“It does not matter,” he growled. “Is it true?”
Joselyn opened her mouth. But she could not speak and the tears came. “Let me go.”
He shook her, hard. “Not until you tell me the truth,” he seethed. “The rape by the soldier in Carlisle was not the first time a man had touched you, was it?” his voice was a growl. “There had been other times before that one, weren’t there? Weren’t there?”
She broke down, weeping. Before Stephen could force her to reply, old Mereld rushed forward with the fire poker in her hand. She slapped at Stephen’s armored arm, trying to force the man to release Joselyn. When he didn’t budge, she whacked him again.
“’Tis not her fault!” the old woman smacked his shoulder. “She had no choice! Her father forced her to!”
Stephen looked at the old woman, unable to speak for the revelations that were coming forth. Tilda rushed up, hovering nervously, also prepared to defend Joselyn against her enraged husband. Two old women against a massive knight was hardly a fight but they were prepared to defend their young lady to the death. There were truths to be known that, being servants, should not have come from their lips. But it was clear that Joselyn’s life was at stake and they could remain silent no longer. The young woman had been through enough and now, when she had finally found happiness, old horrors were intent to ruin it.
“Alexander Seton knew her value at a young age,” Tilda was almost weeping as she spoke. “He had a gambling sickness and when he could not pay his debts, he would use Jo-Jo as security. Some men would use her to work off the debt with labor while others would simply keep her as a guest for a time. But there were a few who… they would….”
By this time, Stephen had let Joselyn go. He faced the old women with more emotion than he had ever displayed in life. It was unrestrained, unbridled and spilling out all over the place.
“What would they do?” he demanded hoarsely.
Tilda twisted her hands anxiously. “She was young and beautiful, m’lord,” the woman’s tears broke through. “She developed a womanly body at a young age. They would take her to sport.”
Because Tilda was crying, Mereld began to weep also. “She had no choice,” the old woman wept. “Jo-Jo would run away and her mother would hide her, but Alexander would always find her and return her to the men to whom he owed the debts. Sometimes he would beat her for her insolence. It was finally Lady Julia who sent Jo-Jo to Jedburgh so she could be free of her father. Then she married off Lady Margaret by the time she was nine years of age so her father could not use her in the same way he used Lady Joselyn. Why do you think Lady Julia went mad? She had a husband who was a soulless devil.”
Stephen just stared at them. His blue eyes were filled with shock. An eternity of silence followed, punctuated by the distant sounds of battle. But Stephen remained frozen as if unable to move, unable to accept what he had been told. When he finally closed his eyes to ward off the horror of Joselyn’s life, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Slowly, he turned to his wife. She had collapsed on the floor, huddled against the wall and wept as if her heart were broken. He went to her, woodenly, his posture indicative of his exhaustion and emotional level. He crouched wearily next to her, gazing at her lowered head.
“Joselyn,” he murmured hoarsely. “Look at me.”
She sobbed harder, pressing her face into the wall. “Nay,” she cried, holding out a hand as if to ward him off. “Go away and leave me.”
He grabbed the hand, yanking her off the floor and into his arms. She fought him for a half second before succumbing to his powerful embrace. He held her tightly, his face in her hair. Her sobs undid him and tears fell from his eyes faster than he imagined possible.
“I will never leave you, ever,” he whispered. “Why did you not tell me the truth?”
She sobbed her anguish. “How would you have accepted it?” she asked, almost angrily. “The night we met was bitter enough. How would you have accepted the truth? That you were forced into a marriage with a woman whose father abused her and used her to pay his gambling debts? But I had to tell you something. You would have found out quickly enough that I was not virgin, so I told you of the rape. It was not a lie.”
He rocked her gently, knowing she was correct to a certain extent. He would not have accepted the truth well the night they met. He was dazed with the revelations but it did not change what he felt for her. If anything, it deepened his sense of compassion and connection with the woman. He could not believe how horribly she had been mistreated yet had still managed to maintain her fight, her sense of humor and her dignity. She was, in every sense, an amazing woman. At the moment, he felt extremely fortunate to have her.
He sighed faintly, wiping his tears from his face. “Then the soldier from Carlisle truly raped you.”
She nodded. “He did,” she whispered. “I did not know until afterwards that he had my father’s permission.”
“And the child?”
“He was a result of the rape. My mother committed me to Jedburgh so my father could no longer use me. She did it out of desperation.”
“How… how many other times were you taken advantage of before Carlisle’s soldier?”
“My father used me twice. The first time, I was nine years old.”
Stephen grunted with the horror of it, closing his eyes tightly at the thought. The thought of his sweet, vulnerable wife being abused by faceless, nameless men made him physically ill. The nausea had returned full force. Joselyn abruptly pulled her face from the crook of his neck and looked at him, her pale blue eyes wide with grief and horror.
“I do not blame you for your disgust,” she murmured. “It disgusts me also, more than you can imagine. I wept the night you consummated the marriage because all I have ever known is the brutality and pain of coupling. I did not know it was meant to be a sweet and intimate act, and even if you walk from this room and never touch me again, I will always revere you for showing me that such tenderness existed. You have been the one ray of sunshine in a life that has known little and for that, I thank you.”
He held her face in his two hands, gazing into her lovely features. There was no disgust in his heart, only adoration. He rubbed her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Then the man to punish is not the soldier from Carlisle but your father,” he murmured. “You have always defended him most staunchly.”
She was not sure how to respond. “Good or bad, he is my father,” she offered with a shrug. “He always felt great remorse for what he did, but his sickness was stronger than his loyalty to me.”
“What he did to you was evil.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But it was finished eleven years ago. I try not to think of it. With time, the fear and resentment for my father has faded. I had not seen him for almost eleven years until he recalled me from Jedburgh last year. And then when I saw him again, it was as if he were a different man. He was changed.”
“How?”
She shook her head. “I do not know, exactly. It was as if he had grown beyond his sicknesses. He had been kind and respectful since I have returned home. For the first time in my life, I felt safe with him.”
Stephen drew in a long, steadying breath as his anger began to shift from Bowen to Alexander Seton. “Be that as it may, it is well and good that the man is away from Berwick,” he said, “for surely he would be in mortal danger right now. The man will pay for what he did to you, mark my words.”
Joselyn was calming as she listened to his words and watched his expression. She timidly touched his chin, his square jaw. “I am sorry I did not tell you all of it,” she murmured. “I was afraid to at first but increasingly afraid as we grew to know each other. You are like no man I have ever known, Stephen. I did not want to lose whatever warmth was growing between us. It means everything to me.”
“And to me,” he responded softly, relishing the feel of her gentle hands on his face. “But I will ask you now and let this be the end of it; is there any other humiliati
on I should know of? Anything else you have been afraid to tell me?”
She looked rather sad. “Isn’t what you’ve been told quite enough?”
He smiled weakly, leaning forward to kiss her gently. “More than enough.”
Her eyes began welling again. “Do you forgive me, then?”
“There is nothing to forgive. I understand why you did not tell me at the first. But let that be the end of any secrets between us.”
“I promise.” She suddenly threw her arms around his neck, holding him fast. It was a powerful, impulsive gesture. “Oh, Stephen, I do love you.”
He heard her words like an arrow into his heart. They embedded themselves, held fast, never to be let go. He had only known the woman two days but within that time, he felt closer to her than he had ever felt to anyone in his life. Gone was the sense of self-protection. His emotions were flowing freely for her and he could not stop them. He squeezed her so tightly that he heard her grunt as all of the air was forced from her lungs.
“And I love you also,” he whispered so only she could hear him. “I will love you until I die.”
She broke into soft tears at his declaration and he kissed the side of her head, her cheek, and finally her lips. It was an unbridled display of emotion between them, feelings and emotions that had grown into something neither of them could have anticipated or expected.
All the while, Tilda and Mereld stood back, watching the exchange, more relieved and joyful than they could express. Thinking they should perhaps leave the couple alone, they moved to the door but Stephen caught a glimpse of their movement from the corner of his eye and stopped them.
“Nay,” he told them, standing up with his wife still wrapped in his arms. “You will stay here with Joselyn. The battle is still waging and I would have everyone safe.”
Joselyn wiped the last of the tears from her eyes, gazing up into his handsome face. “But I saw many wounded being moved into the hall,” she said. “We must tend them.”
He shook his head. “You will remain here. It is not safe for you outside of the keep.”
“Who will tend the wounded?”
He wriggled his eyebrows, moving to collect his saddlebags with her still wrapped against him. “Most fighting men have experience tending wounds,” he told her. “There are plenty of men to tend the injured.”
“Where are you going?” she asked as he moved for the door.
He set her gently on her feet. “The battle still rages,” he told her, slinging the enormous packs over his shoulders. “I must return and end it.”
She looked perplexed. “You left a battle to speak with me?”
His intense blue eyes bore into her. “There is nothing more important than you.”
He seemed like he wanted to say more but refrained. Kissing her again, a lingering gesture, he slammed the door shut behind him.
*
Having been a Hospitaller for many years, and spending a good deal of time in the Holy Land, Stephen was well versed on more than the knighthood or the art of healing. He had also picked up strange and wonderful information in his travels, one being the secret weapon called Greek Fire. He’d seen it used, many times, and had been given the secrets of its composition by an alchemist he had befriended in Tyre. Stephen had the ingredients for Greek Fire with him although he doubted he had enough to accomplish his intentions. Still, he had to try. The Scots quest to mount the walls was stronger than before.
He found Lane near the gatehouse and sent soldiers running for Ian and Alan. When he was finally joined by the two knights, he pulled his men into the armory for a swift and private conference.
“I have an idea that will turn the tides against the Scots should it be successful,” he said quickly. “There is not much time and I need your help. We need as much quicklime as we can get our hands on. Does anyone know where we can find some?”
Lane and Alan looked perplexed while Ian suddenly appeared very excited.
“There is a good deal of it in the kitchen,” Ian said eagerly. “There are bags of it. The Scots were using it during the siege of Berwick before their defeat at Halidon to aid in the burial of their dead.”
Stephen’s eyes fixed on him. “Get it,” he commanded. “Get all of it. And take as many men as you need to accomplish this. Bring it back to the armory.”
Ian and Alan fled, leaving Stephen with Lane. Stephen knelt over one of his saddlebags and began removing leather pouches.
“Here,” he tossed one to Lane. “Set this against the wall and go and find the biggest cauldron you can. And hurry.”
Lane quit the small room, leaving Stephen to organize his ingredients. After several long minutes, during which Stephen was called to the wall to help fend off more invaders, Ian and Alan returned with several men-at-arms bearing sacks of quicklime. There were a total of seven bags of the ingredient mined from the limestone quarries in Yorkshire. It was a very common ingredient with, as Stephen had learned, a variety of uses. It had been at Berwick to use liberally over the dead to prevent the spread of disease. Lane returned shortly with another soldier, bearing an enormous iron pot between them.
Stephen was working with a building sense of urgency. The Scots seemed to be increasing their onslaught and he knew it was only a matter of time before a significant number managed to mount the walls and make their way down to the gate, which they would then open to admit their comrades. Then the castle would be compromised and their duty to hold the city would be made more difficult. Stephen knew that time was not on their side.
He ordered the quicklime dumped into the pot. White dust billowed up, coating them and causing a chorus of coughs. Into the quicklime, Stephen dumped his mysterious ingredients of yellow sulfur powder and saltpeter. He stirred it with Ian’s broadsword, the only thing he could find at the moment, watching the ingredients integrate. The screams and shouts from the attack were growing louder and he finished stirring quickly.
“Now,” he said. “Refill these quicklime sacks, cut a hole in one end, and dispense this powder along the top of the parapet. We will need a thick, heavy line from one end of the castle to the other, all along the top of the wall. Make sure there is no break in the line. Go!”
The men-at-arms used their helms to scoop white powder into the sacks. Taking a sack for each man, they dashed from the armory to the walls and began laying a thick, white line along the top of the wall. When all of the men were gone, including Lane, Ian and Alan, Stephen took the leather pouches that had contained the saltpeter and filled them with the remaining mixture. There were five in all.
He had to kill three Scots in order to move to the center of the gatehouse to start the chain reaction that would literally set fire to the wall of Berwick. He was counting on the hot, rapid fire caused by the quicklime mixture to chase off the invaders. The fighting was worse than before and he knew there was no time to waste. Taking all five pouches, he lit them one after the other with a flint and stone.
The pouches flared into a wild, brilliantly blinding white light. Stephen threw the pouches on the Scots at the gate below, watching them explode and spread fire over several men at once. Soon, there were a few dozen men below that were on fire and their screams of pain filled the night air. What was worse, however, was when their friends tried to put the fire out with water. It would make the fire burn hotter and brighter. It was a horrifying predicament as the smell of burnt flesh began to drift upon the night breeze.
But Stephen wasted no time in viewing his handiwork. He sparked the flint and stone and lit the nearest streak of white powder, watching it flare brilliantly and burn swiftly down the length of the wall. On and on it would go, lighting the next trail of white powder, until it reached the wall facing the river. There was a huge flare as it picked up another row of white powder and then continued along the wall, to the south side of the castle, and continued onward. Stephen and most of his men watched with bated breath as the fire eventually encircled the entire castle.
The Scots on ladders wer
e repelled by the flame. It lit their tartans on fire, a blaze that only grew worse when water was doused upon it. Men began jumping from the ladders and the ladders themselves went up in flame. It quickly became a retreat of chaos. Stephen stood by, watching the complete change in the tides, as Lane, Ian and Alan finally rejoined him.
“Brilliant, my lord,” Ian said with satisfaction. “Your fire has worked magic.”
Stephen grunted. “Perhaps it will give them pause should they think to charge the castle again,” he tore his eyes away from the intense white blaze and looked at his men. “Mount as many men as we can spare and prepare to ride to de Lara’s aid. And there is enough powder left that you can take some pouches filled with the stuff to throw at any Scots foolish enough to get in your way.”
The knights were gone, leaving Stephen standing with Lane and watching the Scots fall away from the walls. It was soon readily apparent that no more Scots were willing to try and mount the walls so long as the fire burned. Stephen had a few men take whatever remained in the cauldron to sprinkle on the fire and refresh the flames. Then he had the men gather whatever peat and wood they could, stoking the blaze atop the walls so that the Scots would forget about trying to attack the walls again. So long as there was flame, Stephen figured, it would discourage both the Scots and their ladders.
Stephen rode out into the burning city to aid de Lara who, by that time, had managed to chase off most of his attackers. He was weary but in one piece. Tate and his men helped Stephen clear the city of the remaining rebels, who fled north. But they did not flee before inflicting as much damage as possible on the citizens of the city of Berwick. As dawn broke, Stephen and Tate returned to Berwick Castle and walls that were still flaming a brilliant white light that could be seen for miles. It looked like the entire castle was on fire, creating an eerie glow against the pink and purple sky.
Stephen headed straight for the vault and Kynan Lott MacKenzie.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lasses, Lords, and Lovers: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 13