Did she realise this was the first time that she had given voice to her demons? He understood more than she realised. He saw the strength with which she conducted herself and he knew she could vanquish her fears, but he was sure he could aid in her redemption. Why was she so unwilling to see that?
“‘Twould be no hindrance but I will not force you on this matter.”
Madeline nodded gratefully and he snagged her arm before she could retreat from him again.
“Know this, Madeline, I am here. Always. Should you choose to come to me I will not forsake you. And eventually, you will come to me.”
She shook her head sadly and Tristan wondered why his declarations should bring such sadness.
“Good night, Tristan.”
Chapter 6
While the skies remained clear, Madeline determined to do some foraging. The stores were still low and, though the fields were planted, they had little remaining from the last harvest. There would be no berries yet but wild mushrooms grew in the forests just beyond Woodchurch and a few medicinal herbs could be found if you knew what you were looking for.
She invited Thomas along, affording her an opportunity to get to know the young lad that was living under her roof. Thomas had grown up in another village before being fostered by the Dumont’s so she had not known him as a boy. Tristan complained that he would be neglecting his duties, but it was said with mild amusement and Madeline knew he did not really mind.
His quiet company was surprisingly soothing. Thomas asked few questions, besides those about the bounties of nature, and she welcomed the conversation, thankful to be free from the conflict that raged within.
With a basket hanging from one arm, they headed along the forest path before veering off into a more dense part of the woods. Having spent many a day amongst the lush greenery during her childhood, Madeline knew the woods well, leading them quickly to the best locations for foraging. The summer heat was thick and cloying and the leafy canopy offered a welcome respite from the increasing heat, though it clung to the humidity, causing sweat to bead on her brow.
Calling to Thomas, she pointed to a cluster of yellow horse mushrooms and they set about gathering them. As they tossed their bounty into her basket, her ears detected a rustling and quickly assessed someone was moving through the undergrowth towards them. Madeline knew it could well be some of the villagers with the same idea, but unease pricked at her so she stood to see if she could make out the source of the sound.
Flashes of blue broke through the dim colours of the woodland and light gleamed on conical helms. As their accents reached her ears, she realised they were French soldiers. Panic threatened to take hold of her. She had no weapon, and she feared what would happen should they reach Woodchurch for they were ill prepared for raiders. Tales of the French army’s brutality were rife and Madeline doubted these men were likely any different.
Mind racing, she turned to Thomas, who had also spied the heavily armed men and was wide-eyed with fear. “Run, Thomas. Fetch help! I will lead them away from the village to the clearing.”
He hesitated so she gave him a push. “Run!” she shouted.
Thomas nodded and turned, barrelling through the vegetation as fast as his young legs would carry him.
Madeline took a breath and summoned her courage. If she could delay them long enough, the village could mount a defence. As they neared, she observed that there were four of them – all larger than she and wielding swords. The village men wouldn’t have any problem dealing with the four of them with prior warning, but she recognised that she had little chance against them.
Waiting until they were near enough to set their gaze upon her, she noted the predatory glint in their eyes and turned, running in the opposite direction to Thomas. Her skirts hindered her, snagging on every rock and branch, but she continued on, praying help would reach her in time.
Amused shouts rang out and heavy feet rumbled across the ground behind her. Her lungs ached from the exertion but she managed to stay just ahead of them until she reached the clearing. The undergrowth gave way and she stumbled forwards, landing heavily on her hands. Scrabbling to her feet, she turned to face the Frenchmen bearing down upon her.
Grins came across their faces as they looked at each other, then to her. Their eyes reflected a malice that chilled her to the core.
“Turn back; our guards will be upon you soon,” she warned.
Undeterred, one of the men stalked towards her as she shrank back.
“Turn away I tell you, or you shall be slain.”
He grabbed at her arm and she batted his hand away as the others laughed.
A scowl was just visible under his helm and the man grunted, “Come hither, girl.”
“Nay!”
“Come hither, I say or I shall force you.”
Her heart drummed in her throat as he made another grab for her. She twisted painfully out of his grip and dashed across the clearing. Coming up quickly behind her, he snatched a fistful of hair and dragged her backwards. She swung at him, hitting his cheek but grazing her knuckles painfully on the nosepiece of his helm. He released her hair with a yowl, but responded quickly using the pommel of his sword to deliver a blow to her head.
It staggered her but did not render her senseless, as was probably the intent. Driving her backwards with his hands, he pushed her to the ground. Her head slammed roughly against the ground and her vision swam. As the haziness cleared, forceful hands pawed at her gown and she kicked out, only managing to score a light blow to his shins.
Cursing, the guard brought his sword up to her neck, the threat of the blade saying more than he could. She froze as the steel danced dangerously close to the fragile skin of her throat and, with a chuckle, the man continued to paw at her. Tugging at her skirts, his clammy hand fondled her thighs and she bit back a whimper. Would this be her end? Covered in dirt and the sweat of a Frenchman? Closing her eyes, she prayed that someone would come before it was too late.
She prayed Tristan would come for her.
***
An odd sensation stabbed at him, causing the hair on his arms to prickle. Squinting into the sun, Tristan’s gaze was drawn to a figure dashing across the fields with great haste. As the figure drew closer, he realised it was Thomas. A pang of fear struck him; Thomas had been with Madeline this morning. He could feel the blood drain from his face as a yell reached his ears and he realised Thomas was shouting for him. Spurring on his destrier, he galloped towards the frantic boy. As he pulled up beside him, his gut wrenched at the boys panic stricken face.
“Milord…French…Lady Madeline.” Thomas panted, clearly having sprinted to get help.
“Hell’s teeth, Thomas, where?!”
“In the clearing to the east of the forest path.” Thomas struggled to catch his breath.
“Go for help.”
Without waiting for a response, he took off towards the forest, praying he would not be too late. His mind raced, why had she not run also? Foolish woman! His heart pounded in fear for her, terrifying thoughts consuming him. A woman alone in the forest, it was unlikely they would have any mercy on her. At best she would be ravished, at worst she would be ravished and killed.
Determination filled him as he reached the forest edge, the shadows swallowing him as he thundered through - as dark and as grim as his fears. The horse pounded easily across the forest floor, making light work of the uneven terrain, kicking up leaves and mud as he went. They quickly reached the thin path threading its way through the woods and Tristan dismounted, knowing there was no way the large destrier could make it through with ease. It would be quicker for him to go on foot.
Snatching his sword, he didn’t bother to mount it on his belt as he hastened along the narrow path, snarling branches impeding his progress at it tore at his skin but he ran on regardless, feeling naught but pure terror. Forging a path with his sword, he swore he would not lose her again. A nearby scream sent a shudder of horror through him and he steeled himself for what he might f
ind as he neared the clearing.
Hurling himself through the foliage, he tumbled out into the vicinity of the scream. Four men-at-arms spun around at the sound of his emergence, their swords pointed towards the disturbance. Madeline was pinned to the ground, a sword to her throat, the soldier’s hand buried under her skirts. With a feral roar he barrelled towards the soldier but his comrade stepped in front of him. The Frenchman barely had time to raise his sword before Tristan took a brutal swipe at him, his arming sword cutting him down effortlessly.
Madeline struggled under the grip of her imprisoner as he pressed his weapon menacingly to her throat. At the sound of Tristan’s shout, pure elation surged through her and, as the soldier turned with a start at the commotion, the press of steel against her neck slackened, affording her a short window of opportunity.
Throwing all her strength into it, she kicked between her captors legs. He promptly fell back with a moan and she snatched his sword from his hand. As he clutched at his crotch, she jumped to her feet before slicing the blade mercilessly across his throat. With a sigh, he slumped to the ground and Madeline turned her attention the other men.
As quickly as Tristan had dispatched the first man, he moved onto the next. Forewarned, his enemy was ready with a parry as he thrust forwards, the clash of metal upon metal forcing both men back. Madeline angled her sword at the fourth man, who was torn between assisting his comrade and fighting a woman. He brought up his sword and she edged forwards as she flicked a look to the battle ensuing to the side of her.
The Frenchman plunged towards Tristan and he jumped aside, the blade hissing past him. In a quick response, he thrust his sword down towards the soldier’s neck, plunging it between his armour and his helmet, killing him instantly.
As he swung around, Madeline lunged at the final man, the weight of his re-joining blow knocking her back. Undeterred and lighter on her feet, she deflected his assault, forcing his blade past her as she stabbed her steel into his side. He collapsed slowly, clutching at his side as he stared at her in disbelief.
Tristan shared his expression as he regarded the woman in front of him, her fine rose coloured dress marred with mud and blood splatters and the heavy sword held confidently in her hand. She stared back at him, her eyes wide, though he noted not with fear. As her chest heaved, he realised it was the same exhilaration coursing through her as it was him.
Dropping his sword, he strode towards her, as she did the same, their bodies clashing as they met. Tristan’s hands came around her waist, pulling her forcefully onto him. Madeline’s fingers tangled around his neck, pulling him down towards her until their lips met. As one hand snaked up to cup her head, tangling in her waves, she gasped at the intensity of the contact. He thrust his hips into hers as she countered with fevered desperation.
Uttering a grateful prayer, Tristan responded in kind, biting at her succulent lips before thrusting his tongue into the luscious warmth. She softened, her delectable curves moulding against him, and he growled at the feel of her soft breasts pressed against him.
Oblivious to their morbid surroundings, they tangled together in a dance of passion, the euphoria of survival powering them on. Madeline was aware of little else other than feel of his scalding lips upon hers, his hands pressing her ruthlessly into his unyielding body. Gratitude that he was alive…that she was alive, initially overpowered any sense of judgement, but as soon as he laid his lips on hers, it was no longer gratitude that drove her on.
A hunger seeped into every crevice of her body and it could only be sated by Tristan.
The rustle of leaves sprang them apart guiltily and they both grabbed for the swords they had flung on the ground. With a sigh of relief, Madeline realised it was men from the village, led by Thomas.
Thomas dashed forwards, looking at the fallen men with a mixture of curiosity and horror. “Lady Madeline, are you well?” He gaped at the blood soaked sword in her hand.
“I am, thank you, Thomas. ‘Tis thanks to you that I am unharmed.”
Noticing his glance she threw down the sword, glad to no longer have need of it.
He blushed. “’Twas not me that felled these men.”
Tristan gave the lad a pat on the shoulder. “You have done well today, Thomas.” He turned to Madeline with a wry smile and an inquisitive glint. “As did you, Madeline.”
Giving him a wary look she wondered how she would explain away her skill with a sword. Almost certainly, he would press for an explanation but a part of her wanted it to remain in the past. She was not ashamed of the things she had done, but she wondered how he would feel about her if he knew. But then why did she care?
His kiss had rocked her to the core, no doubt imprinted in her mind forever, but naught had changed. She would not concede her independence to any man, no matter how much his kisses affected her.
As the villagers rummaged through the dead men’s pockets, seizing aught of value, Tristan began to lead her away from the scene, a gentle hand on her elbow. Madeline was tempted to pull her arm away from his grasp but she became aware of her vision blurring slightly. Realising it was probably from the blow to the head she had taken, she gripped onto his strong arm, reluctant to let anyone see her falter.
Tristan looked at her in surprise, and then with concern, as she felt a warm trickle snake down her forehead.
“You’re bleeding. Did you take a hit?”
“I am?” she asked hazily, as blood rushed in her ears, the ground beginning to give way under her feet. “‘Twas just a light blow.”
Pressing his sleeve against her forehead, he kept his arm there as his other arm wound around her waist, holding her up. His warmth and fragrance assaulted her senses, compounding her confused state.
“Can you walk?”
“Aye.” She wasn’t so sure but she was not going to suffer the indignity of being carried.
He looked at her doubtfully but continued on, leading her slowly to the forest path.
Madeline was grateful to see his brown destrier waiting patiently for them as her head became thick with fog, as if she had indulged in too much wine. Tristan helped her up onto the horse before mounting himself. His body pressed into hers and his powerful arms encircled her as he took the reins.
“Lean against me.”
“Nay,” she whispered. The rigid strength of his body lured her in and a twinge of vulnerability resounded in her chest.
“Madeline, lean against me. You are injured; there is no shame to be had in needing aid.”
Her head dropped back against his chest of its own accord and Madeline vaguely wondered if he was really referring to her injury. Damn the man for understanding her so thoroughly.
***
By the time they had arrived back at the manor house, Madeline had fallen asleep against Tristan’s chest, the exertions of that day having taken its toll. She barely stirred when he cradled her in his arms and carried her inside. Protectiveness burgeoned within his chest as she drowsily buried her head against him. Doubtless, she would be mortified to learn that she had been handled so when she awoke, but he was grateful for her lethargic state for at least she could be attended to without arguments.
Alice blustered around them. “Oh, me poor lamb. Is she hurt?”
“Aye, but ‘tis none to serious. She will awake with a sore head though.”
“Take her to bed; I’ll fetch some cloths and water.”
As Alice scurried off to the kitchen, Tristan carried Madeline to her chambers, placing her onto her bed with care. She merely sighed as she settled onto the bed and Tristan cautiously seated himself on the side of the mattress, wincing as the ropes creaked under his weight.
He brushed her hair from her face to examine the cut to her head but it was hard to tell what the damage was amongst the thick crimson of her hair. It had bled plentifully though and blood was smeared across her forehead where he had placed his shirt sleeve. His stomach clenched when he thought of what could have come to pass and he regretted that he was not there to h
ave prevented it happening altogether.
The steady sounds of her breath worked to soothe him and he looked at her relaxed face, glad that she seemed to be in free of pain. With her rosy lips slightly ajar, her cold eyes safely hidden behind a fan of dark lashes, she had regained a look of innocence and Tristan felt as if he was stepping on sacred territory, viewing her so shamelessly.
A vision of her laid out next to him with the healthy flush of a satisfied woman, instead of the cool pallor that afflicted her now, flashed through his mind. Before he realised what he was doing, he found himself brushing a finger along her parted lips, wishing he could taste their succulence once more. The door creaked behind him and he recoiled guiltily.
Alice handed him some cloths and placed some water on the chair at her bedside.
He looked at her with puzzlement. “Alice, should you not-”
Alice shook her head. “Ye clean her up, milord. I will make her up a poppy draught – ‘twill help her sleep and ease any pain.”
Tristan frowned. She didn’t look like she needed any help sleeping, but he didn’t want her in any pain so he nodded.
“Ye’ll need to remove her gown too. ‘Tis filthy and she’ll not rest properly in it.”
Used to Alice’s commanding manner, he found no surprise in being ordered around by her but surely she did not expect him to undress her!
“Alice-”
“I can’t lift the mistress to remove it, ye must do it,” she told him determinedly.
Tristan narrowed his eyes at her, wondering if she was teasing him, but her face remained impassive.
“Well? Are ye going to sit there all day, milord?” she laughed, before scurrying away, leaving Tristan convinced that he had just been on the receiving end of Alice’s scheming.
With a sigh, he turned back to Madeline who showed no sign of waking, and he thanked God for small mercies. Who knows how she would react if she awoke to find him undressing her?
A Summer Siege (Medieval Romance) Page 7