Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  Sir Hollis staggered into the tower, weaving his way through the makeshift barricade. Soot blackened his handsome face, and the right side of his mustache was smoldering.

  “Where the hell is she? Why isn’t she with you?” Bannor demanded, handing him a goblet of water.

  Hollis snatched the cup from his hand and drained it dry. “She is nowhere to be found,” he rasped. “I have searched everywhere. Even among” —a violent shudder wracked him —“them.”

  Bannor poured him a second goblet of water, taking care this time to point to his mustache before he handed it over.

  “Oh!” Hollis exclaimed, dousing the side of his face.

  “Could she have run away?” Bannor’s heart surged with a panic that had naught to do with his offspring’s tyranny. “Is that why the children are celebrating?”

  Hollis shook his head. “She’s been spotted throughout the castle all the day long. But every time I send a servant to fetch her, she vanishes again. ‘Tis most vexing.”

  Bannor returned to the window. He gazed down at the carnage with growing despair. “You saw how she handled Desmond. I must seek her counsel. I’m convinced she’s the only one who can help me put an end to this wretched mischief.”

  At that precise moment, an arrow came sailing through the window of the tower. It thudded to a halt in the wooden shutter, the feathers adorning its haft tickling Bannor’s nose.

  “We’re under attack!” Hollis shouted, dropping to all fours and scrambling toward the door. “Shall I alert the guard?”

  “Not. . . quite . . . yet,” Bannor replied, wrenching away the scrap of parchment impaled by the quivering shaft.

  While he studied the missive, Hollis climbed sheepishly to his feet. “Shouldn’t you come away from the window, my lord?” When Bannor ignored his timid query, he stood on tiptoe and craned his neck, but still couldn’t see over Bannor’s shoulder. “What is it?”

  “A list of demands.”

  “Demands? Oh, dear God, your enemies have seized Lady Willow, haven’t they? They must be holding her hostage. Whatever do they want? Gold? Jewels? Weapons? The castle itself?”

  Bannor handed the parchment to him, his face strangely devoid of expression. While Hollis held it up to the torchlight, Bannor turned back to the window, his narrowed gaze searching the night.

  “These demands are so much gibberish.” Hollis frowned as he scanned the crumpled paper. “Honeyed pomegranates and fig pudding for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Baths no more than once a month. Bedtime no earlier than midnight. Why, they’re the ravings of a lunatic. Or . . .” He lifted his head, comprehension slowly dawning. “... a child.”

  Bannor paid him no heed. He seemed to have found what he was looking for. An enigmatic half-smile curved his lips.

  “If this is just another of the children’s pranks, albeit a dangerous one, then I don’t understand this last demand,” Hollis said. “The one that calls for your unconditional surrender.”

  “Ah, but you soon will,” Bannor said, drawing him toward the window.

  Hollis squinted down into the courtyard, struggling to see through the smoke and shadows. At first he believed, as Bannor must have, that the slender figure silhouetted against the writhing flames was Desmond. Only when the flames shot higher could he make out the gentle swells filling out her breeches and tunic and the inky cap of curls that clung to her head. Lady Willow gazed boldly up at the window, making no attempt to hide the bow in her hand or the challenging jut of her jaw.

  Hollis shook his head, torn between shock and amusement. “You’d best devise a new battle plan, my lord. For it appears your lady has decided to join the game.”

  Bannor flexed his powerful hands on the window-sill. “This is no game, my friend.” He swung around, his eyes gleaming with a raw excitement Hollis hadn’t seen since King Edward signed the treaty with the French. “This I understand. This is war.”

  Twelve

  On day two of the siege, Bannor paced the length of the bailey, surveying the orderly ranks of his garrison. The men-at-arms Sir Hollis had assembled for the briefing gazed straight ahead, the stern set of their jaws assuring him that they understood the serious nature of his commands. Bannor’s pawns had betrayed him to the black queen, leaving him no choice but to send his knights into battle.

  “Make no mistake, men,” he said, sweeping a grave look across them. “This castle is under attack by an enemy far more cunning and ruthless than any we’ve faced before. You cannot afford to underestimate them. They are utterly without honor or mercy.”

  The men who had been sent to scale the south tower the day before only to have their ladders shoved away from the wall by a golden-haired imp wielding a forked stick nodded knowingly. They were still nursing their aching backsides and bruised pride.

  “I would never ask you to commit yourself to such a dangerous campaign if I didn’t feel that this reign of terror must be brought to a swift and conclusive end.”

  The gatehouse guards who had had the castle mangonel stolen from beneath their very noses only to have it used to catapult them with fresh cow dung shuddered their agreement. Since then, their comrades had spent most of their time either sidling away from them or breathing through their mouths.

  “We must learn to think like them. To exploit their every weakness. We must be willing to seek out their soft underbellies and...” Bannor trailed off, imagining just how soft Willow’s underbelly would be beneath his hand. When he continued, a hoarse note had deepened his voice. “We must be willing to use every weapon at our disposal to probe their deepest, darkest, most secret...” He lapsed into silence again, picturing just where his hand might wander after he’d stroked the velvety softness of Willow’s underbelly.

  Hollis cleared his throat, snapping him back to attention.

  The man who had been constable of Bannor’s garrison for over eleven years stepped forward. “Am I to understand, my lord, that the chief objective of our campaign is to subdue the pawns?”

  “I should say not, Sir Darrin,” Bannor replied. “Your chief objective is to capture their queen.”

  The men exchanged uncertain glances.

  Sir Damn’s grizzled brow furrowed with puzzlement. “And should we succeed?”

  Their eyes followed Bannor’s as he tipped back his head and gazed up at the south tower. The red-and-gold standard that had rippled boldly over the walls of Elsinore since Bannor had wrested the castle from his half-brother over thirteen years ago now hung upside down. Instead of rearing into the air, the red stag pawed at the ground, his mighty heart skewered by the airy branch of a willow.

  Bannor’s lips curved in a smile so ruthlessly tender it had been known to make even his most worthy and courageous foe beg for the chance to surrender. “Bring her to me.”

  ———

  Willow withdrew into the shadows of the tower, shivering despite the sunbeams slanting through the window. She almost wished it had a wooden shutter to slam. The glazed glass seemed far too fragile to shield her from the primal heat of Bannor’s gaze.

  Although she could not hear the orders he was giving to the soldiers gathered in the bailey, she could easily deduce their nature. Bannor’s determination had been written in his stance as surely as his motto was emblazoned on the cupboard beneath the rearing stag— To conquer or die. She lifted her chin. If he could not conquer her with his indifference, he certainly wasn’t going to conquer her with his enmity.

  She swung around, hands on hips, to survey her own ranks. Unlike Bannor’s men, they did not stand in orderly rows, gazing straight ahead with their shoulders thrown back. Instead, they scampered about the chamber, each engrossed in the task Willow had set before them. Their concentration was frequently broken by a fit of giggles or a shoving match when they disagreed over how to proceed. It was not yet noontime, and Willow had already had to break up two fistfightsand dry a flood of petulant tears. The latter had belonged to Beatrix, who resented being asked to turn her dainty hands to the task of wh
ittling table legs into arrows.

  Willow shot a wry glance heavenward. Those genteel ladies, Mary and Margaret, would no doubt rise wailing from their crypts if they could see what Willow and the children had done to their elegant bedchamber.

  Kell and Edward had torn the palls of purple silk from the walls and were using them to fashion bold sashes they could all wear over their tunics. The fine floor of Norwegian fir now sported numerous scars, gouged when Ennis and Hammish had dragged all the nonessential furniture from the chamber and shoved it down the stairs, creating an impromptu barricade. Mary and Mary Margaret had stripped the hangings from the bed and were slicing them into bandages. Although no one had suffered anything more life-threatening than a splinter or a skinned knee while scampering out of the reach of Bannor’s men, Willow believed in being prepared.

  The youngest children were tearing feathers from the mattress in great handfuls, hoping to use them in some diabolical plot of Desmond’s involving a vat of pitch and a garrison of sleeping soldiers. The children required no bed. They preferred to sleep wrapped in blankets on the floor just like the soldiers they were pretending to be.

  Last night, Willow had joined them there. There was something oddly comforting about being surrounded by their snug little bodies. As she had lain in the dark, listening to their various snores, snorts, and snuffles, she had realized that she was having something she hadn’t been allowed to have in a very long time—fun.

  Kell and Edward suddenly broke into a noisy tug-of-war match over one of the sashes. Willow was moving to separate them when Desmond came tumbling out of the cupboard.

  She had been shocked to discover that her very own cupboard was a door to one of the secret passages Desmond had described that fateful evening on the gallows. The passages and peepholes scattered throughout the castle made it possible for them to come and go without being detected. Bannor might be a master of strategy, but he’d yet to figure out how Willow and the children were privy to his battle plans practically before he made them.

  Willow’s mouth curved in a tight little smile. Perhaps if he had spent more time at home with his children and less time indulging his appetites for war and women, he might be familiar with the passages his children had been traversing since they were toddlers.

  Desmond’s face had lost its pinched, sullen look. The crow on his shoulder let out a triumphant caw as he swept them an exaggerated bow. “Captain of the guard reporting for duty.”

  Ten-year-old Mary stopped shredding the bed hangings long enough to shoot him a resentful look. “I don’t see why you always get to be captain of the guard.”

  “Because I’m the oldest.”

  “No, you’re not. I am.” Beatrix scrambled to her feet, her nose still red from her fit of tears. She was the exact same age as Desmond, but she towered over him like an Amazon princess.

  He tried to sneer up his nose at her, but couldn’t seem to coax his gaze into traveling any higher than her heaving breasts. A flush crept into his freckled cheeks. “You can’t be captain of the guard. You’re naught but a maidservant. And a girl.”

  Willow cleared her throat pointedly.

  Desmond jerked his gaze away from Beatrix’s chest and flushed deeper. “Beg pardon, Willow. But you’re not a girl. You’re our commander.” His bony chest swelled. “And I’ve come to bring you tidings of great import.”

  Beatrix rolled her eyes while the children crowded around, eager to hear his news.

  “Proceed,” Willow commanded, waving a regal hand.

  Desmond threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, as if he feared one of his father’s spies might come bounding out of the cupboard. “I was hiding in the passageway behind the hearth in the kitchen just waiting for a chance to snatch a hare from the spit when I heard one of the maidservants say that Fath—” his face hardened,”—the enemy had just given the order that all the food stores were to be removed to the spice cellar, where they’re to be kept under lock and key.” Desmond paused for dramatic effect. “He plans to starve us out.”

  The children gasped as one, but it was Hammish’s piteous whimper that cut straight to Willow’s heart. The shy lad could bear any physical blow without wincing, but the prospect of having his food cut off made his plump cheeks go pale with dread.

  Willow wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, stirred by a rush of fierce protectiveness. Gerta or Harold would have squirmed out of her embrace, but Hammish only snuggled nearer. What manner of monster would starve his own children? she thought bitterly. It seemed her husband was a prince after all. A prince of darkness.

  “Don’t you fret, sweeting,” she assured Hammish, ruffling his cinnamon-colored hair. “We’ll find something for you to eat. I swear it.”

  The boy’s hopeful gaze strayed to the crow on Desmond’s shoulder.

  Desmond stroked the bird’s sleek feathers and glared back at his brother. “We might just have to eat you. At least there’d be plenty to go around.”

  Before Willow could chastise him, Edward piped up. “We won’t have to eat none of us. I’ll just wait ‘til the pigeons come to roost on the battlements for the night. As soon as they fall asleep, I’ll sneak up behind ‘em and bash ‘em over the head with a club.” Edward mimed the entire hunt. Kell staggered beneath the blow of the invisible club, then collapsed onto his back, his fingers curled into rigid talons.

  Beatrix groaned. “I’m not eating a filthy pigeon. My constitution is far too delicate.”

  “You didn’t look so delicate yesterday when you were wolfing down that lark pasty I brought you,” Desmond reminded her, earning a scornful look.

  Willow struggled to hide her own grimace of distaste. “ Tis a fine idea, Ed. We can roast the pigeons right here on the hearth. Margery and Colm can turn the spit.”

  The four-year-old twins beamed, delighted to be included in the adventure.

  The devilish mischief melted from Desmond’s face, leaving it curiously sober. “There’s more you should know, Willow.”

  The children ceased their fidgeting and fell into a grave hush. A claw of foreboding tickled Willow’s nape. “Go on.”

  “My father told his men that if they should succeed in routing us, there’s only one thing he wants.”

  “And that would be?”

  “You.”

  The single word shivered Willow to the core. The children exchanged wide-eyed glances, their eyes glassy with dread.

  “We’ve heard tales about what Papa does with the prisoners he captures,” Mary whispered.

  “Aye, we have,” Ennis said somberly. “Some say he cuts off their heads, strings them on a rope, and hangs them from his saddle.”

  “Others say he pitches them into a deep, dark hole and covers them over with dirt,” added Kell. “While they’re still alive.”

  “I heard he boils ‘em in a big pot,” Edward offered cheerfully, “then sucks the marrow from their bones.” He lifted an invisible bone to his lips and made smacking noises.

  Mary Margaret rushed over and buried her face in the leg of Willow’s breeches. “Oh, Willow,” she wailed, “what if Papa eats you all up?”

  Willow stroked Mary Margaret’s ringlets, as much to hide the trembling of her own hand as to comfort the child. She never wanted the little girl to learn that there were far more diabolical punishments a man could visit upon a woman.

  “If he takes you hostage,” Beatrix declared, striking a noble pose that didn’t quite hide the hungry dart of her tongue over her ripe, pink lips, “I shall offer myself in your place.”

  Desmond snorted. “He’ll be paying us to take you back.”

  Before Beatrix could box the boy’s ears, Willow said, “ ‘Tis a grand gesture, Bea, but that won’t be necessary. Lord Bannor would have to capture me first. And I have no intention of letting him do that.” She managed a bold smile. “ ‘Twill be only a matter of time before your wicked papa is forced to surrender.”

  “Once he does,” Desmond asked eagerly, “what will you do with
him?”

  It wasn’t until Willow’s gaze had traveled the expectant circle of their bloodthirsty little faces that she realized she hadn’t the faintest idea.

  ———

  On day four of the siege, Willow and Desmond huddled in the secret passageway tucked into the wall of the north tower. For both of them to see through the narrow peephole bored in the stone, they had to crouch with their faces pressed cheek to cheek.

  Despite the cozy grace of the chamber Bannor had prepared for her, it appeared that he had been living in spartan squalor since returning to Elsinore. The walls of his tower were bare stone, with no trace of the richly hued tapestries scattered throughout the rest of the castle. Crude shutters veiled the windows, their wooden teeth chattering beneath each bullying gust of the wind. The table and chairs were littered with crumpled sheaves of parchment and a veritable arsenal of weapons—the rusty head of an ancient battle-ax, a massive crossbow it should have taken two men to handle, maces, shields, and at least half a dozen broadswords, their deadly blades polished to a gleaming sheen.

  Bannor didn’t even allow himself the luxury of a bed, but instead chose to sleep on a straw-stuffed mattress beneath one of the windows. He ought to at least drag it in front of the fire, Willow thought irritably, now that the nights had turned so bitter cold. Of course, half the time he didn’t even bother to light a fire, but slept huddled beneath a thin blanket. ‘Twas almost as if he equated comforts with weakness and sought to deny himself even the most primitive of them.

  “Here he comes,” Desmond hissed, jabbing an elbow into her side as the tower door swung open.

  Willow rubbed her ribs. “Let’s pray Sir Hollis is with him so we can learn what they’ve got planned for the morrow.”

  Willow could not help wondering how she would feel if Bannor drew a woman into that candlelit tower behind him. One of the women from the village, perhaps, who had already welcomed him into her bed and borne his child. But the door drifted shut to reveal he was alone.