Fearsome Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Emera wasn’t satisfied by his answer. “Will you at least find out? Please?”

  He didn’t respond other than to look around, outside of the tower door and into the inner bailey beyond. “Since I am not entirely sure where else to keep you, I suppose it is possible that your chamber can be cleared of any men that might be inside of it,” he said. “I do not think this tower room is suitable to your needs. If you stay in here any longer, you will die.”

  He still wasn’t really answering her. Greatly frustrated, Emera yanked her arm from his grasp and faced him.

  “Please,” she begged softly. “Let us not be enemies. I am not your enemy, or anyone else’s. My name is Emera la Marche. My sister is Lady de la Roarke, wife of the garrison commander. Even though it is true that he is my sister’s husband, I have no loyalty to him or anything about him. Since I have told you my name, will you please tell me yours?”

  The knight looked at her and she could tell that he was debating how to respond to her. He wasn’t an unhandsome man. In fact, he was quite comely with his blonde hair and neatly trimmed beard. But he was stiff and formal, like the rest of them had been, and just when she thought he was going to ignore her yet again, his answer changed her mind.

  “De Lohr,” he said after a moment. “Sir Christopher de Lohr.”

  “And your commander’s name?”

  “He did not tell you his name?”

  “Nay. Is it a secret?”

  A flash of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It is not,” he said. “Mayhap he thought you should simply know it.”

  “How?”

  “Because of who he is.”

  “Who is he?”

  De Lohr fought of a smile again. “His name is Sir Juston de Royans. If you have not heard of him, then you should have. He is the greatest knight in England and he is now in command of Bowes.”

  Juston de Royans. Now the big warrior with the piercing eyes had a name. “I admit, I have not heard of him,” she said. “But I do not travel much in war circles so that is not surprising.”

  “You have never heard of the man they call the Lord of Winter?”

  “I have not.”

  He seemed either miffed or surprised; Emera couldn’t tell which. “Then you have missed much, lady.”

  That was probably very true and Emera simply nodded. “I will not dispute that,” she said. “Thank you for answering my questions. You have been very polite, but you seem to be the only one of your brethren who is polite.”

  He cocked a well-shaped eyebrow. “A battle is not a party,” he said wryly. “There is no need for manners where swords and captives are concerned. Surely you have figured that part out by now.”

  He had a point. Now it was her turn to gaze at him, almost appraisingly. He had her curiosity now that he was talking. “De Royans,” she said. “What makes him the greatest knight in England?”

  She was back to asking questions again and Christopher saw no harm in telling her. Perhaps it would make her less apt to question the situation as she seemed inclined to do if he informed her of who, exactly, she was now a prisoner of.

  “The list of his accomplishments is too great to tell,” he said. “Suffice it to say that the man has spent a good deal of time at the side of Richard the Lionheart in France, fighting against Henry’s tyranny. There is no battle too great for him to overcome and no man more talented than he is. He is clever in ways you would not begin to understand and has a greatness that eclipses even Richard at times. So if I were you, I would simply do as he says in all cases. You do not want to anger him.”

  Emera was listening seriously, coming to understand the man who was now in control of Bowes. “I am not trying to disobey him,” she said. “But I do not believe it is right he should treat women so poorly. That does not speak of a great man to me.”

  Christopher had much the same conversation with Juston earlier so he couldn’t disagree with the woman. “You are his prisoner,” he said simply. “More than that, you are a woman. He may do with you as he wishes.”

  “But I was not fighting against him. I never lifted weapon.”

  Christopher refused to be sucked into the semantics of the battle. He was coming to understand what she’d confessed earlier; she really had no concept of battle etiquette. He had no time to explain the obvious. Reaching out, he took her arm again, this time more firmly so she couldn’t pull free.

  “Let us head into the keep,” he said. “Once you are secured in your chamber, I will see what has become of your sister.”

  His statement both surprised and excited her. “Will you truly?”

  “I said I would.”

  That was the kindest thing that had happened since the fall of Bowes. Emera looked at the big knight as he pulled her from the tower, trying to meet his eye but noticing he wouldn’t be bothered with looking at her. Still, she felt a certain amount of gratitude towards him.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I will stay to my chamber and I will not cause any problems if you will only show common courtesy. I… I have not eaten in some time, either. Do you suppose I could have some bread or cheese?”

  “That is entirely possible.”

  He was still pulling her along, still not looking at her, as they crossed the inner bailey towards the looming keep. Emera could see faint shades of pink on the eastern horizon, signaling the onset of a new day. It would be a day without siege and a day where the situation at Bowes had changed markedly. She tried not to be too terribly disheartened by it. After all, de Lohr had promised to bring her food and her sister. She was grateful for that.

  But her struggle not to let depression swamp her was dashed when they passed around the side of the keep and straight into a gathering of the wounded from the hall. They had been lying out all night and they’d been rained on. Wounded men were laying there, freezing in the frigid temperatures while servants rushed about trying to light fires and dry them off and erect makeshift shelters. There was a good deal of chaos going on, by directionless servants now that both ladies had been taken away. The situation was dire.

  Shocked at the sight of bleeding, miserable men, Emera came to a halt in spite of de Lohr’s grip on her. Her horrified gaze moved across the clusters of wounded, freezing men right before her very eyes.

  “Sweet Mary,” she whispered. “Are you such soulless creatures that you cast the wounded out into the elements simply because they chose to pick up a sword against you because they were commanded to? You treat your animals better than you treat them!”

  In a fit of rage and disgust, she jerked her arm free of Christopher’s grip and ran to the wounded. The servants, seeing at least one of their mistresses returned, rushed to her like a moth to flame, loudly lamenting the situation. Female servants were weeping while the male servants hovered nervously, begging for help and direction.

  Emera immediately began instructing them, pointing to the men, pointing to the kitchens, which were on the north side of the keep and clustered there along with the bakery and buttery. The only reason those buildings hadn’t burned was because the roofs were heavy sod, not thatch that had been on the other buildings. Flaming arrows had hit the roofs but due to the soil of the sod, they’d not burned for long. Now, Emera had the servants running for the kitchens and still other men, wounded soldiers that could still walk, moving the wounded closer to the keep to use the exterior walls as shelter.

  Christopher had followed her as she’d rushed towards the wounded but he’d stopped short of grabbing her again and hauling her into the keep as he’d intended. He’d been against Maxton’s decision to move the wounded from the beginning and, truth was, he was as unsettled with it as Emera was. Something clearly needed to be done to help the poor men in dire circumstances so he simply let her do it. The woman wasn’t going anywhere and he knew she wouldn’t try to run; she’d made that clear. Therefore, he didn’t stop her as she began to order the servants and other wounded about. He let her do it because it needed to be done.


  “What goes on?”

  The question came from behind and he turned to see Marcus Burton approaching. The man was without his helm, his hauberk bunched around his neck and his black hair unkempt. Christopher eyed him as the man came to a stop beside him.

  “Lady Emera is moving the wounded,” Christopher said simply. “Honestly, Maxton was wrong to throw them out of the hall, putting them out in the elements like this. She is trying to make them comfortable and I am not going to prevent her. It needs to be done.”

  Marcus didn’t much care what Lady Emera was doing. He hadn’t had any contact with her, anyway, so he had no feelings on the matter one way or the other. The wounded, however, were another matter – he agreed with Christopher that what Maxton had done was unsavory but he’d kept his opinion to himself. It was an unspoken rule amongst the knights that singular decisions were not questioned. With nothing much to say on the subject, he changed the focus of the conversation.

  “Juston told me about Cotherstone Castle late last night,” he said. “He wants us to ride to Cotherstone today and assess her strength. David is having the horses saddled.”

  Christopher nodded. “Very well,” he said, his gaze moving from Emera to the sky above. “Then let us depart. The weather is holding for now but by the looks of the clouds to the south, that may not be the case much longer.”

  He started to move away but Marcus stopped him. “What about the lady?” he asked. “Will you not secure her before we depart?”

  Christopher looked over his shoulder at the woman, now dragging a wounded man into the shadow of the keep. He shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “She does not need to be secured. Her duty is to tend these men and she will not leave them. Do you know what happened to her sister?”

  Marcus yawned, scratching his black head. “I did not know there was a sister.”

  Christopher had duties to attend to but found it perturbing that he’d told Emera he’d locate her sister. He felt an obligation to do that before he left to assess Cotherstone purely based on the fact that he told the woman he would. Giving his word meant something to him, even if it was his word to a prisoner. He was honorable that way.

  Therefore, leaving Emera in the cold bailey trying desperately to secure the wounded, he headed off across the compound with Marcus beside him, tracking down the lady of the keep, the one married to the knight Juston had so brutally killed. Maybe it was weak of him to do it, or perhaps it showed good character. Either way, he was annoyed with himself as he followed the trail of Lady Emera’s missing sister.

  When he got to the end of his quest, just as the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, he wasn’t particularly surprised with what he’d found. Truth be told, he was relieved. Lady Jessamyn de la Roarke was found in the vaults in the sublevel below the keep, bottled up in a tiny cell with an old iron grate. She was cold and weepy, but she was safe and untouched. As it turned out, none of the knights wanted any part of her and it had been Maxton who had locked the woman away, unsure what else to do with her. It had been another one of Maxton’s cold moves.

  Christopher released the woman and sent her back to her sister, hoping Maxton would hear of it and confront him. Somehow, at some point, he was fairly certain he and Maxton would have a moment where one was going to have to deal a brutal beating to the other for it was something that had been coming to a head for some months.

  Christopher was certain of one thing – he wouldn’t be the one to submit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  He hadn’t slept.

  Oh, he’d pretended to. He made a good show of it because he didn’t want anyone bothering him, but the truth was that he hadn’t slept much. That blue-eyed vixen had him fidgeting and tossing on his cushioned cot.

  The tent was cold and damp near dawn, his brazier having burned out almost completely until Gart snuck in at some point and filled it with peat again. Using kindling, he’d ignited it and the blue flame flickered in the brazier, staving off the freezing temperatures in the tent.

  Gart had left as silently as he’d come in but Juston had been awake, watching his squire move around in the darkness. He had always appreciated Gart but he knew he didn’t tell the man that nearly enough. He’d taken his efficiency for granted for years and kept promising himself he’d do something about it someday. Gart wasn’t due to be knighted yet for at least a couple of years, but it wasn’t unheard of for a man to be knighted before he turned twenty years of age. Juston was thinking he might just knight the man and get it over with. He already fought as good as the knights and then some.

  But his thoughts rolled back to the la Marche woman after Gart had departed. Bright-eyed and stunningly beautiful, he still wasn’t over the fact that she hadn’t fallen all over herself to please him. He didn’t understand her apathetic attitude towards him, something no woman had ever shown towards him. Ever. That was the only reason she was on his mind, he told himself. Her apathy had him intrigued. If she’d done as he told her to do, perhaps he wouldn’t be giving her a second thought. It was her refusal that had his interest.

  … wasn’t it?

  Sitting up in bed, he ran his fingers through his thick, curly mane before reaching for the last of the Malmsey wine. There wasn’t much left and he downed it, rising from his pallet to dress in the darkness. Outside, he could hear his men stirring about so he thought he’d better head into the castle to see what the current situation was. Maybe he’d even ask Christopher where the la Marche woman had been secured. Maybe he’d give her a second chance at pleasing him. He wondered if she’d be smart enough to do as he wished this time.

  Something told him she wouldn’t be.

  Considering the freezing temperatures, he pulled on a couple of heavy woolen tunics before pulling on a fur-lined leather robe that was heavy and durable, with a big collar and fur-cuffed sleeves, trailing all the way to his feet. It was an impressive piece of wardrobe that Lizette had commissioned for him years ago when he’d been fighting with Richard in the Aquitaine. Richard had even tried to steal it from him, twice, telling him that it was too regal to be worn by anyone other than a king. When Juston pointed out that Richard wasn’t the king yet, Richard didn’t speak to him for an entire month.

  The thought of that argument still made Juston smile.

  Wearing the robe these days didn’t hurt him like it used to. The garment reminded him so much of Lizette that it had been at least three years before he could even look at the thing. But these days, he looked upon the garment with fond memories of his worrying wife and her demands that he take care of his health. She had always been so concerned for him, something that had amused him at the time but something he found he’d missed greatly once she was gone.

  It had been nice to have someone care for him so much.

  In truth, his heart didn’t ache for her now like it used to but there were times when he missed her and his daughters greatly. It was just easier to push it aside as time went on as he steeled himself against any kind of emotion for anyone or anything else.

  The Lord of Winter’s heart was a frozen thing, indeed.

  With thoughts of Lizette, Richard, and fighting days in the Aquitaine on his mind, Juston quit the tent and headed out into the freezing dawn. The air was heavy with moisture and a layer of smoke from the early morning fires blanketed the desolate land. With the sunrise behind the clouds, everything was a cold shade of gray as he headed towards the castle, noting that men were already beginning repairs on the outer wall he’d so effectively bombarded with his siege engines. He was proud of his handiwork and found it a shame they had to build the walls back up again. But it was necessary.

  He was nearing what was left of the drawbridge when he caught sight of three big chargers approaching. He recognized Christopher, David, and Marcus right away, coming to a halt when they came upon him. A perusal of the three knights showed they were dressed for battle in heavy armor and weapons. Aware of the drunken discussion he’d had with Burton the night before, Juston was pleased
to see they were carrying out his wishes as the sun rose.

  “Watch the road as you head to Cotherstone,” he told them. “De Puiset is undoubtedly aware of our siege of Bowes so he may have men watching the roads. Do not engage in any fighting if you see any of his men; return to Bowes immediately. Is that clear?”

  The three knights, astride their hairy and excitable chargers, nodded. “It is, my lord,” Christopher replied. “We are not taking any soldiers with us so as not to attract attention. It will just be the three of us.”

  Juston was satisfied. “Be on your way, then,” he said. “I will expect you back before nightfall.”

  The three knights spurred their horses onward, heading to the main road that would lead them to a smaller road north. Juston watched them go, wondering what they would discover this day at Cotherstone, before finally turning for the gatehouse once more. He glanced up at the sky as he moved, noticing the increase in dark clouds heading in their direction. He was fairly certain they were in for another storm and from the speed in which the men repairing the wall were moving, he was fairly certain they knew it, too. Men were cutting damaged stone and hauling it up with a makeshift pulley system, moving quickly.

  The gatehouse passage to the outer bailey was dark and icy, and remarkably undamaged from the siege. Since the gatehouse was so big, with a double portcullis system, Juston’s strategy had been to bombard the interior of the castle to force a surrender rather than trying to break down the impenetrable gatehouse. As soon as he entered the gatehouse, Gart and Gillem were there to greet him.

  “My lord,” Gart said, his nose pinched red from the cold. “I can give you a report of the status of the castle unless you’d rather see for yourself.”

  Juston eyed him, the dark circles around his eyes. “Did you sleep last night?”

  “I did, my lord.”

  “Liar.”

  Gart gave him a half-smile. “I think I did.”