by Bale, Leigh
“Be careful that you don’t fall off the roof. And watch out for the catapult,” she called after him.
He waved an arm to indicate that he’d heard her, then raced toward the wallwalk. Laughing, she shook her head. What would it be like to have a son of her own? A lad so full of life, so innocent that he knew not how ugly the world could be. Would he feel so exuberant about catching fowl to supplement the table during siege? She prayed her children never saw such a day.
A miniature version of Nicholas came to mind, with saber-sharp cheekbones and dark, intense eyes. Her heart leapt with joy, yet a shadow wavered in the back of her mind.
The castle had been under siege for weeks and their supplies were shrinking. When her father had been lord here, they had never become desperate against starvation. They had never faced such a deadly threat. Nor had they endured siege for this long.
Sara sat at the workbench, sampling a piece of buttered bread. Ada stood close by, chopping carrots to add to the soup. Nicholas surprised them all when he walked into the room, ducking his head as he passed through the low portal.
“My lord, we are honored by your presence,” Cook sputtered with delight.
He nodded his head and looked about, his gaze taking in the order and cleanliness of the busy room.
“You do our table proud,” he told the woman.
His words of praise brought a rosy flush to Cook’s cheeks and she showed a toothy smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
Eyeing Nicholas with suspicion, Ada moved to one corner of the room where she began to churn butter. Ysabelle tensed. She’d told Ada that Nicholas was quite gentle with her. Hopefully, the handmaiden believed her.
The woman’s gaze followed him, thoughtful and brooding. Ada looked at Ysabelle, assessing her from head to toe, as if searching for signs of abuse. Finding none, the woman turned back to her chore, a frown wrinkling her brow.
“Lord Nicholas,” Sara cried and ran into his arms.
The servants gave Nicholas wide berth as they continued their work. Beaming with pride, Cook swept past him as if it were an everyday occurrence for the lord of the castle to visit her humble kitchen. Even Ysabelle’s father had never come here and Ysabelle was surprised to see how much it meant to Cook.
A few women smiled when he hugged Sara. Some looked surprised as Sara placed a solid kiss on his chiseled cheek. The men nodded with respect and moved out of his way, lifting large sacks of potatoes to be scrubbed before cooking. They were still in awe of the fierce Scots Ram. Ysabelle hooped they would have the chance to come to respect him as they had done Lord Maston.
Ada frowned as she watched the two together, her eyes no longer filled with loathing. Praise the saints. Maybe they all were beginning to see Nicholas in a different light. A fierce man with compassion and mercy.
Nicholas lifted Sara and the girl raised her splinted arm so she could grasp his neck.
“Be careful,” Ysabelle cautioned.
“Don’t you think it’s time to remove this cumbersome thing?” Nicholas asked as he studied the splint.
“Yes, please-oh-please,” Sara chimed.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Ysabelle agreed, mentally counting the weeks since the injury. Time had passed so quickly. If the English would go home, she thought they could find happiness here at Sutcliffe.
“Hooray!” Sara cheered. As Nicholas placed her back on her feet, she chased after a servant boy who carried a bowl of dried apples.
“Just one,” Ysabelle called after her.
Nicholas stepped near Ysabelle, a wide smile on his face. She was very aware of this difference. Lately, he smiled often. It delighted her, wrapping around her heart, warming her through-and-through. She could hardly resist him anymore.
She no longer wanted to try. She preferred to live in this idyllic world the siege had forced upon them. With the hope that they’d one day be free from fears. But the specter of the English made her wonder how long before her world was shattered once more.
“You’re flushed with heat. Would you like to go outside for awhile, to catch a cooling breeze?” he asked.
“Do you think it’s safe?” she said.
He nodded. “The English have run out of rocks, for the time being. They are bored and have gone back to digging trenches. It’ll do them no good, but I believe Lord Marshal keeps them busy so they’ll have less time to murmur. They must be as tired of this siege as we are.”
Ysabelle agreed. “Do you think they will succeed in collapsing the castle wall?”
He grinned. “No. We have buckled their tunnel. Just now, they are busy trying to dig their men out.”
She swallowed against a hard lump in her throat. Englishmen were dying. Several of her father’s men had also been killed. “They are my people. I find nothing to be happy about.”
“Your king would only use you for his gain.”
She threw him an angry glare. “Isn’t that also what you have done?”
His brows drew together in a frown. “I have made you my wife and would defend you with my life.”
His pledge touched her deeply. When he spoke such words to her, it warmed her heart and she could deny him nothing.
She sighed. “I wonder how it will all end.”
Turning away, she didn’t give him the chance to respond. Walking outside, she noticed the ruined kennel had been torn down, the thatch and wood used for fire. The newborn pups had been removed to the guardhouse. As they ran out of fuel, they would burn other structures. What was next? The dovecote?
Nicholas was vigilant as he led her to the stable. Inside the dimly lit room, it seemed most tranquil. More and more, she found herself slipping easily into the role of his wife. If not for the imminent threat of the English, she could almost convince herself there was no danger and all was right within their world. How she longed to saddle her horse and race the mare across the open fields. And she wondered if she’d ever have that freedom again.
“How many men have we lost today?” she asked.
Drafts of sunlight filtered through cracks in the walls. Dust motes floated on the air along with bits of straw. The pungent scent of animals and matted hay filled her nose. Unfortunately, they could not change the straw while the siege lasted. The horses were taken out into the bailey and walked as often as possible to give them exercise.
“None,” he brushed Samson’s muzzle when the warhorse nickered softly to him. “Though I fear the English have been toying with us thus far. Our scouts sighted several garrisons of English soldiers departing, no doubt returning to their homes now that fresh reinforcements arrived early this morning. I believe they plan to starve us out. It takes little effort to fight a war that way, else I believe they would be more aggressive and try to breech our walls.”
“Do you think they’ll succeed?”
“In starving us?”
“Yes,” she nodded, searching his face for the truth.
“No, their men cannot be happy about this predicament. Their own families will suffer as they leave their crops to come fight this war for William. They also need to return to their homes if they hope to have food set aside for the coming winter.”
He shook his head as she went to the stall where her Barbary mare was housed. The animal nickered in appreciation as she offered a precious handful of grain.
“I will leave you for a few minutes,” Nicholas told Ysabelle. “Don’t depart the safety of the stable until I return for you.”
At her obedient nod, he left, and she busied herself by brushing the mare’s coat until it gleamed. It was a chore Ysabelle found relaxing. This side of the castle was well protected by the fosse, the sounds of battle muted. The afternoon was almost peaceful.
A rustling overhead disturbed her pleasure and she turned. Bits of straw floated down from the loft above. A brief shadow crossed the wall. The fluttering wings of a dove could have caused it, but she wasn’t sure.
“Who is there?” she called.
Silence greeted her. Shafts of light streamed through the tha
tched roof. The sounds of horses snuffling and stamping in their stalls filled the air.
Returning to her work, Ysabelle offered fresh water to her horse. The mare dipped its muzzle into the bucket. Thank goodness they had plenty of water. Ysabelle placed the bucket on the floor, leaning against the rough wall as she allowed the animal to drink at leisure.
A hand snaked around her throat. Gasping in alarm, she spun about, staring into the dark. A blaze of panic shot through her.
“Who is there?” she cried.
She was grabbed from behind and jerked backward. Pain shot up her shoulders. A scream of alarm tore from her throat as she jerked herself free and whirled to face her attacker. A wrench of fear blazed through her as she stared at the strange man’s nasty grin.
“The lady of Sutcliffe! King William will reward us well,” he exclaimed, a grin spreading across his haggard face.
Another man appeared from behind a pile of hay and Ysabelle shrank back against the wall. She screamed again, praying someone might hear her above the clamor of siege weapons.
Two more soldiers wearing the royal crest upon their tunics surrounded her. English soldiers! For a moment, she wondered where they’d come from, and how they’d breached the castle walls.
Backing away, she felt the wall at her back. Panic pumped through her blood. Her mouth went dry and she clenched her hands. She was trapped!
A wicked smile curved one man’s mouth. “We’ve come to take you to Lord Marshal, my lady. You won’t fight us, will you?”
They must be daft. Of course she would fight. Ysabelle shook her head, her palms pressed against the rough wall.
They lunged at her and she screamed again before one of them proceeded to clamp a rough hand over her mouth. Ysabelle bit the man’s fingers, hitting, kicking, jerking free. She ran toward the door. If she could just make the welcoming sunlight, one of Nicholas’s men might see her.
The English soldiers chased after her, grasping her arms and legs. They had her! She was knocked to the ground. They dragged her back, ripping her clothes. She spat dirt from her mouth and slammed her fist into one of their faces. The man yelped as blood spurted from his nose.
“Keep her quiet,” another man cautioned.
Ysabelle tried to call out, but they stuffed a rag in her mouth and she almost gagged, barely able to breathe. Their furtive movements and smug grins told her they had yet to be discovered. If only she had a weapon, she would teach them a lesson.
Their cruel hands clamped onto her arms and legs, imprisoning her. Ysabelle fell, striking her head on a post as the breath was knocked from her body. Pain shot through her and spots of light danced before her eyes. She gasped for air but the rag blocked her throat and she inhaled deeply through her nose.
They lifted her, carrying her swiftly. Ysabelle kicked and hit, fearing what would happen should they succeed in stealing her away. Though she regretted this war, she realized nothing good could come from her being taken from Nicholas. He would never give up Sutcliffe. He was now her husband and she was bound to defend him, if she could.
They hurried toward the back of the stable. No doubt they would take her over the castle wall. And what if they dropped her? Her eyes widened when she considered drowning in the fosse below.
Looking up, Ysabelle’s eyes widened as she saw a fifth man standing on the edge of the wall, peering down at her through a hole in the thatched roof. The man clung to the top of a ladder, which had a long hook to secure it to the wall. Somehow they had traversed the fosse and laid the ladder against the wall to gain entrance into the castle. They would take her over the side and she would be in the hands of the English. Terror gripped her and she fought to spit out the muffling rag so she could yell.
A thunderous roar filled her ears and one of the men was knocked away. She fell to the hard ground. With her hands free, she jerked off the gag, spitting to cleanse her mouth. Inhaling drafts of air, she looked over her shoulder. Nicholas faced the four men alone, his sword gripped tightly in his hand.
As he crouched for battle, the look on his face was chilling. His mouth lifted in a snarl, his eyes cruel, his features harsh and ruthless. The Scots Ram would not be defied.
The enemy surrounded him, advancing for the kill. Nicholas dropped and rolled, slashing one of the Englishmen as he came up again, now positioned to the side rather than facing them all head on. The Englishman stumbled, clutching his middle as blood ran down his front.
Ysabelle realized Nicholas had removed their advantage by forcing them to take him one at a time rather than all at once. En masse, they might defeat him easily. But one-on-one, they were no contest against such an experienced foe.
Nicholas stepped forward, placing himself in front of Ysabelle. She recognized it as a protective gesture to keep her safe. He deflected, parleyed, and thrust, slicing each man so swiftly that their dying eyes stared wide with disbelief. Blood sprayed across the rough timber walls. Ysabelle pressed a fist to her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming at the gory sight. It happened so fast, she had no opportunity to help. Not that Nicholas needed any assistance, of course. The sounds of battle rang in her ears, the horror of blood and death filled her mind.
Finally, all was quiet.
With one glance in her direction, Nicholas climbed up to reach the hook securing the ladder to the castle wall. With a mighty heave, he pushed the ladder back. The Englishman fell over the side of the wall, screaming as he landed in the fosse.
Ysabelle flinched, squeezing her eyes shut for one moment. She would never understand how Nicholas could be so gentle with her, yet so cruel in battle.
Nicholas’s men overran the stable. As if from a long distance, Ysabelle was conscious of Alex checking her for injury before he went to give Nicholas aid. The men searched the entire castle, to make certain there were no other Englishmen hiding inside the keep. Several minutes passed as Ysabelle remained huddled by the far wall, her body shaking.
Nicholas barked a stern reprimand to the guards. “Did I not tell you to guard this side of the wall? You have grown lax in your duties.”
He looked so furious, the sentries drew back with fear. Ysabelle wondered if he might strike his own men.
“You have grown lazy because the English have not been able to scale our walls before today. Now, they’ll grow more aggressive and we must be ready. You must not fail again.”
“No, my lord,” one of the men answered, his face pale. “I regret that we didn’t watch more carefully. We will be more vigilant.”
Nicholas turned away and the men climbed the wall and set up guards to keep watch.
Soon, Ysabelle was left alone with Nicholas. Moments passed as they stared at each other, not moving, not speaking. Long black hair hung into Nicholas’s eyes. His grim mouth softened slowly, his stance began to relax. She could not look away, she could not blink. His hold upon her was complete. Tears burned her eyes when she realized what he had done. He could have been killed!
He took her into his arms. Perhaps he thinking the same thing about her. That she could have been taken away, or killed.
“Shh, sweeting,” he soothed as he kissed her brow.
With relief, Ysabelle flung her arms about her husband and held tight, wetting his cheek with her tears. He was alive. He was safe.
Oh, how she loved him! And she wondered how, why she felt the way she did. Love had filled her heart, in spite of her determination to stop it from coming. She didn’t understand, but she could no longer fight it either.
He grunted and flinched. Ysabelle drew back, searching his face. It was then she saw the blood soaking the front of her dress.
With a cry of dismay, she stared at it, then at her hands. They were also covered in blood. Was she injured? She felt no pain.
Lifting her head, her eyes widened as she stared at Nicholas. He was smiling softly, his gaze gentle as it rested upon her face. Standing before her, still holding his sword in his hand, he staggered. Ysabelle looked at his chest where his black tunic showe
d the golden eagle, its fierce beak open in a fearless cry. It was then that Ysabelle saw blood soaking his shirt, just over his left shoulder.
“I will never let them have you. My beautiful Ysabelle, you are mine,” he murmured drunkenly.
He was injured! He blinked and dropped unconscious onto the straw.
Chapter Fifteen
“I must go outside,” Nicholas told Alex for the third time. “I must check the sturdiness of the wall. There could be more attempts to scale the battlements.”
Ysabelle tensed, praying she didn’t have to fight to keep her husband inside. If he forced the issue, she would call the guards to lend her aid.
“You must let Ysabelle tend your wound,” Alex replied, holding Nicholas down as Ysabelle endeavored to remove his shirt.
Lying on the large bed in their chambers, Nicholas tried to sit up but Alex pressed him back. Thank goodness Alex had some common sense. Otherwise, she would have her hands full keeping Nicholas here.
She had started a fire in the brazier and threw the shutters wide so fresh air could filter into the room. Though it was night, sweat poured off Nicholas’s brow and he was trembling.
“You were stabbed, Nicholas. Hold still and let Ysabelle look at the wound. You’ve lost too much blood.”
“I have known worse. Have the guards set the night watch?” Nicholas brushed Alex off.
“Yes, you trained them well. I went to check myself, but your men had already taken care of it. They are sufficiently cowed after almost allowing Ysabelle to be taken. They won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Had they been trained well, they would have watched the south wall better and Ysabelle would not have been attacked,” Nicholas grumbled. “I need to make certain the portcullis is not weakened from the blows of the battering ram.”
“I have checked it myself. It yet holds against the blows,” Alex reassured him.
Nicholas seemed not to hear. Once more, he tried to rise. Ysabelle scowled at her husband, her mouth clamped tight. Finally, she grit her teeth and folded her arms as she stood back to let him have his way.