As of today, Tye would be called ‘lord,’ a title that recognized the noble blood in his veins. A title, also, that brought respect. Using Wode as his base, Tye would conquer castle after castle, while he anticipated the moment he confronted his father in battle. In a triumphant fight, Tye would slay his sire. All of Moydenshire would bow to his control.
No one would stop him.
Especially his sire.
Tye looked to the bailey opening directly ahead. Wode’s men-at-arms, slipping on the snow-covered ground, scrambled to block his entry. Some of them were old enough to be his grandfather.
“Do not let them pass!” bellowed a stocky, white-haired warrior, likely the captain of the guard. “Defend this keep, as Lord Brackendale would have expected of you.”
Lord Brackendale . Tye’s lip curled in a sneer. The old man’s death had caused a stirring of grief among the folk of Moydenshire. His passing had also left the castle without a ruling lord. De Lanceau undoubtedly intended to replace Brackendale with one of his loyal lackeys, but he hadn’t done so yet, likely because he hadn’t wanted to offend his lady wife and mother-in-law, who were both very upset by the death. The lack of leadership had worked to Tye’s advantage, especially when unrest had taken de Lanceau and his armies away to other parts of the county—leaving Wode ill-prepared for an assault.
Tye slowed his mount, using his horse’s last steps within the shelter of the gatehouse to assess the opposition. The snowfall was thickening. Still, he counted a dozen men-at-arms approaching and more on the battlements, ready to bring him down.
Let them try. My attack will not fail .
Ahead, a black-haired archer stepped forward, raised his bow, and fired at Tye. Tye dodged the arrow, heard it whistle past before it clattered against the stonework behind him. Expression grim, the man nocked another arrow, but before he could shoot, leather creaked behind Tye, immediately followed by the hiss of an arrow. The archer reeled backward, the arrow launched by a mercenary buried in his shoulder. Blood streaming down his armor, the archer collapsed against one of his colleagues. With angry cries, the other guards edged forward, swords raised.
“Yield,” Tye yelled.
“You will not pass,” the captain of the guard shouted.
“Yield or die .”
The white-haired man scowled. “ You will die this day.”
Tye held the man’s gaze through the swirling snow. He heard the mercenaries, who’d slowed their horses to match his, rallying behind him; the odors of worn leather and wet metal carried on the wind.
“Attack!” the captain of the guard bellowed. As he rushed forward, weapon glinting, Tye’s horse flailed its head and stepped backward. Instead of reining the spooked animal in, Tye slid off its back and raised his sword.
Shouting battle cries, the mercenaries spurred their mounts into the bailey.
“Stop them!” the captain of the guard yelled as the riders cantered past. Men-at-arms ran after the mercenaries.
The older man’s sword collided with Tye’s. Twice. Three times. Teeth bared, the captain of the guard rallied another strike, while several other men spread out in a wide circle to entrap Tye. With a guttural cry, Tye brought his blade whipping down to cut the captain’s lower leg. He screamed, hobbled, blood staining the snow.
With angry roars, the men-at-arms surrounded Tye.
Air rushing between his teeth, he met strike after strike of the warriors’ swords. The fight became a blur as he spun, lashed out, and dodged blows. Blood from wounded men dotted the front of Tye’s armor and spattered on the snow. A handful of mercenaries, some on horses and others on foot, crowded in around him. They worked alongside him to quell the resistance as quickly as possible.
With a brutal slash of his sword, Tye thwarted a final assault from one of the wounded swordsmen. As the man fell sideways into the snow, groaning, Tye signaled to five of the mercenaries. “Come.” As arranged earlier, the men fell in alongside him. Leaving the rest of his forces to conquer the bailey, Tye headed for the forebuilding that led up into the keep’s great hall.
Shouts and the crash of swords snapped his attention to the far side of the bailey, where light from the stables and kitchens tinged the snow pale yellow. Huddled in the kitchen doorway, servants watched, terrified, as mercenaries battled more men-at-arms. Archers on the battlements continued to fire down arrows, even as their numbers dwindled. A man priming a crossbow on the battlement screamed. An arrow had pierced his right arm; he careened sideways and disappeared from view.
Tye focused again on the forebuilding, less than ten paces away. Over the metallic clang of a nearby swordfight, he caught running footfalls.
“Milord!” cried a mercenary behind him.
Tye whirled to confront whoever neared. Through the falling snow, he recognized his mother, garbed in her black cloak trimmed with fur. Strands of red hair poked from the edges of her hood. Braden, in his thick fur cloak, hurried along beside her, his bloodied sword at the ready.
As they reached Tye’s side, the mercenaries turned and watched the bailey, keeping a lookout for enemy assailants.
“The gatehouse is under our control. Our men will lower the portcullis and raise the drawbridge shortly.” Veronique’s eyes were bright from the pleasure of the fight. Fresh blood glistened on the dagger in her gloved hand.
“The castle is expecting deliveries this morning,” Tye said. “Tell the men to turn away anyone who approaches. They are to say there is sickness in the castle.”
“Very well,” Veronique said.
“What of the postern gate?” Tye asked. This doorway in the castle’s outer wall, built to enable folk to escape in the event of a surprise attack, couldn’t be left unguarded.
“’Tis secured,” Braden said.
“No one escaped?”
Veronique shook her head. “As you ordered, mercenaries are standing sentry on both sides of the postern. No one can get in or leave by that door.”
“Good.” Tye grinned. All was going just as he’d planned.
You will loathe hearing of my victory today, Father. You will hate to the very depths of your soul that I am ruler of this keep—and I will bask in your hatred!
Another of the men-at-arms in the bailey fell to a mercenary’s blade, and Tye’s grin widened. What he would give to see his father’s face when he received news of the conquest. De Lanceau would blame himself for leaving Wode vulnerable, for the opportunity he’d overlooked that Tye had seized. His sire’s guilt and regret would be akin to strings looped through Tye’s hand; he’d tug, tangle, and manipulate them, without mercy, without a glimmer of forgiveness, before in a glorious final fight, he ran his father through.
A chunk of melting snow slipped from the edge of Tye’s cloak and settled against his neck: an icy chill against his skin. A reminder that while his victory was nigh assured, ’twas not complete. His attention shifted to the keep, its stone rendered dull gray by the overcast sky. With a harsh cry, he summoned the mercenaries to follow him.
“We will speak later, Mother.”
“We will.” Her triumphant laughter followed him as he threw open the door to the forebuilding. “Wode is yours at last, as you deserve.”
Chapter Three
“Do you think Lady Brackendale is aware of the attack?” Mary’s voice was barely a whisper in the torch lit corridor.
“I hope so,” Claire answered as they raced toward the solar. There was a very good chance, though, that she was oblivious. Since Lord Brackendale’s death, her ladyship had become withdrawn and despondent. She’d taken to sleeping late into the morning and breaking her fast in her chamber. Her ladyship might still be asleep. All the more reason for Claire and Mary to hurry .
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�If the attackers managed to defeat the men outside…” Mary said.
“I know.” Claire dreaded running headlong into wild-eyed, murderous ruffians inside the castle—although there was a very good chance of that, too. Most of the castle’s warriors had recently been summoned to ride alongside de Lanceau. Her sense of dread deepened, for it couldn’t be a coincidence that the assault had happened when the keep’s defenses were at their lowest in years.
Ahead, the iron-bound wooden doors to the solar were closed. As she’d feared, it seemed that her ladyship was unaware of the danger.
Claire rapped on the right door. “Milady!”
Muffled voices came from within.
“Milady!” Claire knocked again. “We must speak with you.”
The door opened on a waft of warm air. Sarah, Lady Brackendale’s lady-in-waiting, stood in the doorway, her auburn hair braided as usual into a tidy coil around her head. She frowned as she curtsied. “Good morning, Lady Sevalliere. Lady Westbrook. ’Tis early and her ladyship—”
“’Tis urgent.” Claire brushed past Sarah. Lady Brackendale, still wearing her white linen night rail, was sitting in bed, propped up against a mound of pillows with the blankets tucked around her waist. Her gray hair hung loosely about her shoulders. A tray rested on her lap, and she held a piece of buttered bread.
“Claire? Whatever is the matter? You look dreadfully pale—”
“The castle is under attack,” Claire blurted. At her side, Mary nodded.
The fire in the hearth popped, and Claire jumped, her nerves wound as tightly as a spool of yarn. Lady Brackendale exchanged a glance with Sarah, still standing in the open doorway, then set down the bread and patted her lips with a linen napkin. “Are you certain, Claire?”
“Aye!”
“My dear, we know you are blessed with a vivid imagination. I well remember that story you wrote, the romantic adventure involving a wounded knight—”
“But—”
Her ladyship thrust up a wrinkled hand laden with rings. “The captain of the guard was planning to run extra drills this week.”
Claire shook her head. “We heard cries of alarm from the bailey. The clash of weapons, too. The assault is happening right now.” She hurried past the bed and threw open the shutters at the window. “Listen!”
A snowy gust of wind brought with it the cacophony of battle. Simultaneously, from the corridor, came the sound of people approaching at a run. Murderous ruffians?
Claire closed the shutters and spun from the window. Three men-at-arms appeared in the doorway, breathing hard. The first two men halted just outside, nodded in greeting to Lady Brackendale, then turned their backs and stood watch in the corridor, their swords at the ready. The third man, Sutton, one of the keep’s finest swordsmen and husband to a kitchen maid, stumbled to a halt inside the solar, his hand pressed to his side. Blood coated his broadsword. Blood also glistened on his fingers. As Sutton shifted his stance, grimacing, and the edge of his woolen mantle drew back, Claire saw broken, bloodied links of chain mail.
“Sutton.” Lady Brackendale pushed away her tray. “What happened?”
He attempted an awkward bow, but tensed on a groan of pain. “We are…under assault, milady.”
“God above! Claire, I should never have doubted you. Sarah, fetch my robe. Help me rise. Sutton, tell me all that has transpired.”
“Mercenaries. A swift, brutal assault.” His face twisted on another spasm of pain.
Claire’s gaze fell to the rectangular wooden stool pushed against the wall, but before she could fetch it for Sutton, he waved her away. “Thank you, milady, but I will not rest. Not until the battle is over.”
Sutton wasn’t fit to return to battle. If he went anyway, and the situation in the bailey was as dire as she believed, he might not live to see this chamber again. He was a proud warrior, though—as were all of Lord Brackendale’s men. Sutton had said he’d rather die honorably in battle than in his sleep; his heart was as brave and noble as Henry’s had been.
Tears threatened, but Claire blinked them away. Later, she could weep; now, she needed to help Lady Brackendale.
Her ladyship stepped to the floor. Sutton averted his gaze while she slipped on the embroidered white robe Sarah offered. “How many attackers?” Lady Brackendale asked.
“Twenty. Mayhap more.”
“Do they have a leader?”
“A dark-haired man. Skilled fighter. Not a lord from one of the local estates. I have never seen his face before today.”
“I see.” Concern etched her ladyship’s features. “The gatehouse?”
“Overrun”
“The postern?”
“Captured. Our men are fighting hard—”
“—but we are losing.”
His expression grave, Sutton nodded.
Lady Brackendale sighed. “How long do we have?”
“Not long, I fear.”
Claire’s stomach clenched. Her instincts had been right. The awful knot inside her warned that she hadn’t seen the worst of the day yet. Sarah looked frightened and lost. Mary, standing close to Sarah, was as pale as the bed linens.
Her ladyship’s trembling hand tightened on the front of the robe. As though she’d reached an important decision, she nodded once. “We must ready ourselves, then, to meet our conquerors.”
“Oh, God.” Mary wilted onto the wooden stool, her white-knuckled hands clasped in her lap.
Sutton gestured to the men outside the solar. “These warriors will protect your chamber, milady. They will not leave their posts.”
Lady Brackendale laughed, a brittle sound. “How thoughtful, Sutton. You know as well as I, however, that two guards will not stop our attackers from breaking into this room.”
A ruddy flush darkened the older man’s cheekbones. “At least they will slow down and injure the whoresons—I mean, the ruffians, milady.”
“They will. Go, now. Do what must be done.” She bestowed upon him a sad smile. “And thank you.”
Sutton nodded, turned on his heel, and strode away.
Lady Brackendale ordered Sarah to shut the door. The chamber fell silent except for the crackle of the fire. Her mouth forming a grim line, her ladyship motioned to the dark gray wool gown and linen chemise draped over a chair. Sarah hurried to fetch the garments.
“My beloved Arthur,” the older woman said softly. She stared at the fire, as if she saw more than burning logs. “As he drew his final breaths in this very room, he warned me Wode might be attacked once he was dead. His fear of an attack and of what could happen to me tormented him.”
Claire moved to her ladyship’s side. “Did he say who might dare such an assault?”
“He did not give names. However, he knew the strategic value of this castle. As you may be aware, this keep has been ruled by Lord de Lanceau’s family for almost one-hundred-and-fifty years and rightfully belongs to him.”
“I did not realize that,” Claire said.
“Arthur was appointed lord here by de Lanceau. ’Twas an agreement made between the two men years ago after a fierce battle between them. They were once sworn enemies. Difficult to believe, but ’twas before de Lanceau was married to Arthur’s daughter, Elizabeth.”
Claire had met de Lanceau, a handsome, authoritative, but also kind man who adored his beautiful wife, several times in the years she’d lived at Wode.
“Arthur loved his daughter very much. He also loved this castle and its hard-working folk. How he hated to think that enemies might seize power here.”
“I am sorry, milady.” Claire fought rising helplessness. “What can we do? Can we get a message to Lord de Lanceau?”
“Not with the gatehouse and postern captured.�
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“There must be something we can do,” Claire insisted.
“De Lanceau keeps close watch on his lands and will know, quickly enough, of the assault. He will bring his army and crush the conquerors.” Her ladyship’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. Her gaze shifted to Sarah, who waited with the garments, but then she caught both of Claire’s hands and held them tight. “Take Mary and go to your chamber. Lock the door. Push the table against it and stay inside until I tell you ’tis safe to come out.”
Claire gasped. “We cannot leave you to face the ruffians alone.”
“I agree,” Mary said, standing now at Claire’s side.
“I am pleased you feel that way. I am an old woman, though, who has experienced a great deal in her lifetime. You two have lived very…innocent lives. I will do all I can to protect you.”
“Milady—”
“When the attackers reach this level,” the older woman cut in sharply, “they will first claim the solar. If I can negotiate with them to keep you safe, I will.” Her voice wavered. “Arthur would expect such of me.”
“Surely ’twould be safer for us to remain together?” Claire said.
“You will do as I have told you.” Her ladyship pointed to the doorway. “Go now. Go !”
Claire jumped, for Lady Brackendale had never spoken to her in that way before. Today was far from usual, though, and if her ladyship was even half as worried about facing their attackers as Claire was…
Claire curtsied then grabbed Mary’s hand. Together they raced back to Claire’s chamber. Once inside, they bolted the door and pushed the heavy oak trestle table against it, as her ladyship had instructed.
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