by Bale, Leigh
Nothing but a white flag could have drawn Nicholas from the safety of Sutcliffe’s walls. Though he’d been told that Lord Marshal had honor, Nicholas was no fool. Lord Marshal would undoubtedly do whatever was necessary to win this war and Nicholas didn’t trust the English or their king.
With that in mind, Nicholas cautiously agreed to meet with Lord Marshal. Nicholas mounted his warhorse in the bailey. His battle standard of a charging black ram waved high overhead as the portcullis was raised and the drawbridge lowered. The morning sun beat down on him, but the breeze held an icy chill.
Nicholas and his men rode out to meet the English. As their horses clattered over the drawbridge, excitement gripped him, a cruel elation that charged him with energy. It was something he hated, but couldn’t deny. Even before engaging in combat, the heat of battle was upon him. Yet, for the first time, he had no desire to fight. He would much prefer to return to his chamber with Ysabelle. Though they were now wed and the marriage consummated, Nicholas knew it was a tenuous possession. He knew Marshal would enjoy ending his life and handing Ysabelle and Sutcliffe over to another husband appointed by the English king. But he must live. To protect Ysabelle. If Nicholas died and she carried his child, it would be a cruel life for her and his babe.
Pushing such morbid thoughts aside, he concentrated instead on the moment. He planned to live a long and happy life, if possible.
The king’s emissary sat his black charger on the opposite side of the river, a stoic expression on his face. Several English soldiers flanked him. Wary of leaving the safety of the gatehouse, Nicholas led the way as three dozen of his armed men followed him. They were battle-hardened warriors, dressed for war, prepared for any trickery, prepared to fight to the death.
If all went as planned, Nicholas would convince the English that their claim to Sutcliffe was foolhardy. Ysabelle was his and he would not relent.
High above on the ramparts, bowmen stood ready to shower arrows down upon the English. As long as they stayed close to the castle walls, Nicholas and the men with him had an advantage. If the situation turned ugly, they’d be able to escape.
Although the day was new, thick clouds scuttled across the sky, boding ill of a storm to come. Looking up, Nicholas relished the sight of his standard snapping in the breeze. Adjusting his battle helm and the weight of his sword, he caught the scent of rain. Alex rode by his side, also dressed in chain mail. It was good to have his brother near. Though Alex had a jovial sense of humor and friendly disposition, he was a fierce warrior upon the battlefield.
“It will be difficult for Marshal to dislodge you from Sutcliffe. Surely he must know the attempt is futile,” Alex observed as they rode forward.
Nicholas didn’t respond. He merely looked ahead, taking in every detail of Marshal’s fifty mounted knights waiting near the forest edge. One hundred armed soldiers stood on foot, armed with spears, swords, and crossbows.
“This puny army willna defeat Sutcliffe,” Alex purred with confidence.
“No doubt reinforcements have been sent for,” Nicholas remarked. “Once King William hears what I’ve done, he will send more men to squelch this uprising and try to send me to a swift death.”
Alex gave a harsh laugh. “He can try, but he doesn’t know you verra well.”
Marshal edged his stallion forward, accompanied by two other men.
“Who are they? Do you know them?” Nicholas asked Alex.
“Lambert de Litz sits upon Marshal’s right. He is Sir Malcolm’s son,” Alex jutted his chin toward the obese man. “They say he’s a coward in battle and won his spurs by purchase rather than deeds.”
Nicholas scowled. Lambert was so large he almost bowed the back of his horse.
Alex sneered at the man, his voice laced with disdain. “He will be easily defeated in battle. See how he wears his hauberk like a woman’s apron, hanging from his neck, with the sides unbound over his fat gut. He looks like a corpulent old maid wearing a dress.”
“Yes, but the priest is a different matter,” Nicholas observed. “I don’t want to make war with the Church.”
Nodding in agreement, Alex heaved a disgruntled sigh. “I have heard of priests fighting in battle but have never faced one. How the devil can he fight in those heavy robes, wearing no protective armor?”
Nicholas’s gaze took in the large golden cross hanging from a chain at the holy man’s waist, along with a sharp dagger. The corners of the priest’s mouth curved in a grim expression, his beady gaze severe as he glared with disapproval at Nicholas.
“Why have they brought the priest?” Alex grumbled beneath his breath.
“No doubt to convince me I will be excommunicated and my soul condemned for my offense in stealing Ysabelle from beneath their noses.”
“Do you think they would really try such a ploy?”
“I have no doubt.”
Alex snorted. “Do you care?”
“No, my soul was lost long ago. But my lady will care. I would prefer she and I end this day on good terms. I have caused Ysabelle enough anguish already.”
“Have you consummated your marriage?” Alex asked. “It is the only bargaining power you can use against them.”
Gritting his teeth, Nicholas’s did not respond as they faced the English. He wished not to sully the memory of his special time alone with Ysabelle. It was something he longed to hold to himself and contemplate in his heart, something precious that belonged only to them. Yet, it must be done. The truth must come out soon.
He raised a hand and his men halted. Nudging his mount, Nicholas and Alex rode alone to meet Marshal. His men remained behind, waiting. There were no sounds but the jostling harness, the shifting of heavy feet, and the rushing of wind and river.
When they paused before Marshal, Nicholas rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword and cleared his mind. It was a strategy he had been taught by Lord McDonald years earlier. To think of nothing but his battle goal. Unwilling to compromise, unwilling to relent. Disciplined. Prepared to kill at a moment’s notice.
“We have come for Lady Ysabelle,” Marshal got down to business.
Dressed in full battle gear, Marshal did not smile. His ruddy face was solemn, his back stiff. His beady eyes looked shrewd and cruel. Nicholas would die before turning Ysabelle over to such a man.
“You cannot have her,” he said.
Sir Lambert and the priest sat their horses beside Marshal. Though they were close enough to hear the conversation, the rest of their men remained far back so they could not hear their words.
The priest’s thin lips pressed tight. Lambert shifted his ample weight in the saddle, a restless movement that showed his fear. Did they really think Nicholas was fool enough to hand Ysabelle over to them?
“You stole her away like a common thief,” Marshal raged. “The lady is gently bred. Surely you realize the harm your actions have done her?”
“She is unharmed and no doubt stronger than you think. But I will tell her of your concern,” Nicholas said.
“It is cruel to force her. No doubt she is frightened nigh unto death. Have you no chivalry, sir?”
Nicholas snorted. “And I suppose it was her preference to wed Sir Malcolm? You did not force her with threats?”
“That was different,” Marshal snapped. “It was an order from her king. She is bound to obey her sovereign.”
Nicholas curved his mouth in a cruel smile. “You are a hypocrite. I have wed her already and she is mine.”
Would his claim satisfy Marshal?
The priest leaned forward, his eyes flashing with outrage. Nicholas braced himself, prepared to hear a torrent of condemnation. It no longer mattered. He’d already lived in hell. He would not give up Ysabelle, the only heaven he had ever known on earth.
“You cannot wed a married woman. It is bigamy.”
“What do you mean? I am Lady Ysabelle’s only husband.”
A slow smile creased Marshal’s face. “Her first husband yet lives. Though you tried to murder him,
Sir Malcolm survived the ordeal and seeks the return of his bride.”
Coldness swept Nicholas as dread lodged in his gut. He kept his expression carefully calm, but inside his mind boiled with confusion. Malcolm de Litz was still alive. How could this be? Surely it was a ruse. A trick to steal Ysabelle from him.
Nicholas’s hands tensed. “I myself witnessed the mon fall beneath my brother’s blade.”
“Yes, you cut him down like a coward,” Lambert sniped to Alex. “But the surgeon said the blade struck no vital organs. My father will soon heal.”
Alex stiffened and he shook his head. “You lie.”
Nicholas felt his face pale with rage. A bigamist? It could not be true. The fates could not be so cruel.
Lambert’s cheeks reddened with anger. “I speak the truth.”
“The mon is rolling in fat,” Alex shot back. “No doubt he had plenty of tallow to pierce without puncturing any vital organs.”
Lambert huffed with offense. “You have stolen my father’s wife. Give her back.”
Nicholas’s hands tightened until he heard the grinding of his gauntlets against the steel hilt of his sword. He shifted slightly forward, ready to attack Lambert if he so much as twitched. The liar! He would kill Lambert with his bare hands for spouting such falsehoods.
A haze of red filled Nicholas’s eyes. His head pounded with fury. Just as he prepared to launch himself from his saddle, Alex lifted a hand and pressed his palm against Nicholas’s chest. Wrath pounded in his veins. He was prepared to shake Alex off.
“Think of Ysabelle and what she would want you to do,” Alex’s soft words soothed him.
Licking his lips, Nicholas breathed deeply, allowing reason to cool his mind. He must remain composed. He must keep his head and remember the goal.
Ysabelle. She was all that mattered now.
“You cannot have her,” Nicholas finally said.
Marshal scowled. “Though it will be a few more days until Sir Malcolm is strong enough to depart his bed and seek his lady wife on his own, the man yet lives and has asked for her safe return. His son has accompanied us to make the request.” He indicated the obese man to his right. “Surely you would not keep a wife from her ailing husband?”
“I don’t care if she has twenty husbands. You willna take her.”
Lambert’s heavy jowls wobbled as he glared at Nicholas. He wore no helmet and his thinning hair barely covered his enormous round head. Nicholas had no doubt the son would soon be a mirror image of his father in girth and conduct. Nicholas would die before sending Ysabelle to such a fate.
“You make it sound as though there was affection between Lady Ysabelle and Sir Malcolm,” Nicholas charged. “Let us call the marriage what it really is. A sham. You gave Lady Ysabelle no choice in the matter. She never agreed.”
“The vows were spoken,” Lambert argued. “Witnesses were present.”
Nicholas’s brows rose. “Witnesses? No doubt you paid them to lie.”
Lambert blustered with outrage. “My father is alive. You have no right to hold his wife or his lands.”
Tired of this banter, Nicholas spoke low. “Ah, we arrive at the crux of the problem. Land. That is what you really want, isn’t it? But you will have none of Sutcliffe.”
“Then, you refuse to return her and leave Sutcliffe peaceably?” Lambert challenged.
“I willna leave my home. I am lord of Sutcliffe and Ysabelle is now my legal wife. But you are welcome to try and take her from me.”
“This is an outrage,” Marshal exclaimed.
Nicholas shrugged. “Malcolm de Litz’s marriage was not consummated and will be annulled.”
“This is blasphemy,” the priest spoke up. “King William himself commissioned me to perform the marriage. It is binding and cannot be put aside simply because the vows were not yet consummated.”
Looking at the man, Nicholas was not impressed. The only holy man Nicholas trusted was Father Edward and only then because the priest had proven himself over the years. Every other priest Nicholas had ever met had loathed him because he was a bastard. “As a mon of the Church, you understand a woman has the right to accept or deny marriage. Ysabelle was quite vocal in refusing her marriage to Malcolm de Litz. Also, de Litz did not succeed in consummating the vows. In the eyes of the Church, they are not wed.”
With an inward sigh, Nicholas realized it was time to play his trump. Lifting a hand high in the air, he signaled his men along the parapet.
Sitting his mount, Nicholas gazed steadily at the Englishmen. Nicholas enjoyed the confused look on Marshal’s face. Then, the man’s eyes widened as his gaze lifted to the castle walls. His mouth dropped open with shock, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets.
Upon Nicholas’s command, the bed sheet stained with Ysabelle’s virgin blood had been raised upon the castle ramparts. It was a common practice, to bear testimony that a marriage had been consummated. Everyone present witnessed the flaxen sheet as it flapped in the wind. Marshal’s expression darkened to sudden fury. Understanding covered Lambert’s face as his eyes narrowed to beady points.
Sitting his mount, Nicholas gazed steadily at the Englishmen. “I have taken her to my bed. My marriage to Ysabelle is consummated and she might even now be carrying my child.”
Nicholas enjoyed the confused look on Marshal’s face. His mouth dropped open with shock, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets. His expression darkened to sudden fury. Understanding covered Lambert’s face as his eyes narrowed to beady points.
“The Pope will be reticent to refuse my claim,” Nicholas spoke in a jovial tone. He wished to drive his point home before anyone could gainsay him. “The lady is mine. Since you have shown such concern for her wellbeing, I’m certain you would rather leave her in peace and return to your king to report all is well along the northern boundary.”
Marshal’s face turned pasty and he blurted an obscenity. Lambert sputtered in rage. The priest glared with loathing at Nicholas. Each man grasped the hilt of his sword. The grating of steel being drawn from scabbards filled the air as the mounted knights followed Marshal’s lead.
Sensing battle, Samson shifted beneath Nicholas’s weight and pawed the ground. The whoosh of bows being strung cried from the tops of the castle as the archers leaned out, prepared to fire their arrows down upon the English. Tension filled the air, pulsing with danger and the promise of death. It was so palpable that Samson snorted, waving his magnificent head. A veteran of many wars, the animal was prepared to charge.
“I will have you excommunicated,” the priest vowed.
“I will see you dead,” Marshal promised.
Nicholas didn’t move, knowing if anyone breathed too deeply, the two sides would tear into one another, spilling blood in a melee of rage. He must not lose control now. He must remember Ysabelle’s feelings of loyalty for her king. If possible, there must be peace. But he wouldn’t back down either.
“I will see you gone from my lands,” Nicholas spoke in an even voice. “Would it not be better to live and fight another day? This is a losing battle. You cannot undo my marriage to Lady Ysabelle, nor the fact that she might be carrying my child.”
“But we can still widow her,” Lambert challenged.
Nicholas’s disdainful gaze roamed over the fat man and all his folds of quivering flesh. “Do you think you are mon enough to kill me? You are welcome to try.”
Lambert blinked. His gaze retreated as he stared at the ground. The coward. Ysabelle deserved better than any of them had to offer. Because she was now his, Nicholas would have it no other way. He would spend his life trying to make himself worthy of her trust and loyalty.
“It is quite easy to bully a gentlewoman who seeks only to protect her people. It is something different to face an armed warrior, is it not?” Nicholas asked in a tone smoothed with insult.
The slur was taken. Lord Marshal, Sir Lambert, and the priest each had the grace to flinch.
“Ah, I see you do have some shame after all,” Nic
holas growled.
“We have done what our king commanded,” Marshal excused. “We are bound to fight you.”
Lifting his gaze to meet Marshal’s, the thought of battle almost pleased Nicholas. When he thought of them forcing Ysabelle to wed an aging, cruel man such as Malcolm, rage burned low in his gut until he was ready to explode with it.
“If you refuse to hand over the lady, we are compelled to do battle. And when we take Sutcliffe, you will be put to death,” Marshal warned.
“Then so be it,” Nicholas said before indicating to Alex that they would depart.
Backing up their chargers, Nicholas refused to turn his back on the enemy until they were a safe distance away. Because Marshal would undoubtedly lose his own life in the process, Nicholas didn’t believe the man would attack him from behind. Not under a flag of truce. But who knew what Lambert or the priest might do?
As one body, Nicholas and his men hurried across the drawbridge and through the portcullis, into safety. Once they reached the bailey, Nicholas was conscious of Alex staring high up at the ramparts. Nicholas lifted his gaze.
Ysabelle! She stood on the parapet, facing the river. The wind beat against her dress, lifting the thin scarf she had pulled around her shoulders. Her face looked ashen with shock. Staring at the English army, her arms were wrapped tightly around her, eyes wide and disbelieving.
Nicholas swore.
“If it were me, I would rather face Lord Marshal and his army,” Alex quipped. “It’s a good thing Ysabelle couldn’t hear your conversation with the English.”
“Yes,” Nicholas agreed with a heavy sigh. “I had hoped she would remain inside the keep until this ugly scene was over. I should have known she might venture out to see what was going on.”
“You should have sent a servant to keep her occupied elsewhere.”
“It wouldn’t have done any good. She is too clever for such a ploy.” As he spoke, Nicholas felt a moment of pride and regret.
“Will you tell her Sir Malcolm is still alive?” Alex asked.
“It might be a lie. A ruse to get me to hand her over. I don’t wish to worry her until I can verify the truth,” Nicholas responded as he stepped down from his charger.