched the
lord of Belavoir. She had never known anyone remotely like Robert de Langley,
had never experienced emotions as confusing as the ones she was experiencing
now.

He
helped drag one of his men from the saddle. Blood reddened the man's back and
one whole side of his body. It dripped from his torn surcoat, staining the
brown bailey earth. Two men caught him under the shoulders and supported him up
the stairs into the hall.

Robert
de Langley swung around. He had removed his helm, and his eyes swept the
battlements. Even from this distance she could tell he was in a rage.

"Bring
me the women! The Montagne women," he shouted. "It's time we raised
the stakes."

By
the time Jocelyn and the knight named Gerard came down from the wall walk,
Robert de Langley had gone into the keep. Jocelyn followed him into the hall.
Women were already hurrying to the wounded.

Jocelyn
searched the room for de Langley. He sat alone at the high table. He held a
quill in his hand, was scratching furiously at a sheet of parchment. Still
half-overwhelmed by what she had seen, Jocelyn started toward him, then she saw
Adelise.

"What's
happened?" Adelise whispered. "Has there been fighting?"

Jocelyn
nodded. "Father's come. Lord de Langley and his men went out to meet
him."

Adelise's
pale face turned even whiter. "Sweet merciful Christ! Are they all
right?"

Jocelyn
put out a hand to steady her. "Yes, they're all right. It was only a
skirmish," she added, glancing over her shoulder toward Belavoir's lord.

Robert
de Langley sat still at the table, but he was watching them. "Come here,
madam. Bring your sister," he added in a voice that boded no good.

Jocelyn
stepped forward at once, keeping her arm about Adelise. De Langley pushed back
from the table and stood in full, blood-spattered armor. The heat and rage of
the fighting were obviously still upon him. His face was flushed and hard, his
golden eyes blazing with anger. "Well, madam, and did you enjoy your
view?"

"Enjoy
is not the word I would use," Jocelyn said evenly. "I'm not sorry I
stayed though, if that's what you're asking."

"I'm
glad I was able to offer you entertainment... that my men didn't spend their
blood to no cause!"

"From
what I could see 'twas Montagne men did most of the spending."

"Most,
yes. I've lost none yet, but I fear one may go soon."

"If
it's only one, I would consider it a holy miracle. I doubt my father can say
the same."

"That
depends, I suppose, on who that one is." De Langley hesitated, then came
round the table. His eyes narrowed. "Your father should be dead, madam.
Will be soon, if I've anything to say in the matter!"

Jocelyn
felt Adelise gasp and begin to tremble. Her arm tightened about her sister in
warning. Why was the man so furious? From what she'd seen he'd done a
magnificent job of fighting off the Montagne forces.

"You've
voiced that sentiment before, sir, but I've no intention of discussing it with
you. It is a matter between you and him. May God decide it. But as to your
wounded..."

Jocelyn
glanced back over her shoulder toward the injured men. "Both my sister and
myself are held to have great talent with healing. If you'll allow it, we will
see what can be done."

Adelise
made an inarticulate sound of protest. De Langley's eyes swept past Jocelyn and
focused on Adelise, the predator selecting his prey. "What? Can it be
you've no wish to help, lady?"

In
a poorly chosen moment of bravado, Adelise lifted her chin. "No! No, I'll
not help. You're a murderer! I hope your man dies. I hope you all die!"

"Do
you now?"

The
silken words sent a shiver of unease through Jocelyn. She had never seen any
man look as Robert de Langley did now. "My sister is overwrought, sir. She
just learned of the fighting. Pray don't regard any—"

"So
I am a murderer," de Langley said. He moved closer, eyes riveted upon
Adelise. "Well, I suppose some would agree with that. But even in battle I
don't butcher men from behind. I don't wait until they're outnumbered, distracted,
held down by someone else so I can hack at them from the rear."

His
large hands clenched convulsively. Jocelyn could tell he was losing control.
"That's what your father did on the field today, my lady Adelise Montagne.
It's a matter I'll think long and hard on how to repay. And if that man
dies—"

He
broke off. His hand shot out, catching Adelise and spinning her around and back
against him. He held her easily as she struggled, dragged off her wimple to send
her silvery hair cascading free. He caught up a fistful, dragging her head back
roughly against his shoulder.

"Since
you've called for his death, I suggest that you pray now, madam," he
murmured against her ear. "I suggest you pray for that man as you have
never prayed in your life. He is worth a hundred, a thousand of one such as
you! And if he dies, it's you who will pay for his blood.
You!
And I
assure you I'll not make it easy."

Jocelyn
sucked in her breath. This had come upon them so quickly, so unexpectedly.

Robert
de Langley drew his dagger.

"My
lord...
don't!"

The
blade glittered dangerously next to Adelise's white face. The girl whimpered
and tried to move, but her head was pinned against his hauberk.

"My
lord, this is beneath you! Let her go."

"If
you think vengeance beneath me, madam, you've formed a singularly inappropriate
idea of my character!"

"Whatever
outrage my father committed, it wasn't her fault." Jocelyn sought his
eyes, willed him to look at her. "Let her go. You're frightening her half
to death."

He
looked up, and she knew from his eyes the exact moment he mastered his rage.
"Please..." she said. "Let her go."

De
Langley drew in a deep breath and glanced around, aware that every eye in the
hall was riveted upon them. "Oh, for the love of God, I'm not going to
kill her!" he snapped. "I'm going to cut off a piece of her
hair."

He
caught up a length of Adelise's hair, rubbed it between his long fingers.
"Such unusual color, such fine texture. A little token to remind Montagne
what I hold in my hand." He smiled thinly. "Don't you think your lord
father will recognize it?"

Adelise
whimpered again and attempted to struggle.

"I'd
suggest you hold still, madam. Very still. I'd hate to cut that pretty throat
by accident. When I murder people, I generally make sure it's intentional.
Besides, you're far to lovely to kill... yet."

Adelise
closed her eyes and caught her lower lip between her teeth. Tears ran from
beneath her lashes.

Jocelyn
could stand it no longer. She stepped forward and held out her hand. "Give
me the knife!" she snapped. "You're going to cut her, and then we'll
all be sorry. And you most of all, for you'll have lost an extremely valuable
hostage!"

De
Langley glanced down at her. Surprise and respect mingled in the look.

"Give
it to me," she repeated. "If you want something to unsettle my
father, this is most certainly it. But my sister has had enough. We've all had
enough!"

To
her surprise, he lowered the knife. "Perhaps you're right," he said,
holding it out. "We've already ascertained, have we not, madam, that dead
hostages are of little value."

Jocelyn
took the knife, drawing in a long, relieved breath. She hadn't really believed
he was going to hurt Adelise. No civilized man would do such a thing. Still,
for a moment...

"Hold
still, Adelise" she said. Her sister was sobbing, but she bit her lip and
managed to hold her head steady. Jocelyn reached up and caught a length of hair
in back, pressing the blade against it. It severed the hair as if it had been
warm butter.

She
held it up. "I believe this is what you wanted. I've no doubt my father
will recognize it. You may let her go now."

De
Langley released Adelise. The girl staggered, almost fell, then caught herself
against the table. "You're a monster! A
monster!"
she cried.
"You and all of your blood should be hunted down and destroyed!"

De
Langley eyed her contemptuously. "We have been, madam. I'm afraid I am all
that is left. A pity, I'm sure, from your point of view that Duke Henry and his
men weren't more thorough. I suspect your father will think the same when he
receives my missive."

He
caught Geoffrey's eye, jerked his head toward the stairs. "See the lady
back to her chamber. I suspect she'd be happier once she's above stairs. I will
be, I know."

Geoffrey
moved forward with alacrity. He put a supportive hand on Adelise's arm and
helped her stand. "Come, lady. I'll fetch you some wine. Your woman can
help you to rest."

Jocelyn
watched her sister move toward the stairs. When she glanced back, Robert de
Langley was staring at her, a thoughtful, speculative look in his eyes. All at
once she became aware that she was still holding tight to his dagger.

She
held it out, her thoughts, oddly enough, of the father and brother he had lost,
the wife he still mourned, the young son he had buried so far away. As Sir
Geoffrey had said, the man had lost a very great deal.

Her
own anger was rapidly cooling. "Forgive my sister, sir. Adelise has always
been close to our father. I'm afraid your words frightened her. She struck out
in the only way she knew."

De
Langley took the weapon, lifting his eyebrows with something of the old
mockery. "An apology, madam? I'd have thought you more likely to come at
me with this."

Jocelyn
shook her head. "After that first fright, I didn't really think you meant to
harm her. You are rather daunting, though, when you are angry, my lord."

"So
I've been told."

The
rage and excitement that had carried him had faded. Jocelyn could see now how
utterly exhausted de Langley appeared. And with good cause. She thought of that
terrible fighting, of these last two days of his tireless, sleepless work... of
the many sleepless nights that had doubtless preceded this. "How long has
it been, my lord, since you've slept more than a few minutes at a
stretch?"

"Something
in the nature of five years, I believe."

Despite
the lingering tension, Jocelyn smiled. "Then get yourself off to bed, sir.
The sun is setting and regardless of what my father might like, he can do
little for now but make camp."

De
Langley shook his head, glancing over his shoulder to where the women were
caring for the wounded. "I must sit with one of my knights, Aymer Briavel.
He's unconscious, barely made the safety of the gates. Still I..." He
hesitated, drew in a deep breath. "I don't want him to die alone."

That
brief hesitation spoke volumes. Jocelyn understood now the reason for his rage.
"He is dear to you?"

"He
was with me when that church was burned around our ears. And after, through...
through—"

He
broke off, toyed carefully with the point of his blade. "You might say,
madam, that we've been through hell together. Events like that forge a bond
between men. Yes, he is dear."

An
ocean of pain lay concealed in the words. Instinctively, Jocelyn touched his
arm. "I'm sorry, my lord, for what my father did to your friend."

His
eyes lifted to hers and held for a moment. "And I, madam. For any fear or
hurt I've caused you. For what I may cause you still."

An
inexplicable sadness swept Jocelyn. "I understand," she said softly
and started to turn away.

"Wait."

She
glanced back.

"Does
your father read, madam?"

"No.
But my brother Brian does."

De
Langley nodded. "I've a note readied to send off, but there's still a
little something I need." The ghost of a smile eased the weariness about
his mouth. "Let down your hair."

"What?"

"Montagne
has two daughters." De Langley lifted his knife blade, pointing to her
hair. "Let down your hair, madam. I doubt I've the energy just now to
repeat that last performance with you."

Jocelyn
hesitated a moment, but the man was obviously serious. She reached up
self-consciously, releasing the braided knot at the nape of her neck. The thick
rope of hair fell nearly to her waist.

De
Langley stepped closer. Catching up the braid, he swung it over her shoulder,
using his knife to slit the thong at the bottom.

Jocelyn
sucked in her breath as his hands began working down the length of the braid,
releasing it. The sensual tugging against her scalp sent a tight, shivery
feeling coursing through her. Her heart began pounding, her whole body tensed
and flushed. And when the back of his knuckles inadvertently brushed the side
of her breast, she jumped as if she'd been burned.

She
glanced up, realized too late that it was a mistake. Robert de Langley was
close, his long-lashed golden eyes focused on her with an intensity that was
overpowering. She could feel the heat of his body, could feel it somehow
transmitted to hers. Every nerve in her body jangled. She was reminded
unexpectedly of Alys, of the woman who had lain beneath him, of the many women
who had doubtless lain beneath him.

She
tried to say something to break the tension, but couldn't manage it, could only
stand there, self-consciously, as his hands worked the length of her hair and
then combed through it slowly again.

Jocelyn
swallowed hard. The man was certainly taking his time! God in heaven, why
didn't he just cut off her hair and be done?