Warriors Of Legend (18 page)

Never again would someone hold that kind of power over him. Never again would he trust anyone with his life or with his heart.

Micah heard hoof–beats and turned, seeing a second group of Henry’s men galloping toward him. He waved them down as he lurched away from his uncle. Let King Henry deal with the man, Micah could not.

Sir John Warin, Micah’s best friend and second in command, reached him and dismounted. “God’s bones, man. What have you done to yourself?”

“It’s nothing,” Micah said through clenched teeth. The world started spinning again. He was dimly aware of John looping his arm over his shoulder.

John helped him sit. “Stay still, my friend. We’ll get you a healer.” He pressed his hand against the wound.

Micah bit back a curse, his vision turning dark. Another knight handed him a wineskin.

“I told you not to trust him,” John said tightly.

“I had to try.” But Micah could not speak of the grief in his heart.

John sighed. “I know.”

Micah watched two other soldiers haul Amaury up and bind his hands. “What do you think Henry will do to him?”

“Jail him and confiscate his lands.”

Micah nodded. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to clear the Montfort name of treachery. Good God, what happened to him? He was a completely different man.”

“Worry about that later.”

“Aye,” Micah said, forcing down his sorrow. “Where’s that infernal healer?” He tried to catch his breath but his vision spun away into blackness.

Chapter One

Appleby Castle

Westmorland Barony, England

Two Years Later

The smell of smoke and burnt flesh mingled with the scent of death. Screams of the dying ended abruptly as soldiers ran through Appleby’s bailey, dispatching the fatally wounded.

Sir Micah de Montfort swallowed against the vile taste in his mouth as he strode through the bailey. After the past two years, he should be accustomed to it. He had become Henry’s knight errant, bringing disputed castles under control of the throne. At five and twenty, Micah should have his own lands with a wife and children. But his inheritance was still held by the crown due to the crimes of his uncle.

Perhaps this time Henry will keep his promise,
he thought bitterly but he knew it was doubtful. He ascended the narrow stairs into the keep.

Henry had dangled carrots many times and like a foolish ass, Micah went after them. But Appleby Castle seemed much more promising than the others. This time, the barony was not being disputed by petty nobles. A Scottish clan had taken the castle and slaughtered the Liulfs, the English family which had held Appleby.

The northern district of Cumbria had been disputed by the English and the Scots for so long that the boarder was blurred beyond recognition. The Scottish clan, MacLeary, laid claim to Appleby and the barony of Westmorland by force of arms. Henry ordered Micah to oust the Scots and Micah had obeyed with his usual competence and skill.

He strode purposefully through the keep, dimly lit by only a few guttering torches. Micah’s mail hauberk slapped against his mail hosen, the metallic rustle echoing off the thick walls. His hard–soled boots thudded against the stones and his spurs clinked softly. Micah’s white tunic was stained red with blood but none of it his. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck under his mail coif. His right hand clutched the hilt of his sword, the strong muscles in his arms and chest weary from wielding it for so long. In his left, he carried his large kite shield; the red painted wood, battered and cracked.

Micah entered the great hall. His men worked valiantly to extinguish the small fires that still burned. Tables and chairs were overturned. Bodies and blood covered the floor and the stench of death fouled the air. Micah’s gaze fell on three knights talking earnestly in the midst of the hall.

“Micah,” Sir John Warin said, his expression worried. “We have not found Laird MacLeary. We think he and his family may have escaped and fled back to Scotland.”

“We cannot afford the men to search for him. Let him run home like a whipped cur to lick his wounds,” Micah said and strode past the three knights to the small dais in front of the huge hearth. A large, high backed chair was the only piece of furniture not broken or overturned. A MacLeary plaid draped over it. Micah sheathed his sword, tore the plaid from the chair, and tossed it into a nearby fire. Bracing his shield against the chair, he sat and locked John in his gaze.

“Status,” he muttered, trying to adjust his aching body in the hard chair.

“The keep is secured and most of the Scots are either dead or dying. We will not have many prisoners to send to King Henry.”

Micah’s squire, William, entered the hall and slid to his knees, stopping the conversation.

“My lord,” the squire gasped, out of breath. “I pray pardon but there is something you must see.”

“What is it?” John snapped.

“We have made a discovery worthy of my lord’s attention.”

Micah frowned and stood, cutting off John’s sharp retort. “I would see this discovery.”

“This way, Sir.” The boy scrambled to his feet and Micah and John hurried after him.

They descended into the bowels of the keep. The torches in the wall stanchions did little to shove the darkness back. The reek of death was compounded by the stench of rotting excrement.

“Good God, have mercy,” John whispered, his jaw clenched.

Micah and John followed the boy to where two soldiers stood before a closed door. One soldier had a bloody scratch on his face. The men bowed and stepped aside.

As Micah opened the door, he heard an ear–piercing scream stripped of humanity. A form hurtled at him and he reacted instantly. His hand latched around a slender throat and held the attacker at arm’s length.

Micah blinked at the woman the torch light revealed.

She barely reached his shoulder, her dark hair was a wild fray of blood, dirt, and matted tangles. Her face, although soiled and bruised, was elegant with high cheek bones and delicate jaw. His gaze fell to her eyes and his heart nearly froze. Large and gray, they flashed wild with fury and terror. Her blood red lips, split and puffy, curled into a snarl.

She fought to drag in a breath. Micah loosened his hold only slightly. Her flesh was soft under his hand. His eyes traveled down her lithe body. Under the filthy rags of the chemise, he saw graceful curves, blurred slightly by starvation. The woman struggled again, trying to pry him from her throat.

“Well, now,” Micah said softly. “What do we have here?”

She spat on him.

“A hellion,” John said, stepping up behind him.

“Aye,” Micah replied, unable to tear his gaze from the raging captive.

With a growl, the woman wrenched herself free. Micah grabbed her shoulders before she could attack him again. Her eyes widened and she gasped in pain, collapsing at his feet unconscious.

“God’s bones,” Micah muttered and crouched next to her. Her ragged chemise lay in tatters. A dark line across the white flesh of her back caught his eye. Micah frowned and turned the crumpled form. Horror gripped him as he examined the bloody stripes on her back.

Rage burned in his belly and he clenched his fists. Why would anyone do this to a person, especially a woman? Good God, didn’t MacLeary have a soul? Too many questions flooded through his mind. Micah had heard numerous tales of the Scottish laird’s brutality but this…this was beastly. He suddenly abhorred the man with a violence that startled him.

Who is she?
Why had she been so severely persecuted? Micah gazed down at her and his honor pricked deep within him. He swore a silent oath – this would not happen again.

He spotted her bloody wrists, marks of being manacled for too long. “Sweet Jesu,” Micah whispered. Her name no longer mattered, he could not abide her suffering another moment. He carefully picked her up. “John, find a room that can house her and call for a healer. She shall be a prisoner no longer.”

“Aye,” John said and hurried away.

***

Micah surveyed his room and finally allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The solar had been cleared of MacLeary’s belongings and Micah’s furniture now graced it. He opened a tiny chest and withdrew his most prized possession – a teardrop sapphire with a gold filigree that had been his mother’s. She had died two years after his father, leaving his father’s brother, Amaury, Micah’s sole guardian. The necklace remained the only artifact of the Montfort family in Micah’s possession. The rest had been confiscated when his uncle blackened their name. He returned the sapphire to the chest and buried it in a drawer.

Gratefully, Micah removed his armor. His servants had prepared a steaming bath before the great hearth. He sank into it, washing a month of blood, dirt, and sweat from his skin. A knock sounded on his door and he muttered a curse. “Who is it?”

“John.”

“Enter.”

John opened the door, and realizing the state of his lord, quickly shut it behind him. “My apologies, I did not mean to disturb you.”

Micah looked up at his friend. Grime dulled his short, sandy blond hair and a day’s growth of beard shadowed his face. “You look as if you need the same.”

John managed a grim smile, his hazel eyes glazed with weariness. “Aye.” He moved to the table and poured himself a glass of wine. “I will see to it in a bit.” He took a long drink and set the cup down, his expression troubled. “Micah, do you think Henry will forget his promise to you as he has done so many times before?”

Micah winced. “I don’t know, John. If there is a way around his word, he will find it.”

“Other barons are becoming nervous with his control over you. They fear if he can do it to you, he can do it to them.”

Micah curled his lip and motioned for John to pour him a cup of wine. “Henry knows I cannot tolerate this wandering existence as his enforcer. He can’t keep me landless forever.”

“Aye,” John replied handing him the cup. “This whole thing pricks my ire. You supported him during the rebellion, almost getting killed in the process. Why are you the one being punished?”

“He will not easily loosen his grip on a knight so firmly under control. He knows he has me by the scruff as long as he holds my birthright and the Montfort treachery over me.”

John snorted softly. “Perhaps with the capture of this keep, all of that will change. With Henry being brother–in–law to King David of the Scots, he knows this could lead to bad blood. Henry needs this ended quietly or else risk war with Scotland.”

“And I am perfect for that duty,” Micah said bitterly, and took a long drink of his wine. He studied John thoughtfully. “All I can do is hope for the best.”

John grimaced. “Don’t hoped too powerfully, Micah,” he said and began to pace.

Micah stiffened. “You’re worrying me, John.”

His friend bowed his head. “At least you aren’t the type to kill the messenger,” he muttered.

“What is it?”

“The girl we found in the dungeon…the village healer calls her Kate…,” he hesitated a long moment. “She is Katherine Liulf, the youngest daughter, and has barely seen her twentieth year.”

Micah stared at John, the blood draining from his face. White hot fury surged through him. He bolted from the tub and John tossed him a bath sheet. How dare MacLeary persecute a noble woman?

But Micah paused, a sudden fear obliterating his anger. King Henry, believing the Liulfs slain to the last, had ordered Micah to retake Appleby Castle, promising he would stand as baron. Now an heir of Appleby survived and had been abused by MacLeary. A dozen horrors scrambled through Micah’s mind but he tripped over the worst.

“Dear God,” he whispered. “What if the girl carries MacLeary’s seed? Her inheritance will put the castle and the Westmorland Barony into Scottish hands.”

John paled. “Aye,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that but you are right.”

“Appleby stands as a vital defense of the route south into England,” Micah snapped, hauling on his braes. “We cannot simply hand over such a strategic location. Will the healer know if the girl is breeding?”

John paused, frowning. “I do not know. I can ask her.”

Micah pulled on his boots. Ignoring his tunic, he opened the door. “I will ask her.”

John rushed after him. Micah’s long strides swallowed the distance to the girl’s room.

“Micah, wait,” John said, stopping Micah’s hand on the door. “If the girl carries MacLeary’s child, the crown and church will not recognize a bastard heir conceived by rape.”

“But the Scots will,” Micah replied, leveling John in his gaze. “All they need is a less than honest priest to swear the girl was betrothed to a MacLeary and the Scottish church will uphold the claim. The small battles over this castle will turn into outright war. Appleby has been torn by enough strife. I will do everything in my power to keep that from happening.”

Micah flung open the door and froze. The woman who slept on the bed looked nothing like the raving spitfire who had attacked him. Glorious amber hair, cleaned of the filth and blood, spilled around her shoulders and over her pillow like molten copper. Her face was deathly pale; thick, dark lashes brushed her cheeks in sleep. Micah wished she would awaken just so he could convince himself that her eyes were as he remembered. She lay on her side, facing the door, her arms curled under her head. Micah’s gaze swept over her bare shoulder, her beauty blocked by the blankets. A strange sensation burned in his chest and he realized he held his breath. Slowly, he expelled it.

“The lord wishes to view his prize?” The voice from the corner startled him.

Micah reluctantly looked away. The healer stepped forward, leaning heavily on a cane. Gray streaked her dark brown hair, and deep lines wrinkled her face. As she limped forward, he realized that one leg was shorter than the other.

Micah tightened his jaw and jerked his head toward the door. “A word with you.”

“Speak your mind. I daresay she wouldn’t hear Gabriel’s Horn right now.”

“Does she breed?”

The healer laughed softly. “What shallow concerns young men have.”

Micah stepped forward bringing the full intimidation of his size and strength to bear. “Answer my question.”