The soldier opened his mouth to reply but something behind the woman caught his attention. In fact, he watched in shock as two men vaulted over the top of the battlements. But his shock wasn’t so great that he didn’t realize what was happening. Suddenly, he let out a bellow.
“Breach!”
The game was over. Realizing that Blayth and his men were showing themselves, Asmara did the only thing she could do – she charged the English soldiers standing in front of her, using the shield to literally scoop them backwards. The older soldier tried to grab her, but she kneed the man in the groin so hard that he immediately fell to his knees, blocking the way for the soldiers behind him to charge.
That moment of respite allowed Asmara to bring the shield up and slam them in the face. She caught two of them squarely, with one of them falling straight off the wall walk and into the bailey below. But there were still men to take their place and she fell into a frenzy, striking and stabbing at everything that moved.
The English were unprepared for her onslaught. Because they’d been on watch when she’d come onto the wall, they had nothing more than crossbows with them, no broadswords, and now they had a woman who was fighting furiously, driving them back further, and further still. She was doing a marvelous job of fighting them off, but there were more of them than there were of her.
It was only a matter of time before they turned the tides.
Unfortunately for the English soldiers, there were now men on the wall walk that were not English, men who had climbed the wall on ropes evidently provided by the very woman they found themselves fighting off. The only possible explanation was the Welsh were going to try and take the castle, so the English were scrambling to gather their weapons and preparing to fight off the invaders.
Very quickly, chaos reigned.
But Asmara didn’t back away and she didn’t run, not even when she saw more English soldiers running for the wall walk. She held her ground, fighting and struggling, kicking and punching, until one of the soldiers managed to rip the staff from her hand. He turned it on her, preparing to strike, when a big body suddenly appeared between Asmara and the English.
Blayth had arrived.
The man had carried his short sword with him up that treacherous rope, and he dispatched two of the English soldiers before the rest began to run, backing away from the enormous Welshman with the deadly strike. When one man tried to challenge him, he punched him in the face, sending him to the ground and, in the same motion, stealing the man’s broadsword. Armed with a big weapon now, he moved menacingly towards the rest of the soldiers rushing up to the wall walk as Asmara, Aeddan, and Pryce tucked in behind him.
“We need to get into the room with the pulley that will open the portcullis,” Blayth said. “If I had to guess, I would say it is on the upper level of the gatehouse. Aeddan and I will hold off those coming up the ladders if Pryce and the lady can make it into the chamber on the upper level. See how they are already trying to form a blockade on the chamber entry?”
They could all see a group of soldiers with torches bunched up around an opening that led into the second floor of the gatehouse. Oddly enough, if there was a door on the opening, they hadn’t shut it. The doorway remained unsealed.
Asmara could see the portal clearly, and she could feel the thrill of battle rushing through her veins, for a variety of reasons. To begin with, she loved the rush of battle and the feel of a weapon in her hand. But it was also her first time fighting with Blayth and she was beginning to see what all the fuss was about. He was absolutely fearless in movement, fluid in motion, and moved with surreal power. She’d never seen anything like it in her life.
As the four of them moved towards the gatehouse, more English soldiers came running at them. Blayth and Aeddan were in the lead, fighting the men back, and as they did so, Asmara managed to pick up a short sword that someone had dropped in the chaos. As Blayth and Aeddan fought off the onslaught, and tried not to get pushed off the wall walk themselves, Asmara dropped to her knees and pushed through the legs of the men who were fighting.
She was in a perfect position to do a lot of damage, and damage she did. Men ended up with cut Achilles’ tendons or sword thrusts to the backs of their knees. In fact, Blayth had no idea why men were falling away from him so swiftly until he saw Asmara on her knees amongst the English, slashing viciously with her sword. It was one of the more impressive things he’d ever seen, and he found himself fighting off a smile at the very plucky Dragon Princess.
Now, he understood what men had been saying about her.
She was fearless, indeed.
In fact, he’d seen her fighting off the English the moment he’d arrived on the top of the wall. She’d had a shield and a staff, and she was creating serious problems for several English soldiers who were trying to fight back. For a brief moment, he’d admired the woman and her obvious skill, but then it occurred to him that the lovely, leggy woman who had his interest was in a great deal of danger, and that brought about a side of him he never knew he had. Certainly, he was fearsome in a fight – there was no one more fearsome – but the thought of Asmara in danger did something to him.
It spurred him to another level of fighting fervor.
He’d rushed up behind her, putting himself between her and the English, and that’s when men started dropping. Blayth was fighting to claim the castle, but he was also fighting for Asmara. As if the woman needed his help. But the chivalrous man in him was determined to give it.
In the midst of everything, he was trying not to feel like an utter, complete idiot.
The English had cleared up now between his slashing and Asmara’s stabbing, so he reached down and pulled her to her feet amidst wounded English on the wall walk.
“Well done,” he told her. “I think there are a few men around here who may never walk again, thanks to you.”
Pink-cheeked from exertion, Asmara looked at her handiwork of injured men, kicking one soldier when he didn’t move out of her way fast enough. He groaned when she kicked him again.
“Do you think so?” she asked seriously.
He nodded, his eyes glimmering at her. “I do,” he said. There was a warm moment as they looked at each other, and Blayth felt something shocking bolt through his veins. Fear? Excitement? He didn’t know. He couldn’t ever remember feeling it before. All he knew was that when he looked at her, he felt a distinct shock, but there was no time to linger on the sensation. He pointed to the two-storied gatehouse. “Now, let us see if we can lift that portcullis. Hurry, now; dawn is upon us and there is no time to waste.”
Asmara charged off, swinging her sword and engaging men who were far better protected than she was, but it didn’t seem to matter to her. She used those long legs to kick, and she wasn’t afraid to aim for a man’s groin. She did whatever she had to do in order to disable them. Once she had them off-balance, she lashed out, gravely injuring or even killing. Blayth saw her do it twice as they pushed their way to the gatehouse. Just as they neared the open door, a large soldier emerged.
Unfortunately, Asmara walked right into him and he reached out, clamping a big hand around her neck and giving her a good shake. The sword dropped from her grip as her hands moved instinctively to the big mitt around her neck, squeezing the life from her. She kicked out, twice, and caught the man in the abdomen and thigh, but not hard enough to cause him to dislodge his grip. Just as her vision began to dim, Blayth thrust his sword into the man’s belly.
Asmara fell aside as Blayth stabbed the man again and then tossed him over the wall walk. When he should have been heading into the gatehouse to locate the mechanism for the portcullis, he found himself more concerned for Asmara. He pulled her to her feet.
“Are you well?” he asked. “He did not hurt you, did he?”
Asmara was rubbing her neck where the soldier had gripped her. “Nay,” she said. “Thanks to you. I think he was trying to kill me.”
Blayth’s lips flickered with a grin. “What was your first ind
ication?”
Asmara stopped rubbing her neck and looked at him, thinking he was making some kind of nasty remark about her. But she saw the grin, and the mirth in his eyes, and a smile creased her lips.
“I am not entirely sure,” she jested in return. “It could have been that big hand on my neck. Or the fact that he was English.”
Blayth snorted, a humorous sound. “It was both, demoiselle,” he said. “But never fear; I would not let him do it, to you or to your sister. You were both quite valuable this night.”
Asmara’s smile vanished as she started looking around, almost in a panic. “My sister,” she gasped. “Where is Fairynne?”
Blayth turned around, too, looking for the tiny woman who had helped liberate a castle. The sun was starting to rise and the sky above was turning shades of blue and gray, casting a moderate amount of illumination on the castle. He thought he could see the younger ferch Cader sister over by the tower, still near the ropes that she had helped secure. He pointed.
“Over there,” he said. “But I would not worry over her. It seems that both ferch Cader sisters can take care of themselves.”
Asmara could see Fairynne also and it eased her mind considerably. “That is not a bad thing,” she said. “We have always been able to take care of ourselves.”
He cocked his head slightly. “You should not have to. Menfolk should protect you.”
“There are no menfolk that can protect me any better than I can do for myself.”
His smile was threatening again. “What about English soldiers who try to break your neck?”
She grinned and averted her gaze. “I would have overcome him, eventually.”
“And yet, you did not have to,” he said. He paused before speaking again. “I would do it again if you needed me to.”
There was something chivalrous in the way he said it, something that made Asmara look up and take notice. There was fighting going on all around them but, at the moment, it was as if they were the only two people in the whole world. When their gazes met, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that was difficult to describe. There was something… warm there. Something that suggested his concern for her wasn’t purely soldier to soldier. It was simply man to woman.
She began to feel faint for an entirely different reason.
God, how the man could make her heart race!
But the warm moment was dashed by the sound of the big portcullis as it began to lurch open. Chains groaned, iron creaked, and men began to yell. When Asmara and Blayth ran to the edge of the battlements to see what the fuss was about, they could see Morys and Cader’s men at the gatehouse below. Blayth turned quickly, rushing from the wall as he gestured to the open door of the second-floor of the gatehouse.
“Help them raise the portcullis,” he told Asmara. “I will go down below. I have a feeling the English will not take kindly to their new visitors.”
With that, he quickly descended the ladder that led to the bailey below, and Asmara charged into the second floor of the gatehouse, helping Aeddan and Pryce and two other men fight off English soldiers who were trying to do them great harm. Once Asmara entered the fight, the English limped away with kicked groins and other unmanly injuries, pain she wasn’t afraid to inflict, and the portcullis went up just enough so that Morys and Cader were able to flood in with their hundreds and hundreds of men.
Within an hour, the English of Llandarog Castle were subdued and the banners for Edward I were torn down from the battlements as the fortress was once again claimed by the Welsh. Even in the town of Llandarog, which had been shut tight against the battle, the peasants were starting to emerge, cheering the fact that the great castle was now in the hands of the Welsh. They began bringing food and drink to the castle in droves, and the men of Morys and Cader’s armies soon found themselves stuffed with sausages, marrowfat peas, and watered ale.
A feast fit for victors.
When Cader got over his anger at Fairynne’s part in securing Llandarog, he realized that he was most proud of his daughters. Blayth had told him that breaching Llandarog would not have been possible if it weren’t for the women warriors. He was, in truth, quite pleased with them, and when Asmara wanted to sit and eat and drink with Morys’ men, he didn’t stop her. She’d earned a place among them. But he sat with his own men, across the bailey, with an exhausted Fairynne sleeping on his lap, and watched his oldest daughter as she listened to Morys’ men tell great stories of valor.
But the feasting and stories of valor soon came to a halt when they received word from Howell stating that his siege of Gwendraith Castle had suffered a setback and they’d been unable to breach the castle. His missive asked Cader and Morys to spare what men they could, including Blayth, and send them along to Gwendraith to aid in claiming the castle.
Morys decided that Cader and a few of the men should remain with Llandarog while Morys took his men, and more than half of Cader’s, on to Gwendraith. Cader didn’t argue with him; he was happy to remain at the castle they’d worked so hard to capture. Before the day was out, Morys and his men rode out for Gwendraith, which was less than ten miles from Llandarog. To the cheers of the peasants of the village, Morys took his men and headed off to another battle.
Much to Asmara’s dismay, Cader had intentionally kept her and Fairynne with him. She was furious about it and had argued strongly but, in the end, Cader would not be swayed and Asmara marched off to sulk. What she didn’t know was that Cader had his reasons, petty or no – his arrogant, conceited brother who, when told Asmara and Fairynne’s roles in the breach of Llandarog, couldn’t even congratulate them. Asmara had proven herself worthy, as had Fairynne to a certain extent, but Morys wouldn’t acknowledge them. His pride wouldn’t let him.
It was pride that was starting to drive an even deeper wedge between him and his brother. And because of it, Cader kept his daughters with him. While Morys and his men went on to confiscate Gwendraith Castle, and remain there, Cader and his daughters, and his men, remained at Llandarog.
Asmara didn’t know why her father wouldn’t let her go join up with Morys’ army, but her father seemed particularly embittered after the siege of Llandarog. He didn’t want to talk about Morys at all, even worse than before. All Asmara knew was that it would be some time before she saw Blayth again, and in those weeks of separation, she didn’t forget about the man. On the contrary.
She was very much looking forward to the day when she would see him again.
And she knew she would see him again.
CHAPTER SIX
Four weeks later, Mid-September
Lioncross Abbey, near Lyonshall, England
The Welsh Marches
Lioncross Abbey Castle was named because it was built on the site of an ancient Roman house of worship and incorporated portions of two walls and part of the foundation into the structure of the castle itself. A former owner had christened it “Lioncross” after Richard the Lionheart, a man that the de Lohr family shared a great history with.
In truth, the castle had only belonged to the de Lohrs for less than one hundred years, when it passed into the family through marriage. It sat atop a low ridge overlooking a lake and the dark mountains that marked the Welsh border could be seen in the distance. The land around Lioncross was relatively flat and the Romans, as well as subsequent builders, had seen the advantage of building on the only rise for miles around. With the enormous curtain wall that surrounded the castle, the grounds of which were as vast as some of the largest castles in England, Lioncross Abbey was a force to be reckoned with.
The first Earl of Hereford and Worcester had been none other than Christopher de Lohr, the man known as King Richard’s Lion’s Claw. He had been with Richard on his crusade to The Holy Land and had made a name for himself there. When he’d returned to England, it had been with a litany of nicknames and titles, not the least of which was Defender of the Realm. In those turbulent days of Richard and John, when the Plantagenets fought brother against brother, or brother against fa
ther, or anyone else they decided to battle, Christopher and his brother, David, had been right in the middle of it, strongly supporting the crown.
The current earl was also named Christopher de Lohr, after his famous grandsire. The son of Curtis de Lohr, eldest son of Christopher and his lady wife, Dustin, Christopher the Second was a man in his fifth decade and had assumed the earldom at his father’s death only two years earlier. He had two younger brothers, Arthur and William, and so as not to confuse him with his legendary grandsire, he was known simply as Chris. Chris de Lohr meant the current earl, while Christopher meant the Lion’s Claw.
Not that Chris was any less powerful or decorated than his father or grandfather; on the contrary, he’d made a name for himself fighting with King Henry’s army and in the battles against Simon de Montfort. He was a proud tribute to the de Lohr name and he’d married well, having four sons and a daughter. Morgen, his eldest son, was also a fine tribute to the de Lohr name, but those who had known Christopher whispered that Morgen was much more like David, his great-uncle, than his grandsire. Morgen de Lohr had that quick temper in him that David de Lohr had been so famous for.
But Chris could not have been prouder of the young man, and of the rest of his brood – Rees, Dru, Kade, and Rhianne. His wife, Kaedia, was Welsh, a lass of a local chieftain he’d long had an alliance with, so his sons were a hybrid of an old English family and an old Welsh tribe, giving them all a particular view of the world. The boys had been raised English, and had fostered in the finest houses, but there was a part of them that was sympathetic to Welsh causes and to the Welsh fight for independence against Edward, which had made things rather difficult for them with Edward’s ongoing battles.
That was the reason Chris hadn’t consulted with Morgen or Rees when the news came out of Wales, via de Lohr spies in fact, that there was a new rebellion rising in the south. Although Morgen tended to side with the English in all things, as he would be an English earl when his father passed on, Rees had the heart of a rebel. He was passionate for the underdog; in this case, the Welsh. Dru and Kade were mostly English, like Morgen was, but Rees could get them worked up if he truly believed in a cause.
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