The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

Above the anxious voices, he picked out the thud of hooves, the rattle of mail, a horse’s nervous nicker.

  Then the first sliver of sun pulsed over the horizon. The light streamed across the road, over the black coil of men winding toward the keep.

  Swiftly Raoul assessed the invaders: boiled-leather hauberks, crude spears and swords. No siege engines, God be praised for it. But the serpentine line writhed down the road in an endless torrent, hundreds strong, vastly outnumbering the paltry defenders.

  Suddenly young Benedict appeared beside him, buckling a sword over his chausses. Raoul glanced sharply at the lad, saw him whiten to behold the foe.

  “Sweet mercy.” The boy fisted his eyes. “How can this be? Sir Bors promised—”

  “Perhaps you will learn to question that blackguard’s promises.” Despite himself, compassion stirred for the bewildered youth. “These many months he walked free—thus the poisoned well, the disabled drawbridge, the vanished stores. My lord, Sir Bors has betrayed you and betrayed us all.”

  Overhead, a raven circled. Peering down, Raoul searched the line until he found the man who led the assault—chillingly familiar, a knight on a coal black charger. A pointed Saracen helm concealed his features, but that wicked scimitar of Damascus steel could not be mistaken.

  Raoul d’Albini felt a cold chill crawl down his neck.

  “Saint George’s dragon.” He crossed himself, feeling every one of his sixty years. This would kill Alienore. God grant him time to be the one who told her.

  In the chaos of men pounding along the wall, the cries of panic below, Raoul paid little heed to the hooded figure who glided up beside him. But the familiar voice sliced through him like an assassin’s blade: a distinctive accent, laced with hissing consonants.

  “Pray to your patron saint of knights, old man.” Sir Bors of Bedingfield smiled. “’Tis the Devil of Damascus, not I, whom the king will behead for betrayal.”

  “Traitor!” Nearby, but not near enough to help, young Benedict cried out. “I trusted you.”

  The lad fumbled to free his sword—too slow after his illness. Cold realization broke over Raoul like an icy sweat. Flinging a crutch aside, he reached for his blade.

  Bedingfield swung a mailed fist. The crushing blow exploded against Raoul’s temple. Stars burst across his vision as his crippled legs collapsed. He felt himself falling . . . falling . . . as his world went black.

  In the breath before darkness claimed him, Bedingfield shouted the command.

  “Our allies arrive. Open the gates!”

  Three hundred men made considerable noise, especially when they were trying to be quiet. Alienore’s fifty mounted knights were the worst. The rattle of chain mail, laced with curses and hissing pleas for silence, scraped her nerves raw. Her small army mustered in the village square, no more than a mile from Lyonstone.

  Silently, she blessed Jervaise for raising the levy before he vanished. Why would he do so if he’d meant to betray her?

  She would not listen to the clamoring voice of panic, though she doubted the wisdom of this mad venture. Just moments ago, a breathless sentry had galloped up to confirm the Scots were coming. Since the village stood away from the road, the foe would delay taking it until they seized their main objective—Lyonstone Keep.

  But she would not allow the Scots to avoid her.

  Tightening her jaw, she spurred Galahad to the square, where all her men could see her. To avoid the betraying spill of light, she gave the torches a wide berth. Nonetheless, a terrible sense of exposure gripped her as she hoisted off her helm. Her shortened hair fluttered in the breeze.

  Once the sun rose, this thin disguise would never hold. For now, her chain mail and broadsword made her appear a knight. Her height and coloring were Benedict’s, and he’d ventured forth rarely since his return from crusade. Men saw what they expected to see.

  A boy scurried to plant her lance in the earth. The Lyonstone banner of blue and gold unfurled above her head.

  A woman does what she must when the devil drives.

  The wind tossed her cropped hair around her shoulders. The torches flared wildly, casting monstrous shadows. She pitched her voice to carry and addressed them, as Theobold had always done before riding into war.

  Imposter. Who is your father now? Grimly she silenced the whisper of doubt.

  “Defenders of Lyonstone!” she shouted. “Some of you are soldiers, battle hardened and bold, sworn to King Henry’s good service. Many of you are farmers, craftsmen, who march to battle for the first time. You defend your homes, your families, your king—but I will not lie to you. We may all meet our Maker this day.”

  Around her, men shifted and muttered. Some crossed themselves against her words. She thrust her gauntleted fist into the air.

  “Still, we do not falter! We can be naught but who we are. And who are we?

  “Defenders of women and children we love, friends we cherish, lands we nurture, like our ancestors before us! Our king summons us to battle. We march with stout hearts, secure in our faith and the rightness of our cause.”

  She unsheathed her sword and plunged it into the reddening sky. “The Scots have tried us before and they’ve been repelled. Let’s show them, once and for all, what it means to challenge an Englishman.

  “Follow me now—to victory.”

  For a sinking moment, silence met her bold pronouncement. They doubted her—and why shouldn’t they, when she doubted herself?

  Then, thrusting their swords toward heaven, the knights raised their voices in a thunderous shout. The cry was taken up by the farmers and craftsmen on foot. She let it build to a deafening roar, for courage—not silence—was needed now. The blood sang in her veins as she jammed on her helm.

  Couching her lance, she wheeled her charger toward the road. Above the pounding hooves soared the distant bat-bat-bat-hooouuu of the war horn.

  Streaming from the village, she led her army through a stand of trees. From a tall oak above the road, her sentry saw them coming and waved his white cloth. The signal confirmed that the Scots held their course and bypassed easy pickings in the village to assault the castle. The invaders dared not leave Lyonstone hostile and bristling at their rear as they pierced the tender southern lands.

  They would not anticipate an attack from the rear—unless Jervaise had betrayed them all.

  Alienore’s charger burst from the trees at a canter and surged onto the road. As they crested the rise, the scene opened before them, bathed in crimson from the rising sun.

  The Scots marched on the gates in ragged order, behind what had to be a stolen banner—golden lion blazing on Plantagenet crimson. Beneath it, the white wolf of Ormonde leaped against green. Her blood chilled as she perceived the trap.

  Surely any man could see this rabble was not the king’s army—marching down on Lyonstone from the north? Inside, Raoul must stand fast.

  Even as she calmed herself, the long raaaw of Lyonstone’s horn rolled across the heavens—the peal of welcome. With a clatter, the portcullis ratcheted up. Behind it, the iron-bound gates shuddered and swung open.

  Inside her helm, she screamed out a denial. It rang in her ears, deafened her—too faint and far away to halt the disaster playing out before her. Raging, she urged Galahad to a ground-eating gallop. They hurtled toward the gates, her men thundering after. Through the fog of shock, she braced her lance for impact.

  Leading the invaders, one man broke from the ranks ahead. Her heart clenched like a fist as the black warhorse swept toward the gate. In the saddle rode a knight in coal black armor with a Saracen helm. His scimitar whirled as he thundered toward the gates, gaping open to reveal the milling chaos beyond.

  Alienore overtook the straggling rear guard and shouted her challenge, unable even now to stab a man in the back. Ahead, a brawny soldier pivoted toward her and bellowed as he raised his ax. Her lance bit deep, driving straight through boiled leather into the flesh beneath.

  Screaming, the man fell—so young, no more than a lad, God
save her. He dragged her lance with him, and she let go before it pulled her from the saddle.

  Numb with horror, she unhitched her loaded crossbow, sighted on the gates and the black knight bearing down on them. The ground rolled past beneath her . . . yet the world seemed to slow in its course. Each heartbeat hammered against her eardrums like the knell of doom. She felt each muscle flex, each tendon strain as she raised the crossbow. Squinting, she sighted down the shaft.

  Jervaise stood within range, alone and vulnerable, separate from the howling Scottish horde. Bathed in the rising sun, Lucifer hurtled across the drawbridge—why didn’t the defenders collapse it?—toward the open gates.

  A cleaner shot she could never hope to make. Her hand tightened around the release.

  Wait! Her heart convulsed like a dying thing. He has not betrayed you yet.

  Fire! Her brain roared back as she stared at her love’s unguarded back. The gates stood open, the delicate hinges and hasps only a heartbeat from his grasp. If he destroyed them, no force under heaven would close those gates again.

  Wait, pleaded heart and soul and blood—all that still hoped within her, the woman who loved him. A sob of frustration tore her throat, but she did not fire. Even if he slaughtered every goodwife in the bailey as he’d allowed his men to do in Damascus, she could not slay him.

  In an agony of fear and desperation, she could only watch as Jervaise galloped undeterred past the murder-holes and into the bailey.

  Uncoiling like a panther, he leaped down with Lucifer still galloping. Landed, and rolled neatly to his feet. Now he ran toward the vulnerable gatehouse—but slipped on the loose straw of the bailey. Her heart lodged in her throat.

  Exposed for a split second, he scrambled to recover. Suddenly a soldier loomed over him, ax raised for the killing blow.

  Without conscious decision, Alienore swung the crossbow toward the soldier and fired. The bolt flew true, punching through mail to the shoulder—only a wounding blow, she hoped. The man staggered back, thank God, and dropped his ax. Jervaise rolled to his feet and dove into the gatehouse.

  An eternity passed as she galloped through the Scottish army and wielded her crossbow like a bludgeon to knock swords away. When the weapon was jarred from her grip, she unsheathed her broadsword. Since the ragtag Scottish force was mostly afoot, she surged to the forefront swiftly. Her task was to rally the castle’s defenses from within, applying pressure against the invaders from the front, while her own forces advanced from the rear—crushing the Scots between them. For now, her army was holding its own—better armed than the Scots, bolstered and commanded by her mounted knights.

  As her charger surged through the opposing army, her gaze never wavered from the open gates. In the bailey beyond, running men and a few panicked sheep fled across her line of sight. She thundered onto the drawbridge.

  Before her, the gates trembled—then began to close! A shout exploded from her chest as the realization struck.

  Jervaise had not betrayed her. No matter what foul device Sir Bors had used to suborn him, he had bided his time—then broken away to fight for her.

  “For Lyonstone!” she screamed as Galahad pounded toward the gates. On the walls, scattered voices took up the cry.

  She burst between the gates with only a handspan to spare and exploded into the heaving turmoil of the bailey as the gates boomed shut behind.

  Wheeling Galahad in a circle, she took in the scene. Peasants cowered near the walls, mothers clutched screaming children, frightened fathers wielded staffs or harvest sickles, determined to defend their own. Sheep and cattle ran bawling where they would.

  Although scattered defenders fired arrows at the foe, the Lyonstone troops seemed curiously disordered, milling without purpose. Though the catapults on the heights were winched back and loaded, no one had released the firing arms.

  God save her, where was Raoul?

  At least a score of Scots had evidently managed to shove through the gates before they closed. Now the bailey teemed with pockets of struggling men. And there, near the gatehouse, stood Jervaise. As his image seared across her brain, her heart turned over.

  Helmless and bleeding from a gash across his brow, teeth bared in a grimace of effort, he strained to heave into place the steel-sheathed timber to bolt the gate. Though the task required six men, Jervaise seemed to pulse with inhuman strength. Sinews stood out along his throat as he drove the timber into its bracket. An instant later, the portcullis clattered down, released by someone in the gatehouse. Crippling relief poured through her.

  Without warning, a blow crashed down on her thigh. White-hot pain tore through her leg. Gasping, she stared down into an enemy’s snarling face. By instinct alone, leg throbbing, she swung her blade to block his next blow. Warm wetness trickled down her thigh and dripped on the soil, red as her attacker’s flaming hair.

  As she deflected a rain of vicious blows, more Scots appeared in the bailey, though the gates were secured. Beyond her attacker, a deadly torrent of foes issued from the south tower—through the door to Bedingfield’s alchemical laboratory.

  Driven by a frenzy of fear, she blocked another blow, then drove her blade sideways with killing force. It bit deep in the hollow between neck and shoulder above her foe’s protective armor. With a gurgling cry, he fell.

  “All loyal Englishmen—to me.” The command rang across the courtyard, and briefly the tide of battle wavered. Jervaise was shouting as he ran—away from the gates, toward the tower. A handful of defenders struggled to break away and follow. But the Scots renewed their assault.

  Where is Raoul? Desperately she searched for the old knight. A flash of steel at the edge of vision warned her just in time. Signaling Galahad, she sent him pivoting away. Another signal sent his rear hooves lashing out, thudding into her attacker with crushing force. The man flew back without a cry.

  At the tower, Jervaise lunged aside as another attacker exploded into the open. The Saracen sword sliced left and right, flashing as it caught the sun.

  Standing astride his fallen foe as he commanded the door, Jervaise turned toward her—and froze into utter stillness. Though she’d lost her banner and wore her helm with the faceplate down, she knew with complete certainty that he recognized her. Savagely she drove her charger toward him, battling across the heaving sea of the bailey.

  “Hold the gates!” he bellowed at her. “I’ll secure the tower.”

  Objections bubbled to her lips, but she could say nothing before he dove inside and vanished. Over the screams of terrified women and the bawling of panicked livestock, steel clashed in the tower.

  Torn between the necessity of holding the gates and helping him, Alienore hesitated. From nowhere, a frightened cow veered across their path. Galahad reared, striking out with his forelegs. Cursing the helm’s obstructed vision, she fought to regain control.

  Reluctantly she pressed for the gatehouse—a vital strategic asset, where the fighting now seemed fiercest. The invaders would pit their full strength to open the gates. If they did that, Lyonstone was lost.

  Suddenly, a knight sprang down to the bailey from the curtain wall and landed with a ring of steel before the gatehouse. Tall, broad-shouldered, encased in the Earl of Lyonstone’s glittering silver mail, the sight froze her heart. Wheat gold hair shone like a halo as he hoisted his sword toward heaven.

  “Benedict,” she whispered, apprehension closing her throat. Was it he who’d betrayed them?

  “Defenders of Lyonstone!” her brother cried. “Hold the gates closed. To me! To me!”

  Sunlight broke through a banner of clouds to illuminate Benedict of Lyonstone in a blinding light. From the embattled defenders, a ragged cheer rose. The war horn hailed him with a long taroo, sending shivers cascading down her spine. On all sides, men in Lyonstone colors fought toward him and rallied to defend the gates.

  Silently she blessed her brother, whose assumption of command now freed her to help Jervaise. A path opened before her. Wheeling her horse away, she spurred him t
o a thundering canter. The dappled gray leaped over a fallen man and bore down on the tower. She flung herself from the saddle as he plunged to a halt.

  A searing pain tore through her thigh, announcing the injury she’d sustained. Half fainting, her head swimming, she hoisted off her helm and dragged in gulps of blessed air, swiped an arm across her perspiring brow. A steady runnel of crimson oozed down her leg, which throbbed when she put weight on it—but it held her. Holding her broadsword in a two-handed grip, she limped into the tower.

  Two invaders sprawled dead before her. Circling them, she crept up the curving stair.

  Slices of daylight slid through the arrow loops to pierce the unnatural gloom. Through the walls, the clamor of battle grew muted, as if heard from underwater. Skin prickling, she climbed, cursing the rattle of mail. Dizzying pain speared through her with every step.

  There lay another body, clan tartan soaked with blood. She stepped over it—and nearly screamed when a hand clutched her ankle.

  “Magician,” the soldier croaked. “You promised us . . . you promised . . .”

  With a gurgle, he fell back, hand sliding away as his eyes darkened.

  Crossing herself, she whispered a prayer for his soul and resumed her painful climb. Twice more she crawled over dead men, sick with relief that these poor unfortunates were not Jervaise. At last, she reached the top.

  Before her, a door hung ajar. Murky daylight—and the cool, precise tones of Sir Bors of Bedingfield—leaked through it. Panting quietly, she pressed against the wall.

  “Truly, you astonish me.” Bedingfield sounded amused, in terrifying control. “First you agree to lead this rabble, then you turn your coat at the first opportunity. Prince Richard would have rewarded you lavishly, but I suppose your loyalty—at this late hour—was too much to expect.”

  “I swore one oath,” Jervaise rasped. “To King Henry. That’s the oath I’ll keep”

  “But all in vain,” Sir Bors said gently. “This keep is all but fallen and your cause quite lost.”

  “All the same, I’ll guard these lands to my dying breath.”