At the Warrior's Mercy

by Denise Lynn

  Gregor retrieved her stockings and slippers. ‘You are going back to the keep.’

  ‘No. I exchanged myself for the captives. I will not trade back.’

  ‘I don’t want your captives. I just want you gone.’

  Beatrice jerked back as if he’d slapped her. His words hurt much more than a slap ever could. Her hands shook as she dressed as quickly as possible. But she fumbled with the sleeves of her gown. Unable to get her hands through, she cursed softly.

  Gregor came over to the bed and slid a knife through the wrist edge of both sleeves. Decorative beads and gemstones, free of their anchoring threads, pinged off the floor of the cottage. ‘Hurry up.’

  She stared in confused dismay at what had been her best, most expensive gown. What was wrong with him?

  Her feet hit the floor and she marched across the cottage to where Gregor had retreated by the table with his back to her.

  She grasped his arm to force him to turn around and face her, but he easily pulled free of her hold.

  ‘Gregor, tell me what is wrong. Did I do something to displease you?’

  His answering laugh was cold and cruel. ‘Not everything is about you.’

  Beatrice breathed deeply and stared at his back. Something wasn’t right. For one thing the man who repeatedly demanded eye contact while discussing anything refused to meet her gaze. For another thing he was visibly upset. She placed a hand on his back. He stiffened at her touch, but not before she felt a tremor shake his body.

  ‘Gregor.’ She softened her tone. ‘I have willingly given you all I had to give, don’t cast me aside now.’

  He spun around and engulfed her in a hard embrace. ‘I will never give you up, or cast you aside. But I need you to return to Warehaven.’

  Give her up? What was that about? What was he not saying?

  She pushed away from his embrace far enough to see his face. ‘Have my parents returned?’

  ‘If only it were something that easy.’ He cupped the back of her head and leaned down towards her. ‘As far as I am aware, no, your parents have not yet returned.’

  She raised up on her toes to meet him halfway and stroked his cheek whispering, ‘Kiss me, Gregor. Kiss me like there is no Roul, no Warehaven, only you and me.’

  If only there was a way to freeze this moment, to keep his lips on hers for ever, his strong arms holding her tight against his chest.

  She sighed knowing how impossible that would be and rested her cheek against his chest, over the steady pulse of his heart. Right now he was her lover, her protector. But the moment she left this cottage he would set all of that aside to once again become David’s warrior, the man who would follow his King’s orders, letting nothing and no one, not even her, stand in his way.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ He rested his chin on top of her head. His voice was rough, distant, as if he were already setting her aside.

  ‘These last few hours. It was more than some people are given in a life time.’ What would happen next was nothing new. Armies had always attacked armies and the victors had always laid claim to the remaining valuables.

  She would be a part of the remains. And like many women before her, she would be expected to accept her lot in life.

  But she was luckier than many of them—while they had likely gone to their captor’s bed a frightened prisoner to be used and abused, she had this day to hold close to her heart.

  He released her and moved away. ‘It is time for you to go.’

  She stretched an arm out towards him, wanting one more minute. ‘Gregor.’

  ‘Go.’ He reached beneath the bed to retrieve his weapons and tossed them on the bed. ‘Just go, Beatrice.’

  She stared at the scabbard ensconcing his sword and raced for the door, slapping a hand over her mouth to hold back a cry.

  Chapter Twelve

  Smoke billowed above the flames still shooting up from the pile that used to be a warehouse. They’d fought the blaze for hours, before Gregor had finally called a halt to what had proven an impossible to win battle.

  He sat on his horse at the edge of town, exhausted and angry at those responsible for such an act. When he found them, there would be no mercy. No more than what had been given to the seven men trapped inside the burning warehouse when it had fallen.

  Simon rode up alongside. He had sent the older man to check on the status of the ships and knew that his quick return would not be with good news.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three ships lost. And five men still unaccounted for.’

  ‘The round ships?’

  ‘Yes, and your new one.’

  Gregor cursed. Two of his largest ships had been refitted for moving troops and now their burned-out shells rested at the bottom of Warehaven’s harbour next to one of his finest clinkers—the one he’d recently finished building.

  ‘How?’

  Simon squinted his eyes against the smoke blowing their way with the shifting of the wind. ‘The men said that after the warehouse caught fire they heard men screaming, so everyone rushed to the aid of those caught in the warehouse.’

  ‘Leaving the ships unprotected.’ Gregor finished the explanation, then asked, ‘And were there men caught in the warehouse fire?’

  ‘Not then, no.’

  ‘Didn’t think so.’

  The warehouse had been a diversion. It had been done by someone who knew the layout of Warehaven’s wharf.

  They were well aware that the building on the end held household goods—fabrics, candles, wooden furniture—items that would add ready fuel to the fire. Which was the reason this building was set far apart from the other warehouse buildings.

  Had they chosen one of the other ones for the distraction, the fire could have easily leapt to the inn, bakery and on down the line, setting the entire row of buildings on fire.

  The question was—why? The ships they torched were empty. Two of them were fitted for moving troops, nothing else.

  If the goal had been to keep him here, it was a waste of time and energy, because he wasn’t going anywhere to begin with. If it was done simply to anger him, they’d succeeded. What they didn’t realise was that that tactic would only make him more dangerous.

  So far, he’d been nice...fair-minded...chivalrous. And he’d done so because of a woman. It wasn’t her fault. It was his own.

  But he was done playing.

  Simon asked, ‘Do you think it was one of them?’

  ‘If not, then it was one of ours.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think any of our men would intentionally cause this much damage.’

  Gregor didn’t bother telling the old man that he’d been spouting sarcasm out of frustrated anger—of course it was one, or more, of Warehaven’s people. Instead he said, ‘I’m taking the keep tonight.’

  ‘Why tonight? You’ve let her hold it thus far.’

  ‘Because apparently everyone is uncertain as to who is in charge. Perhaps taking possession of the keep will clear their uncertainty.’

  ‘What about Lady—?’

  Gregor stopped his man’s question, by saying, ‘She will do as she’s ordered.’ He hoped for her sake she did. Otherwise there would be more than one battle taking place this night.

  She’d already interfered by sending men from the keep to help with the fire. He’d sent them back, amazed that his own men had let it happen. They essentially permitted the enemy to walk right past them into the village and down to the docks.

  Rage had consumed him until he’d realised that he’d been the one to permit such confusion to exist. Nobody was certain who was in charge. Some thought he and Lady Beatrice were equally in control.

  By the time the sun rose, the confusion would be gone.

  * * *r />
  Beatrice leaned against the stone wall of the battlements. She’d been here since before nightfall yesterday and now the sun had just begun to rise at the dawn of another day. Torches mounted around the walls supplied additional light that wouldn’t be needed for much longer.

  ‘You might not hear anything until later.’

  Sir Brent stopped beside her.

  She waved him on, not willing to talk to anyone for fear she’d burst into tears of utter frustration.

  She’d seen the smoke from the fire yesterday and had sent men to help douse the flames. Men Gregor had only sent right back to the keep, with orders to stay put.

  Apparently he hadn’t needed the extra hands. But he had to know she waited to hear what had happened. Had anyone been injured, or worse? Had any of the ships been lost? What about her father’s warehouses? Or the other businesses near the wharf?

  Finally, when she thought she could stand it no longer, she heard the faint jingle of armour and clang of weapons as the men in the clearing began to move.

  In the faint light of dawn, she could see that they marched in two single file lines towards the keep.

  She shouted, ‘Hold!’ at her archers on the wall. Before ordering them to loosen their arrows, she wanted to see what Gregor was up to.

  The lines of men stopped at Warehaven’s gate, forming the human walls of a corridor that stretched nearly to the edge of the clearing.

  A lone rider approached. He wasn’t halfway across the clearing when she realised that it was Gregor.

  He, too, stopped before the gate and shouted up at her, ‘Send out the villagers and your men. Leave only your priest and servants inside the walls.’

  Without waiting for any answer, or question, he turned and rode back the way he’d come.

  She stood there dumbfounded. He was ordering her to leave herself and her servants defenceless, unprotected inside the walls. She studied the columns of his men. They were armed. And he wanted those inside to walk through that corridor of men?

  He’d lost his ability to reason.

  A shrill whistle broke the silence of the morning.

  The corridor of men moved as one, wheeling about to form a double row of men lining her wall. An opening was left in front of the gate. Before she could finish wondering why, she heard the rumble and looked towards the edge of the clearing.

  As the men in front of the gate raised their shields, locking them against each other, a battering ram rolled steadily towards her keep.

  Beatrice blinked twice, before turning to shout at those in the bailey. ‘Drop your weapons and assemble here, now.’

  Not about to see her keep destroyed because she’d failed to follow an order quickly enough, she ordered the guards in the tower to raise the portcullis and swing open the heavy gates.

  She pulled Sir Brent aside. ‘Get the villagers out here. Line them up behind the soldiers.’

  ‘What about you, Lady Beatrice?’

  She glanced over the wall, then back at Sir Brent. ‘He told me to stay, so I’m staying. He is probably taking possession of the keep. We should be thankful he is permitting Warehaven’s people and the guards to leave first.’

  ‘Do you think...?’ He let his question trail off.

  She was in no mood for his half-questions. ‘Do I think what?’

  He nodded towards the men in front of the wall. ‘That they’ll let us pass unharmed?’

  ‘I know nothing more than you do. But I doubt that he’d be that underhanded.’

  Her heart skipped raggedly at the brief thought that he might possibly be. There was nothing, no one to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. She pushed her worry aside, unwilling to give it power by dwelling on something that had yet to happen.

  ‘I can’t leave you here alone.’

  ‘I won’t be alone. Almedha and the others will be here with me.’

  Sir Brent looked at her and shook his head. ‘Not much protection in that lot.’

  ‘It is my responsibility to protect them, not the other way around.’

  ‘And what is a lone woman going to do against an armed force?’

  The rumble of the battering ram grew louder as it moved closer. She pushed him towards the ladder. ‘Sir Brent, go! Get the men and the villagers out of here.’

  As soon as Sir Brent started leading the people of Warehaven out of the gates, the battering ram stopped and was pushed off to the side making room for them to pass.

  Beatrice stood at the wall, watching. Waiting. Not certain what would happen, not willing to look away.

  She saw Sir Simon approach, then enter Warehaven. He climbed the ladder to the wall and stood beside her. ‘The villagers will return to their homes. Your men will be permitted to make camp at the far side of the clearing for now—unarmed.’

  Something had changed, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. So she asked, ‘And what about me?’

  He fell silent, but awkwardly patted her shoulder.

  Beatrice swallowed her building fear, drew in a steadying breath and asked softly, ‘What is happening?’

  ‘Lord Gregor will be here soon. I am certain he’ll explain all.’

  He then left her alone.

  Beatrice rested her forehead on the cold stone and closed her eyes. A blind person could tell that Gregor was, or had, taken possession of Warehaven. But why now? Had something happened in the village to make him change into the cold-hearted warrior of rumour?

  She heard him enter the keep. The bridle on his horse and the spurs on his heels jingled, announcing his arrival in the eerie silence that had fallen over Warehaven.

  Beatrice turned to look down at him, but he paid her no attention. After dismounting, he handed the reins to a stable hand and then strode into the keep.

  Apparently if she wanted to talk to him, she’d have to request an audience, inside the...his...hall.

  His men entered the keep and within moments the red flag was lowered from the high-tower perch, to be replaced by the standards of Warehaven and FitzHenry. Her father would now have no warning of what was afoot.

  She stayed on the wall until the thudding of her heart eased and the pounding in her temples slowed. It would do no good to argue with him, Gregor didn’t argue. The last time she’d tried he’d made her look and feel like a fool. They’d been alone then, with no one to witness her shame.

  Uncertain if she could retain her composure, Beatrice climbed down the ladder and walked towards the keep. The moment she set foot inside the Great Hall she felt every pair of eyes looking at her.

  The men and servants were waiting to see what she would do, or what she would say.

  But Gregor watched her—studied her closely...as if seeking to determine the right moment to launch an attack. His unwavering stare sent shivers down her spine.

  He sat in the lord’s chair, in the centre of the raised dais. Knowing she couldn’t speak to him without becoming emotional, she headed for the stairs.

  ‘Lady Beatrice!’

  She came to a halt at his shout. Without turning around, she replied, ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘A word.’

  Beatrice shook her head. ‘Can this not wait, my lord?’

  ‘No.’

  She jumped at the feel of his warm breath against the back of her neck. She’d not heard his approach. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed her fear. He was standing right behind her and did not look pleased to see her in the least.

  He extended his arm past her, motioning up the stairs. ‘After you.’

  The twittering of the servants let her know that she’d made a mistake—she’d given them something to talk about. The hardest thing to control in a keep of any size was gossip. And gossip they would. Beatrice knew they’d take every little word, the slightest movement, and blow t
hem completely out of proportion.

  By morning she’d not be able to recognise the tale of her entry into the keep. She knew anything she did or said now would only embellish the tales further. So, as sedately as possible, given the drumming of her pulse and the whirling of her thoughts, she walked up the stairs.

  Once at the top, she turned to her left along the corridor, heading to her own chamber. Gregor skirted around her, grasped her hand and led her in the opposite direction.

  Since there were a few options—a tower cell, the door leading out to the wall and a couple of empty chambers, she asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘The Lord and Lady’s chamber.’

  ‘That is my parents’ chamber.’

  ‘Nothing in Warehaven belongs to your parents.’

  Two armed men unfamiliar to her stood guard outside the open chamber door. They moved aside, giving her and Gregor entrance to the room. Once inside, Gregor closed the door behind them.

  Beatrice’s eyes widened at the sight of what had been done to the chamber. Gone were the ceiling-to-floor curtains that had surrounded the bed—curtains she and Isabella had helped her mother embellish with stitched scrollwork along the edges. The matching coverlet had been replaced with fur covers.

  Also missing were the curtains that lent privacy to the alcove, along with the comfortable pillows that had lined the stone bench inside the alcove. Gone, too, were the small fancifully carved side tables and the two cushioned chairs that used to flank the brazier.

  There was nothing left in the chamber that had made it her parents’ solar, the one room in the keep that had been solely reserved for family.

  Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, Beatrice crossed the nearly bare room to stare out of the tall windows.

  Gregor paused behind her and turned her round to face him. Silently he untied the belt around her waist and let it fall to the floor. When he reached up and started to brush her gown off her shoulder, Beatrice grasped his wrist. ‘No.’

  He paused for a heartbeat and then continued removing her clothing. ‘I have already been played for a fool. It won’t happen again.’