A Summer Siege (Medieval Romance)

by Samantha Holt

  A

  Summer Siege

  Samantha Holt

  Copyright 2012 ©Samantha Holt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Prologue

  Kent, England, April 1211

  She would never marry him.

  As she stumbled up the grassy slope that led away from the village, she swore to herself that she would never be possessed by such a man.

  The heavens had opened with great relish that day, the mud slickened ground giving way under her feet, slowly coating her slippers and dress, as the heavy rain plastered her crimson hair to her face. Sheltering under a tree, she pressed herself against the bark before sinking down to the ground, the throb in her cheek no less poignant for the cool relief of the downpour.

  Madeline’s father had struck out at her before, to be sure, but never with such force, and never had he threatened her thus. For the first time in her fifteen years she was sure he would follow through on his threats should she refuse to marry Lord Oswald. Sir Edward was no loving father and made no secret of his hatred for his young daughter. A son had been his ultimate goal in marrying her mother and when she had died giving birth to Madeline the blame had forever lain with her. A second wife provided no respite as she was just as vile as he and her womb as barren as her father’s love. It was only with slight relief that her step-mother had succumbed to dysentery.

  With his full focus now on his daughter, Sir Edward’s behaviour became more extreme - beatings and threats becoming a regular occurrence. Madeline was a resilient character and refused to be defeated, much to her father’s aggravation, forever secure in the belief that somehow there would be an end to the nightmare that was her existence. For certain the end would not be in Lord Oswald’s hands for she knew him to be just as malicious as her father.

  Through the heavy drumming of the rain, Madeline perceived the sound of hoof beats approaching. She recognised the horse first, a well-known mount in the area. It belonged to Tristan Dumont, the son of the lord of their demesne.

  Tristan was revered by most of the women in the village, young and old alike, and no less by Madeline. His golden hair and sun kissed skin reminded Madeline of a Greek God and his strong build did little to dissuade her notions. A bump in the bridge of his nose, the result of falling from a tree when they were younger, served only to enhance his striking profile. A jawline a sculptor would be proud of and deep blue eyes completed this beautiful man, yet he was without arrogance, treating others with respect and kindness. To Madeline, he was perfect.

  Although some eight years older than she, they had played as children until he had joined the fight in Normandy. Upon his return, his transformation into manhood had been complete. His lean frame, filled out through battle, lent him the figure of a warrior. Recently he had been seeking her out and she could not help but long to believe that she was growing in his esteem.

  As he made his way through the sheeting rain, she admired the way the way his weather soaked hair clung to his face, the fair strands darkening as the water ran rivulets down his face.

  Peering at her through the rain, he smiled when he realised it was her and her heart sprang with joy as she hauled herself to her feet.

  “Madeline?” He dismounted and made his way towards her, divesting himself of his cloak as he went. “What are you doing out here in this godforsaken weather?”

  Returning his smile, she pulled her hair over her cheek as he wrapped his cloak about her shivering shoulders.

  “I did not realise ‘twould be so torrential. Where are you travelling to with such urgency, my lord?”

  “I hold an important missive from my father; I’m to take it to Dover Castle with great haste.”

  “Then you had better be continuing on. I would not see you delayed.”

  “Can I not escort you home?”

  “Nay, I will return home shortly.” Madeline smiled up at him as he shifted closer in a bid to stay dry under the tree.

  A sudden gust of wind blew at the pair and Tristan moved in front of her, his large form protecting her from the worst of it, though not before it whipped her hair from her face revealing the proof of her father’s cruelty.

  Too late, she pulled her hair back across her cheek and Tristan looked at her in concern. Brushing her hair from her face, he lifted her chin.

  “Madeline, what is this? Who did this to you?”

  She pulled away from his touch, looking away. “I am surely not the first woman to be on the receiving end of a man’s anger.”

  A glance at Tristan revealed his increasing anger and he pulled her chin back up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

  “Who did this?” he asked forcefully.

  “‘Tis no secret my father is an ill-tempered man.”

  “Sir Edward did this to you? By the stars, I should like to return the favour!”

  “Nay, Tristan, you are not so foolish to think you could beat him without consequences.”

  He looked at her with frustration, a scowl marring his brow. “What could you have done to deserve such treatment?”

  “He wishes for my betrothal to Lord Oswald of Sothwell. I refused my consent, but I fear I shall be forced into the union.”

  “Nay, ‘twill not happen. I shall not allow it.”

  “You, my lord? What will you do?” She could not help but smile at his impassioned declaration. Tristan was the very embodiment of gallantry and, while she still clung to hopes, he adhered to the rules of chivalry in the same manner.

  Madeline watched the gulp of his throat, the slight uncertainty that filled his face, and she frowned at the hesitation that was so at odds with the Tristan she knew.

  “Marry me.”

  She blinked at him, unsure if she had heard him correctly, but his face told her she had not as he anxiously awaited her answer.

  “Marry me, Madeline, and I shall protect you from the likes of your father, that much I promise.”

  Her spirits dropped at this statement. No matter how much she wished for a man like Tristan, she would not be looked upon with pity.

  “Nay, I have no wish to be a burden to you.”

  A look of disappointment flickered across his face and Madeline wondered if he had been earnest in asking for her hand. Mayhap he did care for her after all and he was not simply offering out of duty. Biting at her lip, she considered him hopefully, praying he would tell her so.

  “You would not be a burden,” He clutched at her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, “you would be my love.”

  Madeline could not prevent a smile from breaking across her face. “In truth?”

  He grinned and pulled her into his embrace. “Aye, I love you Madeline of Woodchurch.”

  Flinging her arms around his neck, she nuzzled into his chest. “I love you, Tristan Dumont.”

  He placed a tender kiss to her lips and shivers of excitement ran through her a
s he pulled back and looked at her with more adoration than she ever thought possible.

  “I am loath to leave you, but I must away. Duty beckons.” Leaning forwards, he brushed a kiss to her forehead. “When I return we shall be wed, your father would not dare refuse.”

  Optimism and excitement unfurled within her, her father’s harsh treatment quickly forgotten. She was right to hope after all, for when her Tristan returned life would finally bring her the joy that she so desperately craved.

  Madeline watched him as he mounted his horse, looking more handsome and brave in her eyes than ever before.

  “Stay safe, my love.”

  She nodded. It did not matter what her father would inflict upon her, the knowledge of his love would see her through aught. That much she was sure of.

  “Oh, will you not take your cloak?”

  She went to remove the item but he motioned for her to stop. “Nay, keep it. I will come for it on my return.”

  Madeline watched as he made for Dover, clutching at the garment as if it were part of him.

  Tristan never collected his cloak.

  Chapter 1

  Kent, May 1216

  The cool spring breeze had begun to give way to the heat of summer and Tristan wiped at the sweat beading upon his brow. Already down to his shirt, there was little he could do to keep himself comfortable as he toiled in the fields. For too long, the land had lain fallow and the village poorly tended by the steward. Tristan had taken it upon himself to oversee the seeding and ploughing.

  Hoof beats drew his attention and he squinted into the sun as a cloaked stranger galloped down the dusty path in the direction of the village. The rider appeared slight, rather too small for the huge black rouncey they rode, and he wondered at their attire for it was entirely too hot for cloaks.

  A flick of red hair escaped the hood and his heart stopped for a moment before thumping painfully against his ribs. Forevermore, he would be reminded of his lost love at the sight of scarlet hair. Dead for five years now, he still mourned the loss, having never been able to claim her as his wife and protect her as he had sworn.

  Swiftly realising the stranger was headed towards the late Sir Edward’s manor house, he laid down his harrow and made his way to greet them

  ***

  Upon reaching the manor, his page informed him that their visitor was awaiting him in the hall. Washing his hands in the proffered bowl, he asked the nine year old boy if he had a name for their guest.

  Thomas reddened, his freckles disappearing under the blush. “Nay, my lord, I forgot to ask.”

  Tristan gave a roll of his eyes and chuckled. Thomas had only served him since last autumn and, whilst he was a hard working boy, he was forgetful and needed much instruction in conduct.

  Stepping into the hall, he discovered the cloaked visitor standing at the window. He realised it must be a woman for she was at least a head, if not more, smaller than he and her slender shoulders could be made out even under the heavy mantle.

  The shutters had been thrown open with the warmer weather, breathing life back into the stale home and he had recently had the rushes replaced as well as the fireplace cleaned. Sir Edward had lived a solitary life after the death of his daughter, shutting himself away, leaving duties to the steward and the house had suffered because of it, along with the village. Now, several months after his death, Tristan was attempting to put things to rights.

  He stopped at the end of the large trestle table that sat in the middle of the hall and the visitor turned at the sound of his crunching steps.

  “Madeline?”

  Tristan looked at the stranger in disbelief, wondering if his grief had turned him mad. Indeed, the woman in front of him had red waves tumbling over her shoulders and her pale skin matched that of Madeline’s. A sad smile stretched across her full lips and green eyes observed him nonchalantly. While Madeline had been a pretty young girl, this woman was strikingly beautiful, her high cheek bones and slanted eyes lending her an exotic look. There was no doubting the resemblance though.

  “Good morrow, Tristan.”

  In his gut mingled excitement and unease, still wondering if he was deceiving himself. A quick stride around the table took him to her side and he was assured the she was indeed real.

  “You are dead!”

  She gave a little laugh at this. “Nay, Tristan, I am quite well as you can see.”

  “Nay, you do not understand. You were dead, I saw your grave! Your father…” he trailed off as realisation struck home.

  No-one had ever talked of Madeline’s death. All he knew was that she had taken ill shortly after he had left and was buried before he returned. Convinced it had been the rain that day that had caused her malady; he blamed himself for not having taken her home.

  Madeline nodded her understanding. “My father was not a truthful man; we were both aware of that. Though, I will admit I did not think he would go as far as feigning my death.”

  Elation began to flow through Tristan as the shock diminished and he reached for her hand. “Then ‘tis truly a joyous day!”

  Her look of hesitation gave him reason to pause and he released her hand as she took a step back.

  As he studied the wariness in her eyes, a thousand questions hastened through his mind. “Why did you leave? Where have you been these past five years? Madeline, you have to know that I have been mourning you all these days.”

  Turning from him, she ran her fingers along the fireplace, as if remembering the place that was once her home. “I am sorry to have grieved you, Tristan. I had no choice but to leave, my father was to force my marriage to Lord Oswald.”

  Watching her emotionless manner, he puzzled over this taciturn woman who stood in Madeline’s place. For all her apologies, they had no worth behind them.

  “Did you not tell him of our betrothal? If you had but waited-”

  She spun to face him, her eyes bright with resentment. “I waited, Tristan. I waited until my father drugged me and had me taken from my home. Still, I waited, but when ‘twas clear I was waiting on false hope I made my escape.”

  His heart sank, the guilt weighing heavily upon him. He always knew he had failed her but never in such a manner.

  “Forgive me, Madeline. I was a fool to believe your father. But you are returned to me now; will you not allow me to atone for my mistakes?”

  She shook her head slightly, her riled expression quickly shuttering over. “I do not seek your apologies nor do I hold you to your promises. I am merely here to claim back my lands.”

  “The French-”

  “Aye, I had heard the French have taken much of the South.” Her chin tilted with determination. “This land is my birth right and I will not see it taken.”

  Taken back by the determination in her voice, he watched her carefully. “I would see them restored to you but you must understand the danger you will be placing yourself in.”

  “I fear not the marauding French, Woodchurch is of little import.” She looked at him brazenly. “Moreover, I’ve had experience enough of the dangers of faithless men these past years.”

  He pondered these words with a frown. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  She paused before pulling her hood from her head and divesting herself of the cloak. As she handed it to him, he fingered the cloth and realised that it was his, the one he had given her the last time he had seen her.

  “Surviving,” Madeline told him simply.

  ***

  Before Tristan could respond, a flurry of skirts signalled the arrival of Alice. Originally her mother’s servant, she had been with the family since before Madeline’s birth. A thin, wiry woman, Alice had always seemed old to Madeline, yet she had not aged a day since her departure. Her thick hair, perfectly white, surrounded an age wizened face, while grey eyes peered out beneath hooded lids. A quick mind functioned behind those eyes and Madeline had often found her to offer good counsel.

  Alice squealed when she saw her, scurrying fowards and wrap
ping bony hands around Madeline’s face. “So ‘tis true! Ye be back from the dead!”

  Madeline laughed in spite of herself. “Aye, Alice I am back, though not from the dead.”

  “And look at ye, a true beauty are ye not? Wouldn’t you say so, Sir?” Alice turned to Tristan expectantly.

  Tristan shifted uncomfortably, their awkward reunion creating a tangible tension in the air. He regarded her, his eyes locking onto hers, forcing a flush to pervade her cheeks. “I would indeed.”

  Madeline broke eye contact first, unable to bear the intensity behind his gaze. While she may have grown in beauty, Tristan had certainly grown even more handsome. His strong jaw bore the beginnings of a beard, fair stubble scattered over his lips and jaw line, and he had let his hair grow longer, the strands curling at the base of his neck. His chest seemed broader, more intimidating, than five summers ago. He had obviously spent much time in the fields as his skin was sun beaten, the golden hue she remembered having darkened, but it only seemed to add to his masculinity.

  Alice watched their exchange with interest before interjecting, “We thought it odd that ye took ill so suddenly, milady. Ye seemed in fine health before ye left for the wedding. Why, we did not even see ye buried!”

  A laugh escaped Madeline at seeing Alice’s indignation. “Pray tell, where am I buried?”

  “Nottinghamshire,” said Tristan abruptly.

  She nodded; her marriage was to have taken place in Nottinghamshire. “I see.”

  Tristan gave a depreciating laugh. “I visited it as oft as I could.”

  Madeline’s heart wrenched at his forlorn expression. She had not realised he had suffered almost as much as she. In truth, it never occurred to her that he might grieve for her, never realising her father would go to such extremes as to fake the death of his only daughter.

  “Aye, ‘tis true, milady. We were all deceived. But now ye have been returned to us! Surely ‘tis time for celebrating, not mourning. Will ye be taking over the running of the manor, milady?”

  She shifted. “That is my wish, aye.”