She took a step back when he swung the ax up. She lifted her arms to protect her head. He flipped the ax and caught it by the blade, then extended it. “My lady? What did you wish to do with this?”
Slowly she lowered her arms. He stared at her, the handle outstretched, and she reached forward and grasped it. He let it go easily. He dropped the knife at his feet and waited, helpless, should she decide to strike him. And she blushed for her own stupidity. But with one sentence she could banish the hurt from his gaze.
“Give me the gloves,” she said. “We’re going to save Roxford Castle.”
Blood from his wounds trickled into Hugh’s mouth. His sword dragged at his arm like a bag of milled flour, and he used it, he thought, with no more than a miller’s expertise. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, and still he couldn’t get enough air. Worse, his destrier showed the same exhaustion.
His best knights were battling against impossible odds, each man pressed by at least three of the enemy. He had ordered Dewey to abandon them early in the battle, but whether the lad had made it out, he didn’t know. Wharton had stayed close to Hugh, defending his back, until the sheer weight of numbers had separated them. Hugh himself wanted nothing more than to strike the death blow to Pembridge, but Pembridge stayed well behind his bodyguard and fought only with a mocking lift of the visor on his helm. Sure of their victory, Pembridge’s archers tended their fires and prepared to plunge the tar-tipped arrows into the flames.
It was only a matter of time until the keep fell. It was only a matter of time before Hugh and his men lay dead. Only a matter of time until his dreams had died. Dreams of a castle of his own, tended by the wife he loved…
Glancing up, Hugh caught sight of her on the battlements of the keep.
Amazing, when she looked so much like other women, that he knew her from a distance even while in the heat of battle. Yet the woman he knew to be Edlyn met his gaze and waved a long, leafy branch. She showed the same exuberance waving that plant as she had shown waving her white flag, and he wondered at the significance.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sword swing toward him, and he barely blocked it with his shield.
Staring at Edlyn would get him killed. Better he should fight for her.
Lost in the blood lust of battle, he scarcely noticed a sudden stirring among the group of Pembridge’s archers who clustered around the nearest fire. Not until Pembridge started shouting in febrile denunciation did he lift his head long enough to notice them fleeing. They rubbed their eyes, coughed, and blundered toward the gate as if they could tolerate no longer the winds of war.
Curiosity poured a measure of his old strength into his veins, and Hugh dispatched the two knights who fought to capture him and moved toward the fire—a fire abandoned already by the men who should be tending it.
It appeared to be nothing but a smoldering pile of ill-lit logs and still green branches, but as he watched he thought he saw a feather rise on a heat current, then curl into ash and blow away.
Plunging through the melee of bodies and weapons, a knight on horseback crashed into Hugh’s destrier with all his might. With a snarl, Hugh turned to fight—and beneath the open-faced helmet, he saw his old friend, Sir Lyndon.
He recognized betrayal.
“Lyndon.” The name whistled from between his tightly pursed lips.
The rapid journey and the previous battle had fatigued Hugh.
Not so Sir Lyndon. He grinned with fresh eagerness. “Well met, dear lord! Did you not expect to find me lift a sword?”
“Not against me.”
Sir Lyndon’s smile disappeared. “Then you’re a fool. I stayed at your side like a faithful dog for years, waiting for the day you would win your reward and share the bounty with me. Instead, you married that woman and turned your back on your faithful companions.”
Sir Lyndon just didn’t understand, but Hugh wanted to make him. He didn’t want to kill the man who had fought at his side through so many battles. “I told you that should you prove yourself of penitent mind—”
“Prove myself? To you? I had proved myself too many times to allow you to test me again.”
Sir Lyndon’s sudden tension foreshadowed a blow, and Hugh deflected it easily with his shield.
“You’re a knight. Your honor—”
“Honor is for those who can afford it.” Sir Lyndon swung his sword.
Hugh moved to deflect it, but he mistook the object of Sir Lyndon’s ire. The sharp blade sliced through Hugh’s destrier right at the neck, severing the artery. The great beast sank to its knees, and Hugh scrambled to free himself from the stirrups.
“You see? Only noble fools can afford honor”—Sir Lyndon’s voice rang with mockery, and he grasped his mace—“my lord.”
As Hugh watched, the stallion died in a crimson pool, and Sir Lyndon urged his destrier closer. The smell of blood maddened the stallion, and maddened Sir Lyndon, too, it seemed, for both struck out. Hugh clumsily dodged the flying hooves, and the studded iron ball swung with deadly intent. Hugh didn’t want to die with his skull crushed by a mace. He didn’t want to die by being trampled by a horse. Not in the bailey of his own castle. Not defeated by his old friend turned bitter enemy.
Hugh was the better warrior, but Sir Lyndon held all the advantages. Coming at him, Sir Lyndon used his superior position ruthlessly. Guiding the horse with his knees, he shoved Hugh back toward the fire. Hugh was caught between the mace wielded so deftly and the flames that licked at his heels. When the fire was right at his rear and Sir Lyndon was right at his front, he knew only a miracle could save him.
Sir Lyndon lifted his arm to deliver the death blow. Hugh went to his knees, raised his shield, and braced himself—and heard a whistle and a thump close by his calf. He glanced down. An arrow had buried itself deep in the wood. He had no time to worry about the twisted growth of green leaves and twigs that clung to it. Sir Lyndon and his destrier lurched back, and Hugh used the distraction to rise and put distance between them.
Recovering from his surprise, Sir Lyndon taunted him. “Like everything else in this wretched castle, the archers are damn poor.”
Another arrow zipped through the air and landed directly into the fire, casting a spray of sparks into the air.
Alarmed by the flames, Sir Lyndon’s horse pranced out of control.
Another arrow struck squarely into the flames, and Hugh seized his chance. Lifting the burning log, he waved it under the destrier’s nose. The animal screamed and reared. Sir Lyndon dropped his mace and shield and clutched at the saddle. The horse bucked forward before Sir Lyndon could regain his seat, and with a clang of armor, Sir Lyndon hit the ground.
Now the battle was even. Hugh advanced on his former friend, the flaming brand still outthrust. As the arrow ignited, smoke began to rise, the kind of smoke green wood and fresh leaves would cause.
“Get it away.” Sir Lyndon flailed his arms. “For the love of God, Hugh, take it away!” He tried to rub his face with his hands and brought his metal gauntlets back bloody.
Hugh stood astonished. What was wrong with the man?
“Whatever you say, Hugh. I’ll do whatever you want.” He ran backward crazily, like a dog stricken with a foaming mouth. “If you ever loved me, spare me now.”
Hugh hesitated, not understanding the source of Sir Lyndon’s anguish.
Sir Lyndon brayed in agony, his eyes closed as if he dared not open them. “Remember our battles together. Remember and give me another chance.”
“Oh, I’ll spare you!” In disgust, Hugh cast the log into the fire. “But what is wrong with you?” Then he forgot his own question. A riderless horse stood nearby.
Opportunity. He recognized it well. He ran, gathering speed, and leaped into the saddle. The animal bucked; he fought it to a standstill, then turned back to take care of Sir Lyndon.
But Sir Lyndon was nowhere in sight. And another laden arrow whistled through the air and landed in the fire.
Hugh glanced up at t
he keep and saw Burdett adjusting his aim toward the second fire where archers still stood and waited to do their duty. Then, as if Burdett spotted danger, he ducked behind the battlements with his long bow in hand.
Just in time. An arrow dispatched from the area of the second fire struck the place where he’d been standing. Now only Edlyn leaned out, pulling at the vines that twined around the stones, presenting the perfect target.
For the first time in the battle, Pembridge rode out from behind his bodyguard. He shouted at his archer. “Shoot her!”
The archer raised his arrow and narrowed his eyes.
Hugh roared at Edlyn, then raced his destrier toward the archer. He wouldn’t make it in time. He knew he wouldn’t make it in time, but he had to. He had to.
But before he could loose the arrow, the enemy archer fell in a drift of smoke.
Burdett leaped out of hiding and dragged Edlyn down.
Deprived of his prey, Pembridge galloped toward the fire and seized a bow, aiming it right at Hugh. From so close a distance, the arrow would pierce the chain-mail armor that protected him. Hugh braced for the impact, but before Pembridge could strike, a swirl of wind encircled Pembridge with smoke.
He shrieked as if the devil had him by the throat. Dropping the bow, he directed his mount toward the gatehouse.
What mischief was this? Hugh wondered. Then a random gust spread the noxious fumes over the men who fought and over to him.
Without any instruction from Hugh, his untried destrier pranced backward. “By our lady!” Hugh sawed at the reins as the smoke crept into his helmet. His chest burned. His skin stung. His eyes itched. He wanted to rub the pain away, but his chain-mail gloves made it impossible. He tried to get away, but it was too late. The poison clung to his skin and filled his lungs. If any able warrior were to attack now, Hugh would be lost.
But there were no able warriors. Those wretched arrows had fed agony into all three fires, and the smoke spread it throughout the bailey. Men were running, yelling, crying like newborn babes. Hugh guided his horse through the low, narrow gatehouse entry and out into the scorched outer bailey. Gratefully, he took a breath, then another and another. “Air.” He coughed and squinted, trying to see through eyes raw and running with tears. “Fresh air.”
Then the tears cleared his vision, and he saw him—Pembridge, alone, with only his weapons and his wit to defend him.
That wouldn’t be nearly enough.
Pembridge saw Hugh, too, through eyes just as swollen, and he grinned with mad delight.
“A resourceful trick, my lord of nothing,” he called. “My Edlyn has ever been resourceful.” He gestured with his arm like a wizard conjuring his demons. “But not as resourceful as me.” On his summoning, fresh knights rode through the outer gatehouse and filled the bailey.
Hugh stared.
Richard and his gang of thieves returned his stare, and at the very back of the pack was that skinny old ferryman, Almund, glaring at them all.
“You see,” Pembridge said, “when you want allies to do evil, you must appeal to the lowest of creatures, offer them plunder, and they will do your will.”
Something inside Hugh, some fragment of faith and honor, broke with a snap. He didn’t want Richard to be the Judas. He wanted to believe the man when he insinuated he would forsake his thieving for a chance to start anew. He thought—dear God, he really thought—Richard had given Edlyn her freedom because he saw the beauty and innocence in her and wanted to nurture it.
And now here he was, prepared to strip Hugh’s castle and rape Edlyn until she died.
Roaring like a wounded bull, he lifted his sword. “Nay!”
Richard lifted his sword, too, and in a clear voice he called, “Nay, indeed. We’ve come to protect Lady Edlyn and all she claims as hers—and you, Lord Hugh, are hers.”
Hugh halted his charge before it began. Hope struggled into being. With Richard’s men on their side, there was a chance they could defeat Pembridge.
From the look on Pembridge’s face, he knew it.
“Will you fight?” Hugh called. “Or will you run?”
Pembridge swung savagely on Hugh. “I’ll fight, and if I die, I’ll see you in hell beside me.”
22
“He almost did it, master.”
Hugh looked up from his mat by the fire in the solar. Wharton stood above him, still ashen and shaking. “Who almost did what?”
“Pembridge almost took you to hell with him.”
“He was a good fighter.” Hugh shrugged, testing the binding on his broken collarbone. “But he wasn’t fighting for what he loved.”
“And you were?” Edlyn’s soft voice sounded on the other side of the mat, and Hugh turned his head to gaze on his wife.
She had the soft, gentle bearing of an angel who brought surcease to the suffering and health to the ill—a bearing at odds with the woman he knew her to be. “That ill-begotten knave was right about one thing,” he muttered. “You are a resourceful woman.”
No one had to tell him that it had been Edlyn who had thought to shoot stems and leaves of blister vine into the fires to drive the archers away. Her strategem had totally disrupted the battle, and with the addition of Richard’s men on Hugh’s side, Pembridge’s forces had been defeated.
It had taken an hour before the fires had burned away the blister vine’s dreaded miasma and the winds had cleared the air enough for Hugh to reenter his own castle. He had used the time to thank Almund and Dewey and Wharton, and all of his men and even Richard’s thieves. But the delay had seriously dampened his victory celebration, especially when, on hearing of the success of Edlyn’s herbal warfare, Richard had laughed so hard he collapsed unconscious on the ground.
Further investigation had proved the man was suffering from broken ribs administered by a well-swung mace, but his chortle still rang in Hugh’s ears.
Hugh’s grimace didn’t go unnoticed. “Why won’t you let me move you into our bed?” Edlyn asked, not for the first time. “It’s huge. There’s more than enough room for you and Richard, and it would be so much more convenient for me to care for you both.”
“I am not sleeping with that man,” Hugh declared.
“Amen.” Richard’s voice, while determined, was weak. He lay propped up on the pillows, almost as white as the linen under his head, but not even pain could undermine his insolence. “I can sleep on a mat instead. There’s no need for me to deprive the master of the castle of his bed.”
That sarcasm made Hugh want to smack his former enemy and new ally.
But he didn’t have to. Edlyn flattened Richard’s pretensions of health. “Nay, you can’t,” she said. “I don’t like the look of that chest wound, and you’re not moving until I say so.”
Only Richard wouldn’t stay flattened. He merely sounded amused. “She is a tyrant, isn’t she, Hugh? When I marry, I’ll wed an obedient woman.”
Hugh remembered similar fantasies of his own. “In my experience, you get what God gives you.”
If a voice could be described as strutting, Richard’s could be now. “My bliss will be the envy of all my new neighbors.”
Hugh grunted. “You assume a lot on the basis of one battle.”
But Richard assumed correctly, damn his eyes. Hugh would ask Prince Edward to give Richard his castle. Then Richard would have to gain the acceptance he sought among the nobility, and it would be no easy thing to get from barons and earls who had been held at sword point and stripped of their possessions by that grinning shallow-pate in the bed.
More uncomfortable than knowing he would do his best for Richard was having Edlyn know it, too. She thought Richard was a good man given to kind deeds, and Hugh couldn’t bring himself to disillusion her—even when he thought she was manipulating him. Now she smiled at him in a manner that reminded him most restively of the empty days since their last mating and mocked the empty nights until they were alone once more. Sinking down on her knees beside him, she arranged the pillows under his head.
&nb
sp; He was baffled by her charm and couldn’t help smiling back. “So, wife, how did you like your first taste of battle?”
“It was as ugly and as dreadful as I imagined.” Still she smiled, her expression belying her words. “And if I’d had a weapon, I’d have fought those mercenaries with my own hands.”
Hugh’s own smile faded at the terror that thought brought him. “Why?”
“When I saw what Pembridge did to the outer bailey and knew what he planned for the inner bailey, the keep, my sons, and my people—by our lady, I still want to kill him.” She clenched trembling hands in her lap. “And he’s dead.”
How odd to feel a sense of kinship with his wife because she wanted to kill someone.
Oh, he knew she’d been swept away with the fury of battle. She didn’t really want to do violence, but now she understood, a little, the satisfaction that drove him when he fought well and won against the forces that would rend the nation.
“Th’ master took care o’ killing Pembridge,” Wharton said matter-of-factly.
“I did do that duty and would gladly do it again. ’Twill take months of hard work to undo the damage he caused to Roxford Castle.”
“He was ever like that.” Edlyn reminisced with an ease that reassured Hugh that she had indeed never wanted Pembridge. “He carried a blight with him, and in every place he walked happiness died.”
Her words reminded Hugh of an old friendship, equally touched by blight, and he stirred uncomfortably. “Has anyone seen Sir Lyndon since the battle?”
Wharton shook his head sadly. “Sir Lyndon was killed, master. We found his body among th’ stacks o’ other traitorous stiffs when th’ priest was giving his blessing.”
“Don’t talk so disrespectfully,” Hugh chided sharply. “He was a good man.”