My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3)

by Bale, Leigh

  “Yes, just like his master,” Ysabelle agreed.

  The yells of battle were now muted, the smell of smoke, blood and death surrounding them. Nicholas pulled Ysabelle into his arms, cupping her face in his calloused hands.

  “I thought I might lose you,” she whispered against his lips.

  “Never,” he vowed fiercely. “Your love gives me hope. It renews me. Surely I can conquer any foe as long as you are mine. I’m home now and will never again lose my way.”

  He kissed her. Neither of them spoke of their qualms of what they would do once the English rallied their forces and King William sent more reinforcements. Neither voiced their fears that the Pope might declare their marriage and unborn child illegitimate. For now, it was enough that they were alive and had won the day.

  Chapter Twenty

  Several hours later, Nicholas and Ysabelle returned to the keep. They sat inside the great hall of Sutcliffe, sipping honeyed mead. Still dressed in chain mail, Nicholas supped with Ysabelle and his men. She wrapped his leg tight with animal hides and Alex provided him with a sturdy walking stick. He hobbled around, making plans to gather supplies and repair the castle before the English could return.

  Nicholas clapped Alex on the back in a rare show of emotion. Alex grinned broadly. “I think your fall has addled your mind.”

  Nicholas smiled and stared at the walking stick ruefully. “Hopefully I willna need it for long.”

  “One thing is certain,” Ysabelle pointed out. “You will not be riding a horse into battle for some time.”

  Nicholas frowned, and Ysabelle knew what he was thinking. He hoped his leg healed before the English returned. She smiled to cover the uncertainty that boiled inside her. It seemed this despicable war would never end.

  “I will do what I must, sweeting. But I will always return to your side,” he vowed.

  She looked away, unwilling to consider what might face them on the morrow.

  A rousing fire crackled in the stone hearth. Lighted torches had been set about the room, filling the hall with cheery warmth. Mead and ale had been confiscated from the English supplies to grace their tables, along with fresh meat, cheese and bread. Laughter and booming voices filled the room as their victory was enjoyed. They all ate heartily, recounting the valor of those who had died, and cherishing the day simply because they were still alive.

  Finally, Ysabelle left Nicholas’s side, to check on Ada and Sara, and to seek her rest.

  Nicholas flinched when Archibald Ramsay slapped him heartily on the shoulder. It was a rare show of friendship from Alex’s father, but Nicholas had neither the heart nor the energy to appreciate it just now. His head pounded like a hammer and his shoulder burned like fire. He must have ripped the stitches open during the battle. No doubt Ysabelle would be displeased when she had to sew him back up.

  “We have won the day,” Archibald exclaimed. “Sutcliffe is for Scotland and the Clan Ramsay.”

  “We have won the war but not the battle, I fear,” Alex said.

  Nicholas silently agreed. Many had died, both English and Scots. The battle had been both fierce and cruel. But he was not so foolish to think King William would give up so easily.

  The English would return.

  “They were badly beaten, but I have no doubt the remainder of their army will rally,” Alex said.

  Archibald lifted his heavy war ax. “Then, let them come. We will be ready for them.”

  Nicholas nodded. “You have my gratitude for lending me aid.”

  Archibald merely grunted. “After all these years, it was the least I could do. It’s time to put aside my anger at you. What happened long ago was never your fault. I regret sending you away to McDonald.”

  Nicholas realized this was as much expression of friendship or apology as he would ever have from the old laird. It wasn’t much. It couldn’t undo the pain Nicholas had suffered, but after all these years, it meant a great deal to hear the words.

  “Thank you,” Nicholas said.

  Archibald nodded, then he stood and left to seek his rest. As he walked away, he limped, his shoulders sagging wearily, his hair sparse and gray. When had the fierce man become so old and fragile? Nicholas no longer had any desire to harbor a grudge against him. Perhaps Ysabelle’s love had cleansed his soul. Yes, her love had healed his broken heart.

  Something burst free inside of Nicholas. Like an iceberg breaking loose and melting in the depths of the ocean. No longer did he resent Archibald Ramsay. Indeed, Nicholas felt sorry for the man.

  Tomorrow was a new day, a new future, and a new love. Using his walking stick, Nicholas tottered up the stairs to the chamber he now shared with Ysabelle. His step was slow and ponderous, but his heart was light with joy.

  When he entered the room, he was surprised to find it dark and empty. Where was Ysabelle? Searching for his wife, he breathed with relief when he found her in the chapel, kneeling upon the cold stone floor. A single tallow candle burned in the candelabrum on the table. She’d fallen asleep, her head leaning against the altar, her hands still clasped in prayer. Elation filled him, lifting his soul with warmth. He had no doubt she had been praying for him. For his safety. For their love.

  His heart squeezed.

  Reaching for her, he took her into his arms and kissed her forehead. With a cry of alarm, she jerked. Then, realizing it was him, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely. As he looked at her face, Nicholas had no doubt she had prayed as fiercely as he had fought.

  “Come,” he whispered against her lips. “It’s not good for you or our child to kneel here on this cold floor. Also, you didn’t eat verra much. If I send Margaret for more food, will you eat it?”

  Her legs were stiff and she could barely stand as she shook her head. “I ate with Ada. She insisted I nourish our unborn child. She’s so sorry for defying you and very happy that you are safe.”

  He nodded. “She’s wise and I’m grateful to her for looking after you. Will she recover from her wound?”

  “Of course. She’s a stubborn woman and determined to play nurse to our babe. She should be out of bed in the morning and I’m relieved.”

  They leaned into each other, supporting one another as they limped out of the dark chapel and found their room. No words were spoken as Ysabelle helped him remove his hauberk. While he sat before the fire in one of his giant chairs, she bathed his shoulder and re-stitched the wound, applying a poultice that would draw the poisons and ease the pain. He watched her silently as she also cleaned and stitched the gash on the back of his head, placing a poignant kiss near the bump.

  She prepared for bed, brushing her hair until it gleamed like white silk down her back. Nicholas’s gaze followed her every move, his mouth curved in a smile of contentment and love. Lying upon their bed, he held out his good arm and Ysabelle snuggled against his side.

  “I love you. My heart belongs to you,” he told her with feeling.

  She sighed with contentment. “And I love you.”

  They shared one more kiss before drifting off to sleep.

  *

  Before the sun rose the next morning, a solid pounding on the door awakened Ysabelle. Nicholas sat up, brushing the long dark hair out of his eyes as he mumbled something about bothersome sentries.

  “Lord Nicholas, riders have come,” a guard called through the wooden panel.

  Nicholas shook his head and grumbled about never having any peace. Throwing back the warm furs, he stood, moving rigidly as he hobbled to the door and threw the panel wide. The sentry stood back, his eyes widening.

  “Who is here?” Nicholas demanded.

  “They carry a white flag, my lord,” the man spoke breathlessly. “They aren’t English, but came from the north. One of them appears to be a priest and they have brought news from the Pope.”

  Father Edward!

  Ysabelle’s pulse quickened. Unease filled her when she considered the ramifications. The priest might have good news, or bad. Their world could crash down around
their heads.

  No matter what, the waiting would end. They would know what to expect and could now plan what they should do.

  “How many riders?” Nicholas asked anxiously.

  “Five men, my lord, but Lord Marshal has now joined them at the gates and also Father Eustace. They don’t appear hostile. They have asked for admittance inside Sutcliffe, so that they might speak with you.”

  Nicholas nodded, his face grim. “Very good. After you have taken their weapons, place guards throughout the bailey and give them admittance to the hall. Warn Lord Alex and Lord Archibald also. I will be there shortly.”

  He closed the door and dressed as quickly as his stiff body would allow. Ysabelle had already pulled her chemise over her head and was just tying back her hair before she washed her face.

  “Do you think it’s Father Edward?” she asked, her tone breathless with excitement as she slipped on her shoes.

  “Yes. Perhaps you should remain here.” Nicholas didn’t smile.

  Like her, he must fear the possibility of bad news.

  “The news they bring will impact my life. I’ll not be kept in the dark,” Ysabelle reached for the door. “And no matter what they have to say, I will not leave you. I will never be another man’s wife. We will face this together.”

  Nicholas stared at her, as though thinking this over. Finally, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. “Yes, you’ve earned the right to be by my side.”

  When they reached the great hall, Ysabelle was surprised at the sight of so many Scottish soldiers filling the room, still armed for battle. Dressed in their chain mail, Alex and his father stood before the high table, awaiting Nicholas.

  Father Eustace stood beside Lord Marshal and Father Edward. Each man’s expression looked dour, their brows lowered, their mouths severe.

  When she saw Father Edward’s sad countenance, Ysabelle couldn’t prevent a sharp intake of breath. Her face felt void of warmth, her body trembling. But she didn’t back away. She lifted her head higher, her hand resting over her abdomen. She expected the worst.

  The fire had not yet been built and the hall was chill with the morning air. Wisps of smoke floated upward from the torches hanging in the wall sconces. Left in the hall all night, they had burned themselves out.

  “Ysabelle, my wife, come and sit by me.” Nicholas held out a hand to her.

  She glanced at him, taking courage from his presence. Closing her fingers around his hand, she sat next to him. Her gaze didn’t waver from Father Edward as the priest stepped forward to greet them.

  Alex and Archibald joined them on the dais. They took their seats as Nicholas reached for a goblet of wine and pressed it into Ysabelle’s hand.

  “Drink a little. It will help to soothe you,” he whispered.

  He waited while she took a shallow sip. Then, he turned to look at Father Edward. “I’m glad to see you looking so well, priest. You have brought me news?”

  “Yes, my lord, though my heart is saddened by what has transpired since my departure. From the looks of the battlefield, I see much death has come to Sutcliffe.”

  “It has been a sad turn of events,” Nicholas agreed. “I hope you’ll now be able to put an end to the bloodshed.”

  Father Edward bowed his head and lifted two sealed parchments he held within his thin hands. Looking at Lord Marshal, he spoke in a slow, thoughtful voice. “It is with regret that I must inform you that King William has been killed.”

  A collective gasp filled the room. Ysabelle tensed beside Nicholas, hardly able to believe what she heard. The king was dead? How could this be?

  “What are you saying?” Marshal blurted as he took a step toward the priest.

  “Less than a fortnight ago, the young king was hunting in New Forest when he was struck fatally by an arrow. Walter Tirel, Lord of Poix, has been accused of the deed and has fled to France. Prince Henry was crowned king within three days of his brother’s death. As king of England, Henry has recalled you and your army. He seeks good will with the Scottish king. There is to be no more fighting along the border. King Henry has agreed to allow Lord Nicholas to rule Sutcliffe. Here is his seal to prove what I say.”

  The priest handed one of the missives to Lord Marshal. The Englishman unrolled the parchment, reading quickly before he nodded in amazement. “It is true. Henry is king.”

  A murmur of astonishment spread throughout the hall. Soon, relieved chatter and laughter could be heard as the ramifications of this decree were realized. The war was over. The siege was ended.

  “And what of my marriage to Lady Ysabelle? Did you also visit the Pope?” Nicholas asked, his tone urgent.

  Ysabelle’s breath stilled and the vast room was so silent that she could hear the crackling of the fire.

  “I was told that Sir Lambert and Sir Malcolm were killed during the battle. I went to see the two men’s bodies. With Malcolm dead, there is no further claim upon Lady Ysabelle. As you are aware, the Pope was not on good terms with King William.”

  Stepping forward, Father Edward placed the second parchment in Nicholas’s hands. Nicholas unrolled it, his gaze scanning it before he passed it to Ysabelle. “Will you read it for me?”

  Ah, her husband couldn’t read. She was prepared to read it for him, but Father Edward interceded with a genial smile.

  “Since you were betrothed already, the Pope has graciously declared your marriage to Lady Ysabelle is binding and shall not be annulled. You are legally wed.”

  A cheer shook the rafters. Ysabelle gasped with joy and tears ran down her cheeks. Alex slapped his palms on the tabletop and roared with mirth. Above the din, Ysabelle could hear Nicholas’s robust laughter as he reached for her. She rushed into his arms and he hugged her close, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, eyes, and lips.

  When they finally settled again, Lord Marshal bowed his head, his gaze upon Ysabelle, his expression no longer filled with hate. “I lament that King William ever gave me this mission and beseech you to understand I was merely fulfilling my duty. I regret causing you any grief.”

  Blinking back tears, Ysabelle nodded her head. She was too overcome with emotion to speak. She belonged to Nicholas. Nothing could part them now. Not even death.

  Marshal smiled and saluted Nicholas smartly. “I will stand by the Pope’s decree, Nicholas Ramsay. No longer will I trouble you or your people. We will gather our dead and shall leave these lands posthaste. Never have I faced a more worthy foe.”

  At Nicholas’s respectful nod, Marshal turned and left the hall, followed by a gloomy-looking Father Eustace. Ysabelle didn’t care. The priest could not change the Pope’s decree. He could do them no more harm.

  With their absence, Ysabelle breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, she was in Nicholas’s arms, being kissed fiercely by the Scots Ram. She didn’t care that others might witness this passionate exchange. Her happy laughter mingled with his. Their people cheered and laughed buoyantly.

  Peace had been restored.

  “At last we are free,” Ysabelle whispered against Nicholas’s ear. “We are both finally home where we belong. Father would have been so pleased.”

  Nicholas smiled, his face lit with absolute joy. “I know he would be pleased to become a grandfather. You are my home, fair Ysabelle. Wherever you are, there I will also be. Never will I wander from my home.”

  As Ysabelle gazed into his eyes, love filled her to overflowing and she found no more words worthy to speak.

  THE END

  Dear Reader, My greatest goal in writing my books is to please you, the reader. I hope I’ve succeeded today. If you liked this book, please feel free to spread the word and write a positive review for me on Amazon.com. And thank you for your support. Happy reading! Leigh Bale

  Contact Leigh Bale at www.LeighBale.com

  Excerpt from The Heart’s Warrior

  Northern England, AD 954

  Death surrounded her, a gruesome specter threatening to consume them all. The stench of lifeless bodies filled the
early morning air. Screams of men vibrated throughout the forest along with the ringing clash of swords. A chilling breeze swept the copse and the tall pines surrounding the glade shivered.

  Cold fear washed over Kerstin of Moere. She stood at the edge of the woods and stared at the carnage. Sweat trickled down her neck and forehead. Her knees wobbled and her arms shook with fatigue.

  The destroyer had come, not a dark heathen with fangs and cloven hooves, but a golden warrior, fighting in the thick of battle. He stood shoulders above the rest, broader with hardened muscles. He wielded his sword with the skill and strength of a berserker.

  He yelled orders to his men and they obeyed. His mighty sword gleamed crimson as he thrust and lunged. Several of Kerstin’s men surrounded him, seeking to cut him down. He hacked his way through one and sliced through another. Blood sprayed across his chain-mailed chest, spattering against a tree trunk to his right. As his muscled arms heaved, his shrill war cry vibrated in the air.

  The cry of death.

  Kerstin’s throat tightened at the grisly scene. She longed to look away, but could not. He must be stopped else all would be lost.

  With trembling hands, she reached over her shoulder and plucked a long, straight arrow from the quiver strapped to her back. Her metal helmet made it difficult to see, but it shielded her identity and protected her head. Raising her bow, she aimed it at the warrior. His wide back made an easy target. Drawing back her arm, she let the arrow fly.

  The thin head of the shaft pierced through a link of his mail and buried deep in his left shoulder. He didn’t scream at the impact, but grunted.

  Pity that her aim had been poor, but her arms were weary from firing arrows at the enemy.

  The man whirled, a snarl on his lips. His gaze stabbed her, marking her for death. With little concern, he snapped the shaft off, leaving the head embedded in his shoulder. Did he feel no pain?

  He continued to slash his way toward her, his gaze leaving her long enough for him to slaughter any foe who stepped into his path. Kerstin’s men had little chance against his greater strength and a blaze of panic shot up from her toes. He would cut her down if he reached her.