Four days after Julia’s abduction, the Baron Crossan arrived midmorning at Grandaise with half a dozen knights and three score men-at-arms.
“Any word from Reynard?” Griffin rushed to greet him at the front doors.
“None. I decided to wait no longer in bringing my men to you.” The blocky, amicable baron clasped his shoulder and gestured to the force filling the courtyard and stretching down the path and through the gate, arms and armor glinting in the morning sun. “We are well rested and ready to move.” He turned back to Griffin. “You, on the other hand, look as if you haven’t slept in days.”
“Who sleeps well with a wolf at his door?” Griffin ran a hand down his face, feeling his eyes burning dryly. Then he looked from the baron’s knights, standing by their mounts in the courtyard, to his own knights behind him in the hall.
“We’re ready, milord,” Axel said, his round face uncharacteristically somber. “Greeve and I have taken over Bertrand’s archers … he has done well with them. And Heureaux has the scaling ladders and battering rams ready.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Griffin said. “Verdun has thick walls and who knows how much aid he has recruited.”
“I am your right arm, Grandaise, you know that.” The baron stepped closer and lowered his voice. “But, all of this over a
cook?”
“She is not just a cook, Crossan. She is …” He reddened as he struggled to keep his head above the memories inundating him. Julia splashing around barelegged in a stream, following him into a darkened forest, demanding to be let into his tightly controlled world; Julia cooking for him, tasting his food, tantalizing his palate, provoking him, tempting him; Julia prying into his inner workings, trying to understand him and then to please him. She might have begun as a cook, but she was much more than that now. She was the reason he lay hot and wakeful in his bed each night. She was the reason he rushed down the steps to break fast each morning. She was the one person in his entire life who had cared enough to try to reach the man inside the protective barrier he had erected around himself. She cared for him.
And, God help him, he cared for her … above duty, above honor, above his own safety and the safety of his men. He was desperate to have her back.
“She is wellborn. A maid of great worth.” His throat constricted. “And I am honor bound, pledged to a bishop and a duke of the realm to guard and defend her.” He saw a hint of recognition and sympathy in the baron’s perceptive gaze and straightened.
“And …
she makes the best cherry rissoles in all of Christendom.”
The baron’s laugh boomed like a kettle drum.
“Then by all means, Grandaise,” he slapped Griffin’s shoulder, “we must get her back!”
They moved in double columns across pastures filled with sheep, along the edges of lush fields of grain, and through the broad, grassy paths crossing the vineyards that usually carried harvest wagons laden with grapes to the wine presses on Grandaise. Knights and mounted men led the way and food soldiers came behind with carts bearing extra arrows and weaponry.
As they reached the edge of the forest-rimmed valley of Verdun’s seat, Griffin pointed out the agreed location for a battle line and sent his younger knights to form a double line stretching out across the fields. When they reached the midpoint of the valley, Griffin raised his arm to halt them and, leaving Crossan to command the lines, proceeded on toward the gates under a white parley banner.
“Verdun!” he roared, looking up at the ramparts above the iron portcullis in Verdun’s main gate. “I’ve come for Julia of Childress. I know you have her. I’ll give you a quarter hour to send her out unharmed through those gates. If you don’t, then I’ll come for her. And I’ll take your head in the bargain.”
A long, deep silence followed, where the only sounds heard were the creak of saddle leather and the snort of anxious horses. The sun bore down as they waited. Heat built inside Griffin’s gauntlets, hauberk, and helm, and making him feel all the more keenly the pressure of his responsibility for Julia’s safety.
What if Verdun wouldn’t bring her out? What if she were injured or ravished and unable to walk? What if—
The massive portcullis at the center of the stone gate began to lift. Beyond, he could see Verdun and some of his red-and-white-clad knights. His knees must have tightened along with the rest of him; his mount snorted and shied.
“So you’ve finally come!” It was Verdun himself who came forth, flanked by knights, carrying a white banner like the one that whipped in the air above Griffin.
“Bring her out, Verdun,” Griffin demanded.
“In time, Grandaise.” Verdun walked down the slope that led to the open field where Griffin stood, and stopped twenty yards away. “First, we talk.”
“Your actions speak louder than your words, Verdun.”
Verdun scanned the lines of men in the field behind Griffin and focused on Crossan. “You’ve done some recruiting, I see. Both men and alliances.”
“Bring her out,”
Griffin repeated his demand. “Or we will come in.”
“As if you could.” Verdun strode forward a few steps, his dark eyes blazing inside his polished helm. “There is only one way you will get your tart back.” Verdun turned partway and pointed to the gate, where several other figures had appeared while Griffin focused on Verdun’s movements.
There stood Julia, dressed in a white gown, her hands bound before her, and her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders. Her face was pale but she appeared to be unharmed. Beside her stood a tonsured man in a dark cassock.
“She is alive and well. A state that can change with a simple movement of my hand.” He gave a flick of his hand and his men seized her by the arms.
A bolt of fury shot through Griffin.
“You wouldn’t dare.” He raised his hand halfway up his side and several archers in the front rank of his men drew back their bows and took aim on Verdun.
“Listen well, Grandaise,” Verdun said in a tightened voice, then shifted slightly as if subduing his temper in the service of something even more dangerous. “Beside your wench is my priest. He is here to administer rites. Either the rites of marriage or the last rites. The choice is yours. You will wed the wench, here and now, or she will begin her journey to Heaven here and now. My priest will preside over whichever you choose.”
“Damn you, Verdun—if you harm so much as a hair on her head—”
“That is no longer up to me, Grandaise. You are the one who decides whether she lives or dies. To have her … to take her home with you … all you have to do is speak vows of marriage with her.”
The anger surging in Griffin’s blood was hindering his reason. This had become a game of strategy, and now of all times, he needed clear thinking. Taking a deep breath, he struggled to cut himself off from all interfering emotion … even his concern for Julia.
“Speaking those words of binding would keep me from fulfilling the king’s command that I marry your daughter,” Griffin declared. “You are forcing me to go against the king’s command.”
“No, I am giving you a choice,” Verdun said, not bothering to conceal his pleasure at having Griffin’s fate in his hands. “You must choose which means more to you: your king’s approval or your cook’s life.”
“And if I refuse to choose? If I decide instead to take her by force of arms?” Griffin stalled for precious moments in which to consider his course.
“There will be much bloodshed,” Verdun said with icy determination, all trace of humor gone. “And I promise you, she will be the first casualty.” He turned to the men holding Julia in the gate and raised a hand. One of the knights drew his sword and the blade glinted in the sunlight.
The distance made her face indistinct, but Griffin’s memory filled in the green of her eyes, the curve of her cheeks, and the velvet texture of her lips to bring a haunting image to his mind’s eye. He could see in the proud carriage of her shoulders outrage at the way she was being handled. She must glimpse him and freedom and wonder why—did she know what he was being asked to do? Was the intensity of her gaze a plea for rescue or an expression of anger at being used as a pawn in a game of power?
Part of him wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and dispatch Verdun on the spot, but another part of him recoiled from adding yet another chapter of death and destruction to the chronicle of hatred that lay between their houses.
“Time is up, Grandaise. What will it be? Your king or your cook?”
Griffin straightened his spine, fixed his gaze on her, and spoke those fateful words: “Bring on your priest, Verdun. I will speak vows with her.”
As he dismounted and ordered his men to do the same, Julia was ushered out alongside the priest. As soon as she came within reach, Griffin grabbed her by the shoulders and stared at her for a long moment.
“Are you all right?” He fought a massive urge to pull her against him.
“I am whole and well, Your Lordship.” She met his gaze with warm eyes.
A frightening surge of emotion crashed over him at the sight of the relief and trust and longing in those clear green eyes. Impulses for possession and protection seized him with such force that he trembled and had to squeeze her arms to keep it from becoming visible.
“The price of your freedom is a marriage vow. You will give consent when the priest asks,” he ordered. Her eyes widened with confusion, but she nodded, speechless for once. Having her so near caused an easing in his inner turmoil. He turned her by the shoulders so that she faced the priest with him, but she turned back and held out her bound hands.
“Please, milord. I would not be wed in bonds.”
For one brief, heart-stopping moment their gazes met and the air around them crackled with the tension of words unspoken and feelings unacknowledged. Then he cut the ropes binding her wrists and once again turned her to the priest.
He would not remember, later, much of what the priest said or what she had said. But he would recall until his dying day the words he spoke. He pledged to love and cherish and keep her, to live with her through all the conditions and trials of life, and to be faithful to her only. And in that brief and terrifying moment, he wondered if the spell those words cast on his future would be the making or the destruction of him.
As soon as the priest pronounced them husband and wife, Griffin scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to his horse. His men folded in behind them to protect his back.
Shortly, he was riding across the fields with her on his lap, holding her against him with desperate intensity. The battle lines folded in behind them as they rode through, and soon the entire contingent was headed for the forest path they had just traversed.
* * *
“What the hell is going on?” Thibault de Roland snarled, squinting toward the blurs of color on the far western side of the field. He reached over to smack the arm of his grandson, who was mounted on a horse beside his. “What are they doing down there?”
“Parley flags.” Bertrand himself was having to squint to make out what was happening. “They’re talking.”
“What the devil could they have to talk about?” The old man shook a fist toward the reluctant combatants. “Get on with the fighting, damn you!”
Suddenly there was movement from the clump of men at the edge of the field.
“Aha! It begins!” Thibault turned to look around at the men shrouded by the trees and brush at the south end of the valley. Clad in his green and white colors, they were waiting sullenly for orders that took too long to come. “Get ready!”
There was a rustle of interest and attention among the men and Thibault turned to his grandson.
“Remember, both sides will see our colors and think we’ve come to their aid. Once you’re into the fray you must reach Grandaise and Verdun before they realize you’re not engaging the enemy. The lords must go down first and stay down for you to seize the field and—”
“Wait—look there—” Bertrand scowled past his grandfather and pointed.
The old man wrenched himself around in his saddle and glared toward the center of the field, where the Comte de Grandaise was riding right through his own lines. His ally—Crossan—was turning and joining him in his retreat to the forest. It didn’t look like they were running for their lives and Verdun’s forces weren’t pursuing them.
“He’s got the cook!” Bertrand said, pointing to Grandaise.
The old man squinted harder and just made out the pale figure on the horse in front of the imminently recognizable count. He let rip a string of oaths that brought his hired henchmen to fierce attention.
“Verdun—spineless cur—he gave her up. Handed her over without a drop of bloodshed!” He thumped a withered thigh with a bony fist. “Damn him!”
The old man turned his mount and headed back through his mercenaries to the road leading to Roland. Even though the old man was approaching seventy, Bertrand had to ride hard to catch up with him.
“What now, Grandfather?” he said tersely. “All of your planning … all of our work …”
Some of the choler left Old Thibault’s face as he set aside the failure. There had been so cursed many near misses in his lifetime that he was accustomed to recovering quickly and planning anew.
“We’ve been content to stay in the background, working silently, sight unseen,” the old man said, rubbing his shrunken and bristled chin. “The time has come for more direct action. If they won’t provoke each other to bloodshed, then we’ll just have to do it for them.”