Battle Cry and The Berserker

by C. L. Scholey

  “Should we seek an audience with the king?” Emit fretted.

  “Nay. Fear not my friend. All will be well. Let the girls have their adventure. Soon enough both will be bound to their homes with babes of their own. Neither knight will allow harm to come to either, I’m certain else I would be donning my chainmail. Most assuredly it will be over soon. I am told our sweet little Constantine has been roaming the gardens. Lord Christopher’s people are a bit disgruntled...and gassy.” Gregory chuckled again.

  “Spiteful little vixen,” Emit said with wide eyes. Though he had to wonder what they had deprived her of. He remembered one experience of his own when he sent her to bed without dinner. His tummy raged for days after. He really should have a word with the old crone in the village, Constantine adored, about her teachings.

  “All will work itself out. I just hope neither blame the lasses for their transgressions. They are too close to be separated for long periods of time.” Gregory fretted over this. That was his largest concern. If someone became too angry and disallowed them communication he couldn’t fathom how they would retaliate. One of the reasons he agreed to Juliette’s betrothal was he felt certain both Broc and Christopher would allow them access to one another. Perhaps he was at fault for not making this point clear to both parties.

  “You will think of something. Of this I am certain,” Emit offered kindly. He liked not the now saddened expression on Gregory’s face.

  Gregory returned his friend’s gentle look. “Perhaps something will come to me.”

  * * * *

  Rosecliff sat his horse gingerly. Damnation, how could such a dainty foot cause such damage? He had been kicked by horses with less power behind their blow. His poor lord. Rosecliff knew not which was worse. The terrible ear-shattering battle cry or the berserker. He shifted uncomfortably. One thing was certain. It was going to take him a very long time to return home. Drat the vixen.

  * * * *

  A new day dawned bright and clear. Juliette wandered the castle restlessly. She was still aggrieved with Devon and his callous wit. The man seemed to be around every corner she took until she retired to her room the evening before. Lord Broc scowled at everyone’s approach, muttering to himself, then retired to his room, and Mary had not been about. Juliette was bored. She missed Constantine and wished she were here this very moment to help her occupy her time. Drat. All of whom roamed the castle gave her a wide berth. It was not her fault she had rendered one of the guards inactive yesterday. He really should not have snuck up on her. He claimed to only have been coming from the kitchen, but one never knew. The gentle knight who had taught her the battle move had told her men were sly devils. Yet when the man almost choked upon the apple piece he held within his mouth, it had given her a moment’s pause. Perhaps she had been a tad hasty. It was not her fault her nerves were shattered. One kidnaping and one attempted kidnaping would frazzle anyone.

  “There you are, my little berserker,” Devon said with relief. He had been a bit fearful he had lost her.

  Drat. Juliette thought she had finally lost him. “Why do you insist on following me about like a giant puppy?”

  “Someone must keep a close eye on you. Rory took out half the castle guards; do you seek to take out the rest?” Devon chuckled as she turned crimson.

  “’Twas not my fault. I was frightened.” Juliette said, her bottom lip drooping while she scowled.

  “’Tis a good thing the man has sired offspring, or I fear his wife would be sorely vexed.”

  Juliette grimaced with distaste. “I did the woman a favor. At least on last eve she would not have been in need of a bucket of water to clean her filthy sticky hands.”

  Devon looked at her confused. A small smile then played on his lips. “My brother told me of your attempt to waylay him. Just what was it you and your sister were seeking?”

  “We only wished his audience a short time,” Juliette mumbled, filled with embarrassment.

  “I am certain he would have been quite informative whilst knocked senseless,” Devon teased.

  Again Juliette blushed. She looked around hoping to spy an escape route. Devon saw her eyes dance about and to his own embarrassment for just an instant he refrained from lowering his hands to protect his manhood.

  “Come now, I only play with you,” Devon said.

  Juliette scowled. “If you seek play, my lord, perhaps we can find you a few knights to decapitate, perhaps a bear or some wild boars to tussle with.”

  Devon threw back his head and laughed with delight. She was a charming little minx. Most of the women he met played coy. They batted their lashes and cast shy glances. The only thing Juliette seemed to bat was at himself. Lord Christopher was a lucky man. For some inexplicable reason, this thought angered Devon. He wondered just how fond of Lord Christopher Juliette was. It was obvious the lord must care a great deal for her having been so foolish as to kidnap Rory’s wife. Yet his man professed at wanting information on her vocal cords.

  “Do you know much of your betrothed?” Devon asked.

  “Nay. We have met a few times. I must admit my fear for Constantine was too great to offer much attention,” Juliette declared. She was rather surprised at the question. She noted how Devon’s look had gone from amusement to now anger. “Most certainly your brother cannot be more angered of Constantine’s taking than my betrothed is of mine.”

  “Perhaps,” Devon said with a shuffle of feet.

  “What is it you are not speaking of?” Juliette demanded.

  Devon shrugged, then sighed. “Do you wish to know why that man was in your chamber?”

  “I already know why. Lord Christopher sent him to save me, thinking I was in great peril,” Juliette said with a haughty toss of her long locks.

  Devon chuckled at her vanity. “He sought only to find out if you bay as your dear sister does.”

  Juliette grew outraged. “’Tis a lie.”

  “Most assuredly, my little berserker, I am being quite truthful,” Devon replied, then laughed loudly as her anger exploded and she began to pace.

  “He only sought to find out if I bellowed as Constantine? I am betrothed to a man who fears my vocal cords? What kind of knight fears battle cries?” Juliette yelled.

  “A man who has never once engaged in real battle,” Devon said. He felt rather sorry for the little hellcat. It would not be easy on her knowing she might have a better chance in combat than her future husband.

  Juliette glared at him. “You are enjoying this, are you not?”

  “Nay. I seek only to offer you the truth,” Devon said with a kind smile.

  Juliette was angry. He was enjoying her discomposure. Perhaps she should wipe that smug look off his face. Juliette lunged before Devon knew what she was about. She caught him soundly on his jaw with a small fist.

  “Ouch,” both cried in unison. Devon rubbed at his jaw. Juliette leaned against the cold castle wall holding her paining hand. She was fighting back tears. By God, she felt as though she had punched solid stone.

  “Damnation, Devon, cease your assaults on the poor gentle lass, she has been through enough,” Rory demanded as he strode forward. He had come looking for his brother and took note of Juliette’s near crumpled state. Devon moved his mouth like a fish, his eyes wide.

  “It was her own doing,” he spluttered.

  “Nonsense. I have seen no evidence the little lass fights like a mad wolf.” Rory growled. Indeed, soon he would have him believe she had downed a seasoned knight. Rory helped Juliette to walk with his hand about her waist leading her away.

  Devon stood there scowling. He then laughed with merriment. The lass was amusing. Though his jaw pained, he would place a wager she would never again seek to strike him there. Although, he had better be prepared just in case. He’d be sorry to see her go.

  Chapter Seven

  Lord Christopher was finding it difficult to keep upright on his mount. His head throbbed, his belly still danced and there remained that putrid lingering odor about him and hi
s men. At least, the few of those who were able to ride. He had been unable to don his chain mail, as were any of his knights. The weight alone would have not enabled him to climb into his saddle. A tiny slip of a lass had reduced them all to flatulent foul-smelling miserable cretins. By the Saints if he could actually lift his sword he would find it difficult not to run her through. Nicholas tossed a furious gaze down at Constantine. She sat atop a sprite little grey long legged mare smiling smugly. She seemed oblivious to the death looks thrown in her direction.

  Worse still was Rosecliff’s unnerving discovery. The poor man had almost fallen from his horse when he had finally returned. Nicholas was certain he must have been robbed or at least found out by Broc and beaten. His surprise was unsurpassed as he had learned it was not a man or men who had rendered him incapacitated, yet his own gentle Juliette. It would seem the sisters worked as a team. Constantine offered up the battle cry whilst the berserker raced in to finish them off while deafened and delusional. What was he to do? It appeared from Rosecliff’s detailed description his intended would seek to cause irrevocable damage to his manhood. Damnation, no wonder their father was so eager to wed them off. Nicholas was actually beginning to feel a certain sort of empathy for Broc. Both of them having been unsuspecting fools.

  “My lord, it would appear young Philip has fallen from his mount again,” a man complained, then belched.

  When Nicholas looked back the young squire’s saddle was vacant. Nicholas muttered a soft expletive. It was the third fall in less than an hour. If his bowels did not kill him the falls would render him daft.

  Constantine’s gaze also settled onto the poor prone slight figure of the lad and felt vaguely responsible. Stubbornly she felt Lord Christopher should not have allowed the lad to join them, he was too ill. Their procession halted while they righted young Philip back atop his mount.

  “Where is Rosecliff?” Nicholas suddenly inquired, he cast his glance about. The man had been with them but a short time ago insisting he must accompany them. He had muttered something under his breath about a disemboweling.

  “I fear he partook of some suckling pig before a warning was sounded. The cook was unable to dispose of it, he being incapacitated. I believe Rosecliff stopped to relieve himself but has still yet to finish,” a man commented, casting a backward glance. If one didn’t know better, they would think his look was calculated, precise, almost cunning in its direct sweep of the entire area. Yet it was due to the fact if he moved too swiftly he would unseat himself.

  Nicholas groaned and ran a hand down his face. He doubted Rosecliff would be joining them anytime soon. “Never mind. We will retrieve him on the return trip,” Nicholas said then muttered, “If he still lives.”

  Constantine chuckled. He would live. Though for the next little while may think death would be a welcome treat.

  “You find our agony amusing. You are a heartless wench.” Nicholas snarled.

  “’Tis your own fault for stealing me,” Constantine said with a glare of her own.

  “I only thought to save you,” Nicholas ground out. “I was not aware ’twas I that would need saving.”

  “Never fear, I will soon be back with my husband.”

  “Poor man. Has he been rendered deaf?”

  Constantine hardened her glare at him. “He seeks my return.”

  “Poor daft deaf fool.”

  “He is neither poor nor daft nor deaf nor a fool.” Constantine growled.

  “Forgive me, my lady, yet I needs must ponder on his sanity,” Nicholas declared with amusement.

  “He will run you through,” Constantine howled in fury.

  “In my present state it would be a mercy killing no doubt,” Nicholas said and could not help his small chuckle.

  Constantine took in his drawn haggard pale features, his slightly sunken dull eyes. His powerful body was slumped in his saddle. The knights around him rode quietly, their looks defeated already amidst sallow faces and shaky hands. She exhaled on a loud breath.

  “Perhaps my means were a trite excessive,” she conceded grudgingly.

  “A trite lass. By the Saints, my insides have been to war,” Nicholas spat. “Poor Philip was hard-pressed not to cork his own self for the ride lest he slide from his saddle.”

  Constantine had to chuckle at that. The image it presented was too much. “I only wished to be returned to Rory,” she declared with heart-felt sincerity.

  “You will be returned lass, never fear. It is my hardened knights that cringe at one of your sorrow filled looks. Damnation, I have never seen the like. One trembling bottom lip casts more terror into ones breast than a berserker with a broad sword,” Nicholas informed her amazed. Grudgingly he admitted Broc had himself a prize if he but rendered himself deaf, or immune to her caterwauling.

  Nicholas was just not up to the attention the lass would require. Also he admitted thoughts of Lady Juliette plagued heavily within his mind. Thoughts of his dear sweet mother washing his father, perhaps Juliette would seek to drown him. The gentle caress to his father’s temple when his mother thought no one was about. Juliette might only seek to blacken an eye. Nicholas was also pondering thoughtfully trying to understand why Rosecliff told him to shave his head before bedding her. He had been too afraid to ask more questions. He liked not the idea of wearing a loincloth made of chain mail on his wedding’s eve. It would definitely make any intimacy difficult. Yes indeed, what to do about his betrothal to a female warrior? Nicholas wanted someone sweet and gentle he could protect. How would it look if his castle were stormed and tiny Juliette raced to him calling; “Fear not my dear husband, I will protect you, stand behind me.” That would never do. No, his little wife must be helpless...and quiet.

  If he severed his betrothal Lord Campbell would cry foul and seek an audience with his majesty. It was never good to anger the king. Perhaps he could explain to Edward about the Lady Juliette’s peculiarity. Although he highly doubted he would be believed. One look at the petite beautiful Juliette and Nicholas would never be allowed to attend court again. The laughter would be as deafening as Constantine, or perhaps close. Nicholas hated the thought of beating the girl into submission. What if she beat me into submission? He wanted his wife’s love and undying adoration and devotion, he wanted her in awe of him, not her fear, or to be afraid of her. This pondering was giving him a headache. Well at least his belly would not suffer alone in its misery.

  “My lord?” Constantine asked, breaking Nicholas from his reverie.

  “Aye?”

  “Just what will happen when your armies meet?” Constantine asked. She had been doing some pondering of her own. At first the idea of being fought over was exciting. Realization struck that someone might actually be injured or killed. Perhaps even Rory. Or Juliette’s betrothed. Though Constantine did not care for the daft lord, he had not harmed her. She would not like to see his blood spilled. What if Juliette also held some affection for the addled fool? She may be a bit miffed at her. That would be a first. Would Juliette really become angry with her?

  It was on the tip of Nicholas’s tongue to tell Constantine a great war was about to be waged, with huge amounts of blood and guts spilled. He felt that spiteful. Seeing Constantine’s saddened expression he was quick to change his mind. He was still rather doubtful Broc wanted the lass returned, if he even bothered to show at all. If she were to be howling he might think it a battle cry and race for them, swords drawn, Nicholas not even having the chance to explain. Worse still, what if he really did not want his wife back? What if he thought to engage in battle and somehow Constantine were to end up dead. Well would not that be convenient for Broc! Though Rosecliff had sworn the man sought her safe return Nicholas was skeptical. He slumped even further in his seat. Damn. He would be forced to defend the banshee. By the Saints, what if he were victorious? He would then be stuck with both sisters to antagonize him, he felt certain. Damnation, there was that headache again.

  “My lord?” Constantine questioned. Lord Christopher’s loo
k was almost an agonized pain. She hoped his bowels were not about to rampage again, they would never get to the field.

  “Do not fret, my lady. Perhaps we will partake in food and drink,” Nicholas said.

  “On a battle field?” Constantine asked incredulous. She knew not much of war but most assuredly men did not spend it socializing... Or did they? Constantine scowled. Women stayed home and fretted for their men’s very existence and yet here they were, the great fiends, having ale and biscuits. That seemed rather devious.

  “Just how much drink must we consume?” Constantine demanded.

  “There would not be enough in this particular case,” Nicholas muttered. By God if he could not rid himself of the lass soon he would most certainly run himself through.

  “I did not think to bring a mug,” Constantine said fretfully. Nicholas groaned. His head slumped forward as though pained. “Perhaps you should not participate in this drinking, my lord. You seem to have paled further.”

  Nicholas chuckled. Her innocence was refreshing, annoying yet refreshing.

  “Your worry is endearing, if not a tad late in coming. Fear not Constantine, I may not partake of any ale, yet rest assured I will most likely end up sprawled face down on the field with my men,” Nicholas informed her and belched.

  * * * *

  Lord Rory Broc looked magnificent in hauberk and chausses. He stood tall and powerful in the great hall. His broad sword on his hip, his helmet tucked under one arm and his shield close by. Upon his surcoat was embroidered a stunning likeness of a phoenix. Constantine had deftly stitched it for him telling him he had the swift motion and cunning of the great legendary bird. Rory had told Constantine of the Arabian myth of the blood red bird that lives in the desert for five or six hundred years then sets itself aflame. The phoenix is said to be a symbol of immortality. Though Constantine liked not that it set itself on fire and burned to ashes, she hoped Rory would be with her forever. She had demanded Rory draw a picture of this phenomena for her. He had been greatly pleased with her efforts when she produced the finished result.