Summer Siege (12 page)

He regarded her
coolly before turning to Tristan. “Can you vouch for this?”

“I can, my lord.”

“I am skilled with
both bow and sword, my lord,” Madeline interjected.

De Burgh eyed her
with amusement but conceded, noting the spirit dancing behind her bold green
eyes.

“Aye, well you may
yet have a chance to prove your skill. Should the castle fall, Prince Louis
will have us conquered. There will be no surrender so we look to a long and
bloody battle.” He looked at Madeline pointedly. “There will be little mercy
should the French prevail.”

Madeline held his
gaze confidently, in spite of the unease that was slowly threading its way
through her. It was common knowledge that should a castle hold out for longer
than considered proper there would be no honourable surrender and the best they
could expect would be indiscriminate slaughter.

She could not miss
the working of Tristan’s jaw as she considered their future and she did not
doubt he was having the same morbid thoughts. Grateful that he had vouched for
her, she realised it must have been extraordinarily difficult for him to do so.
 

“We must pray these
stone walls hold,” De Burgh continued.

“‘
Twould
take a lot to fell these walls surely?” Madeline
asked.

“Aye,
but it ‘
twould
not do to underestimate the French.
If Louis takes Dover, he takes
England. He will not give in so easily.  If you will excuse me, I will see
you anon.” De Burgh made to leave but paused briefly. “You will not find the
accommodations here to your usual standards, I fear, my lady. We are close to a
thousand men and there is little room for such numbers.”

“I thank you, my
lord, but I have endured worse.”

“Very
well.”
De
Burgh looked at her with interest once more before striding away.

Tristan turned to
Madeline with a sigh, “If De Burgh is right, we have a fierce battle ahead of
us. Leave now, before ‘tis too late, I beg of you.”

She could see the
distress in his eyes and she regretted being the cause of it, but she could not
leave. She had just as much to lose as any of these men. More so, when she
considered Tristan would be here defending the keep.

“I will not.”

“You have naught to
prove, my love.”

Madeline reached
for his hand, clasping it tightly before pressing it against her chest. “I know
that.
‘
Tis
not foolish pride that keeps me here, ‘tis you, Tristan.”

Gripping at her
hand and closing the gap between them, he stroked at her cheek. “I fear for
your fate here. I would rather see you safe than at my side.”

“I will not be
swayed.”

“Aye, that much I
know, but think on me, Madeline, I could not lose you a second time.”

“And
I you.
I will
not leave your side now. We will prevail together.”

Tristan’s worried
expression gave way to a slight smile as he brushed a thumb over her lips, but
she could not help notice that the worry remained in his eyes.

“You remind me of a
young girl I once knew.”

“Aye, mayhap you
still know her.” She leaned up and brushed a kiss across his lips, trying to
reassure him.

“Mayhap I do.”
Tristan whispered against her mouth.

As he deepened the
kiss and brought his fingers twisting into her hair, Madeline realised that
while she had thought that young girl was lost to the past, some small part of
that child had been resurrected. And it was due to Tristan.  The hope that
had once burned bright had not been lost; it was simply waiting for Tristan to
unlock it. She was grateful, for though she was thankful for what the years had
taught her, the icy defence she had wrought around her heart would have slowly
crushed her.

Bawdy laughs and
jeers broke their embrace and Madeline flushed while Tristan eyed the source of
the sounds so severely that most looked away with embarrassment.

It was with an odd sense of
relief that they watched the barbican finally fall. Endless days of waiting,
listening to the thud of the war machines hammering into the castle walls, had
finally come to this. The barbican had done its job, it had bought them time
and the castle would not be lost.

Yet.

The sight of smoke
pluming from behind the oak beams of the make-shift wall announced the
completion of the French mine and the barbican gave way in a cloud of dirt and
ash.

Tristan assisted
from the curtain wall, his men stationed with crossbows not far from the North
tower. Madeline was safely installed in the castle waiting for the casualties
of the day. He was grateful she had not insisted on joining him, as arrows
hammered around them. Most fell wide and he had little fear for himself but he
would not have felt happy about her presence in such conditions. Still the
wooden
perriers
flung their stones, every now and
then cracking the top of the wall, sending a great cloud of dust into the air
and occasionally taking some poor soul with it.

With assurances
that he would not be defending the breach, Madeline had acknowledged that the
physicians could use her aid and helped ready one of the chambers for the
injured. The Captain of the Gate, De Creon, led the fight, as a horseman
assailed the breach carrying a great banner.

The battle raged
on, Tristan’s men relentlessly hammering the invaders with their crossbows, but
still they kept on coming, vastly outnumbering the English. The smell of
scorched wood and the sounds of screams, and rampaging footsteps echoed through
the dirt that still hung in the air.  Arrows zinged past as crossbow after
crossbow was fired at the invaders.

The tide began to
turn and it became obvious that they could not hold back the great wave of
attackers. The captain was mortally wounded and gradually the soldiers were
beaten back until they had to retreat behind the curtain wall.

Bloodied and tired,
the survivors sought refuge in the keep and the waiting game began once again.
Tristan knew though that the next battle would not be conceded so easily. If
the French managed to breach the outer wall, it would only be but a matter of
time before they overcame the castle’s defences. Then they would have to pray
for mercy.

Tristan would not
pray for himself though. It was for Madeline that he hoped his pleas would be
answered.

***

Madeline spent many
hours with the sick and injured, holding their hands as they passed, soothing
them through fevers, and stroking their heads as they had their injuries sealed.
This was not how she envisioned battle – the whimpering cries of grown men
haunting her thoughts. The savagery of their injuries sickened her at first,
but she soon found herself becoming accustomed to the sights of gaping,
festering flesh, and splintered bone.

Tristan came to her
when he could, forcibly dragging her from onerous responsibilities, ensuring
she had eaten. Thankfully the large stores meant they all ate well, in spite of
the passing of time, and for that they were all grateful. Starving men could
quickly turn into wild, savage beasts.

Generally the men
treated her with respect; the knowledge that she was Tristan’s woman was now
widely spread, although it didn’t stop some from taking liberties. It was
quickly discovered that she would tolerate little lewd behaviour when one of
the soldiers grabbed at her, pulling her onto his lap, as she served up some
food. His malodourous breath washed over her and she recoiled as his hands
attempted to grope at her legs.

With a flash of
movement, she grabbed an eating knife and pressed it into his throat. His
scrawny body writhed under her blade.

“Release me,” she
hissed.

The other men
watched on in astonishment, some ready to come to her aid and others just
enjoying the spectacle.

His hands dropped to
his side as he gaped at her.

“Be grateful,
soldier, that
you did not succeed today, for there is a man
who would hurt you more than I.”

As if she had
conjured him, a flicker of movement caught her eye and she found herself pushed
to one side as Tristan hauled the small man to his feet. Grasping the neck of
his surcoat and slamming him against the table, tableware was sent clattering
to the floor.

Madeline watched in
shock at the pure anger displayed by Tristan. His fair and composed nature was
a far cry from that of the furious man stood in front of her. She clambered to
her feet to grab at his arm as he spat at the soldier.

“I shall take great
pleasure in seeing you beaten for laying your grubby paws on a lady.”

The soldier
squirmed in his painful grip, his face reddening as Tristan pressed his weight
upon him. “Forgive me, Sir,” he coughed out. “I meant no ‘arm.”

Placing a placatory
hand on Tristan’s arm, she jumped back as his furious gaze turned on her.

Only just
recognising her through the mist of anger, he took a breath. “
‘Tis
the lady you have harmed, so ‘tis she who will decide
your fate. What say you, Lady Madeline? Shall you see him beaten for his sins?”

Madeline considered
the sweating little man and the men-at-arms watching on with interest. “Nay, he
has had punishment enough being bested by a woman.”

The men laughed at
this but Tristan gave her a look of dissatisfaction. Grudgingly, he yanked the
soldier to his feet and threw him towards the doorway. The man stumbled,
causing more merriment amongst the men, and hastened out.

Tristan snarled
after him. “Should I look upon you again, even the lady’s mercy will not save
you!”

As quickly as it
had appeared, his anger dissipated as he gazed upon her. Aware of the men
watching, he stepped forwards but resisted touching her.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head
with a smile.
“Nay.”

“Forgive my anger;
I could not bear to see you handled so.”

Tristan was not
given to bouts of anger but, upon viewing that filthy oaf’s hands upon
Madeline, he had been transported back to when the French soldier had assaulted
her, and a blind fury had consumed him, much like the rage that kept him alive
during numerous battles.

“Do not concern
yourself, Tristan, you did not frighten me.”

He was surprised by
her calm reaction. He had expected her to be cross with him for intervening,
knowing well of her aversion to anyone fending for her. Mayhap she was slowly
losing her grip on her stubborn fear of dependence and finally learning to
trust him.

Madeline looked at
him with bemusement as he released a sudden grin. He wished he could place a
bold kiss upon her wry smile but the observers in the hall prevented him from
doing so.

“I am to lead a
raiding party tonight, ‘tis our intention to sabotage the war machines.”

A flash of distress
wavered across her face which she struggled to conceal.

“Do not wait up for
me. I will seek you out in the morrow.”

Madeline nodded
slowly. Quickly she pressed a kiss to her fingers and placed them into his
palm. “I will see you in the morrow,” she said assuredly.

Tristan wished he
could share in her confidence as he strode away.

***

They came out of
the south entrance as quietly as fully armoured men could. This would not be
the first raiding party that had gone out and the French would likely be
prepared for such a move. It took them some time to navigate around the walls
in the cover of night, the uneven terrain making it a treacherous passage.
Muffled curses rang out as they edged along the embankment and Tristan was
grateful the ground was dry.

As they came around
the wall, the flickers of the French torches grew brighter. This would be no
surreptitious skirmish – they came ready with their own torches, hoping to set
the wooden machines aflame.

A wooden perrier
loomed in front of them, guarded by a number of dozing watchmen. They would pay
dearly for their inattention. Several of Tristan’s men ran on ahead, quickly
dousing the base of the large perrier with oil. The French roused at the sounds
of footfalls and they sprang into action, the grate of swords on sheaths
signalling their intentions.

Tristan and his men
dashed forwards to protect the oil carriers. Clangs of swords sounded as they
clashed with the watchmen and shouts of alarm rang out. With no intention of
hanging around and awaiting more French, Tristan shouted out the order to set
light to the wooden machine as a sword skimmed past his stomach. Repelling the
attack, he swept his sword in a savage arch and it scraped across his foe’s
chest, sending forth a spurt of blood.

A large Frenchman
barrelled forward and swung at him before kicking out at Tristan’s stomach as
he deflected the blow. The heavy boot winded him and his opponent brought his
sword back around, swiping at his neck. Narrowly avoiding the swing, Tristan
brought his own sword down upon his enemy’s blade with all his might. The blow
forced the blade back and Tristan took the opportunity to lunge at the soldier,
yanking his dagger from his belt and gouging into the man’s side. The heavy
soldier lurched against him, the warm trickle of blood coating his hand, and
Tristan jerked the blade loose before shoving the dying man back.

The flames licked
rapidly up the base of the perrier, the heat crawling over his skin, and he
called for a retreat. His men fought bravely and they backed away, beating down
anyone foolish enough to follow them. As the French gathered to try and douse
the flames, they made their escape, vanishing like wraiths into the dark night
once more.

When they reached
the safety of the inner wall, they grinned and praised each other for a job
well done. Another small victory in a long battle had just been won. Before
long Louis would tire of their machinations and hopefully pull his war machines
back. They had just served another satisfying blow to the French morale.

As Tristan wearily
pulled off his helm and swiped at the sweat on his brow, he became aware of a
figure barrelling towards him. A small squeal and the figure
was
on top of him, gripping at his neck and plastering kisses across his face.

The thrill of
victory dampened his need for propriety and he returned Madeline’s kisses with
equal ferocity.

“I told you not to
wait for me,” he scolded teasingly.

“I could not
sleep.” She kissed him again before he could reproach her anymore.

Tristan gripped at
her appreciatively and kissed her with force until they were breathless. As he
lowered Madeline to the ground, he noticed the bloodied handprints he had
placed upon her.

“Forgive me,
Madeline. It appears I have marked you.”

She frowned in
confusion and looked to where he was pointing. Her eyes flew wide. “Is this
your blood?”

He shook his head
vigorously.
“Nay.”

“Thank the Lord.”

As they headed back
into the keep, she murmured conspiratorially to him. “I was concerned you would
not return. I feared you would leave me here alone.”

Tristan crooked his
finger under her chin.
“Never, my love.
You will never
be alone again.”