He had survived, she had not.
With that thought, something made him reconsider his departure with Emera. He had only planned to leave her with a few words but now he wasn’t so sure. He’d left Lizette that day without telling her that he loved her and it had haunted him. He assumed she knew he loved her even though he couldn’t honestly remember ever telling her, but now with Emera, he didn’t want to leave her without saying something… well, something meaningful. He had known her barely a week but in that week, she had managed to mark him. Last night only confirmed it. There was so much on his mind that it was difficult to know where to start. Perhaps if he just started talking, it would come to him.
“Emera,” he said quietly, coming to a halt. “I am not one to make great speeches when I depart for battle, but I would like to say that… that it has been an honor to know you.”
That wasn’t what he’d wanted to say but he’d lost his courage the moment he’d looked into her eyes. Now he felt like an idiot. Predictably, Emera’s brow furrowed.
“That sounds final, as if you do not intend to come back,” she said.
He shook his head. “I will, indeed, come back,” he said. “But when I am successful in chasing off Durham, it is quite possible I will head to Brough to help them do away with Carlisle. I may not return for quite some time.”
Now she was greatly concerned. “Carlisle?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”
He knew she hadn’t heard what the messenger at the gatehouse had told him. He didn’t want to frighten her but he supposed it was her right to know considering Bowes was in the middle of all of these skirmishes. It was only fair she be aware of the situation in case Carlisle somehow managed to trickle through and come to Bowes.
“As you are aware, messengers were sent from Cotherstone Castle when I began the siege of Bowes,” he said. “We speculated as to where the messengers could have gone and it seems that one made it to Carlisle Castle. I received word this morning that Carlisle, on their way to assist Bowes, was repelled by Brough Castle. Brough has held them in check to prevent them from coming to us, so it is my duty to assist Brough once Durham has been repelled.”
Emera stared at him, her blue eyes big and full of anxiety. “Then you will not return to Bowes until you have helped your allies at Brough?”
“That is correct.”
“How long do you suppose that might take?”
He shook his head. “There is no way to know.”
It was clear that Emera was upset by the information. She averted her gaze, fumbling with her hands. “You have been doing this for a very long time, have you not? Fighting battles, I mean.”
He watched her lowered head. “Aye. For nearly twenty-five years.”
Her head came up, astonished. “You are not that old!”
He smiled weakly. “When I was fourteen years of age, I was taken by my master, Sir Luc de Vini, to France in support of King Henry and his claim on French lands,” he said. “I had fostered at Warwick Castle until that time and I considered it my home. De Vini was an excellent master and he taught me a great deal, but he mostly taught me how to survive. Consequently, I am more comfortable than most in battle. Have confidence that I shall, indeed, return, Emera. You needn’t worry.”
Emera fell quiet, pondering his statement. It wasn’t a prideful boast more than it was simply a statement of truth. There was no way she could disbelieve such confidence and experience. But still, she was worried.
“And then what?” she asked. “Will you continue your lordship over Bowes?”
“Aye.”
“And will I remain at Bowes?”
“Aye.”
“In what capacity?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “As chatelaine,” he said. “Have you forgotten?”
Chatelaine. She didn’t mind that so much but considering what had happened last night, she wasn’t going to let him get away with anything less than what she expected of him. He’d danced around the subject before. But no more.
“I have not,” she said. “But only last night, you told me your intentions are honorable. An honorable man does not tell a woman that only to bed her and nothing more. An honorable man will hold true to his word.”
A smile flickered on is lips. “I gave you no word other than telling you that my intentions were honorable.” When her face turned red and she coiled up for a fight, his grin broke through and he put a big hand on her face to soothe her. “I told you that you must be patient with me. Of course you will be more than my chatelaine, in time.”
Her building outrage was soothed simply by his touch. But she still wanted to hear it from his lips. “Tell me, Juston. Tell me that I shall be your wife.”
“In time.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Can you not even say it?”
“Why should I? You just did.”
She growled in frustration, turning away from him. “You are the most maddening man I have ever met,” she seethed. “Can you not say what is in your heart?”
Grinning, he watched her stomp away. “You are.”
She came to a halt, agitated. “I am what?”
“In my heart.”
With that, he turned away from her and headed back towards the keep, leaving Emera standing there, watching him with her breath caught in her throat. That was the effect his words had on her; that fluttering heart was beating like mad and her breath caught in her throat.
Her giddy smile returned as she resumed her trek to the kitchens. He may have been frustrating and arrogant, but he was learning how to melt her heart.
That Evening
It was the first time in weeks that pork hadn’t been served for every meal because all of the pigs that had been slaughtered for Juston’s projectiles had finally been consumed. The cook had proceeded to slaughter four fat, old sheep, which yielded a great deal of meat. The cook had two massive cauldrons in the kitchen yard boiling cuts of mutton in well-salted water and still more cauldrons of iron boiling turnips, cabbage, and carrots. The smell of baking bread also filled the air and the bread ovens built against the inner wall were working furiously to churn out enough bread for the mass of men who were hungry for it.
Emera could smell the bread from the second floor chamber where she and Jessamyn had retreated, dragging their satchels up from the vault and putting their possessions back into Emera’s chamber. Even though Jessamyn had occupied the master’s chamber before with Brey, they were both well aware that Juston now occupied that chamber. They made no attempt to settle in it. However, Jessamyn had raided the big wardrobe in the chamber for the remainder of her clothing and possessions, but she left Brey’s clothing in there as if someone else might want it. She surely didn’t. As far as she was concerned, that was a closed chapter in her life and she mourned it as no more than that.
Therefore, the ladies settled down in Emera’s chamber, emerging from the vault now that Juston and his army were heading off to intercept Durham. There was no reason why they shouldn’t sleep in a comfortable bed and Emera was certain that Juston would approve. The man no longer had a reason to keep them in the vault and, to be truthful, they were both relieved and grateful not to have to sleep there any longer now that the wounded were becoming mobile. Somehow, it wasn’t seemly for them to sleep there with some of the men now able to move about.
Moving into the private chamber also allowed them to bathe and dress in private, which they did happily for the first time in weeks. While they had the servants drag up the big copper tub, Juston’s knights had prepared an entire army. While the ladies bathed and washed their hair, a luxury and a rarity in the winter time, Juston’s knights had gone about their duties of securing Bowes. It wasn’t right that the women should worry about the castle, anyway, and there wasn’t anything they could have done. But as they found a few moments of leisure time and Juston’s men prepared to depart, down in the vault where the wounded were housed, there were hints of rebellion in the air.
A rebellion that had started near
ly the day Bowes was captured for Richard. The wounded, so mistreated by Maxton’s orders, had harbored that resentment deep. Men died because of his command and even when they were moved into the vault, only a mildly better location, men still died. Lady Emera and Lady Jessamyn had worked feverishly to keep them warm, but still, men succumbed. That resentment grew among the wounded who suffered non-mortal injuries and as they healed, a rebellion began to take root. Though they gossiped about Lady Emera and the enemy commander, the truth was that their gossip was a cover for something far more sinister.
A plan to take back the castle was coming from within.
Cowling, the man who had served with Juston years ago, had heard the rumblings. They mostly came from a few men who had been with de la Roarke before he ever took charge of Bowes. Arthos, Edgard, and Kenelm were older soldiers that were doing the most muttering and planning, listening to the women for any hint of information that might be important to them and also asking the servants about the army of Juston de Royans. Most of the house servants wouldn’t speak to them but one did, a younger man who hadn’t yet learned to keep his mouth shut.
It was through this servant that the wounded of Bowes learned that de Royans was taking his army out to meet the Bishop of Durham in the field. The servant thought that perhaps tomorrow was the day but he wasn’t certain. Most of the army had been prepared, he said, with only a hundred or so that would be left behind to guard the castle.
As the evening settled, cold and dark, Cowling sat against the wall of the vault, in the shadows, listening to the three soldiers use that information to plot to retake Bowes.
“If de Royans’ men are left behind, then we canna take the entire castle,” Arthos was whispering to his comrades. “But we can take the keep and hold it.”
“The keep!” his friends hissed in excited agreement. “We can hold the keep until Durham can retake the castle!”
They were seemingly in agreement, whispering among themselves as they plotted. Cowling listened as they laid out the plan to rise up and seize the keep, which was more than possible – it was probable. With all of de Royans’ men spread thin on the battlements, it wouldn’t be a difficult thing to do to seize the keep. But the men were speaking with haste, not having thought the plan through completely. Cowling was finally forced to speak up.
“And what shall you eat once you bottle up the keep?” he asked the trio, who looked at him in various stages of surprise and suspicion. “That’s right; I heard you. I have been hearing you for days now. You speak like fools, like men who have never had to thoroughly plan out anything because you always follow and never lead. How are you going to eat?”
The three of them looked at each other, confused. “We can store food down here,” Edgard pointed out. “Look at all of the turnips down here. We can eat them!”
Cowling nodded with impatience. “How will you cook them?” he asked. “What about water? The well is outside of the keep. If we have no water in here, we will die.”
That shot arrows into their plans but it wasn’t enough to destroy it. “There are cisterns on the roof of the keep,” Arthos said. “That will supply us with water.”
“It is winter. They are mostly frozen over.”
“We can heat the water!”
“With what?” Cowling wanted to know. “You must have fuel to do that.”
“We will get it!” Kenelm insisted. “We will store it down here along with food and then we will strike.”
Cowling thought they sounded rather idiotic, visions of glory and no concept of the reality of such a thing. “What about weapons?” he asked. “If you take the keep, de Royans is going to want it back. He is going to fight for it. How will you fend him off?”
Emera and Jessamyn chose that moment to enter the vault, bringing the evening meal for the wounded as they were followed by a few servants bearing hot food. They were very nicely dressed, cleaned and combed, in stark contrast to their appearance the last several days.
In fact, they looked quite beautiful. Emera checked on a few of the weaker men while Jessamyn began handing out the food. Cowling couldn’t help but notice how the three rebels were looking at the women. In fact, when Arthos saw that Cowling was looking at him, he grinned in a wicked fashion.
“We will not need weapons,” he said. “I doubt de Royans will harm us if we have the lady with us.”
Cowling frowned. “What do you mean?”
Kenelm snorted while Arthos spoke. “Everyone knows she’s his whore,” he said quietly because she was coming near. “I would wager that he’ll not do a thing to harm her if she is our hostage.”
Cowling shook his head. “’Tis a low man who would hold a woman hostage,” he said. “I agree we can hold the keep for Henry, but we’ll do it as men. Not as animals.”
Because Cowling was a senior man, and stronger and smarter than the rest of them, the trio of insurgents didn’t argue with him on that point. They wanted, and needed, his help, so they were willing to keep quiet about the women for the time being. But Arthos had little doubt that Lady Emera was the best possible weapon they had against Juston de Royans.
When the time came, he intended to use her no matter what Cowling said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“God’s Bones,” Maxton muttered, mouth full. “Something other than pork to eat. I swear, any more pork and I was destined to grow a snout.”
He and the other knights, including Juston, were seated at one of the big feasting tables, situated near the hearth so the warmth could heat their cold flesh as they stuffed their faces with boiled mutton. The weather had frozen over again and there was sleet falling, melting before it hit the ground and creating great puddles of icy mud. The wind, which had been blustery most of the day, had settled down and now everything was mostly still. But the freezing weather was concerning Juston.
Much of Juston’s tactics depended on fire. As with the siege of Bowes, Juston used animal fat to light up his projectiles or, in the case of field battle, he had any number of other tactics he used to do damage. On the field of battle, he would often have his men stand shoulder to shoulder, protected by shields, and move archers forward that way. He could launch flaming arrows into the heart of any infantry, but when the weather turned freezing like this, it made it difficult to use his favored weapon – fire.
Therefore, he sat at the end of the table with a cup of hot wine in hand, worrying about the coming fight as he watched his men as they shoved meat into their mouths. Around him, the hall was jammed with soldiers who had come in from the icy weather to eat and warm their bones. A few of his men had even brought instruments into the hall and they sat in a corner, playing lively tunes as men ate, gambled, and even danced around them.
In all, the hall portrayed a scene of jubilation and relaxation when the truth was that these were men living life to the fullest because tomorrow, they were heading into battle. This was essentially their last chance for a moment of peace before the storm hit. Juston and the knights knew that better than most as they sat quietly, eating and drinking with a roof over their heads and a fire in the hearth. The days of uncertainty in a battle encampment were soon to come.
“I did not see Erik leave with the boy,” Marcus said, seated on Juston’s right next to Christopher and David. “Did he take the boy and go?”
Juston took a drink of wine. “Aye,” he replied. “He left this morning while you were off with the quartermasters. He is heading straight to Netherghyll and that is where he shall remain.”
“I did not have the opportunity to speak with the boy very much,” Christopher said, “although when we were traveling to Gainford yesterday, he spoke quite a bit with Lady Emera. It seemed as if he had a good deal to say to her.”
Juston wasn’t particularly interested. “Why shouldn’t he?” he said. “She is intelligent and easy to converse with.”
Christopher shoved a piece of crusty bread into his mouth, chewing. “The boy speaks like Erik does when he has had too much to drink,�
� he said. “He runs off at the mouth. I was riding near the wagon and meant to tell you this, but I had forgotten. He told the lady that a man named Dorian Lusignan murdered your wife. De Russe had better watch what he tells that lad because he has no control on what he repeats to others.”
The mention of that subject, that name, had Juston’s attention but before he could speak, Gart spoke up from across the table. “Erik is aware what happens to him when he drinks too much,” he said to Christopher, defending his friend. “I am sure he will be careful from now on.”
Christopher opened his mouth to reply but Juston interrupted him. “The boy told her about Lusignan?” he asked. “Great Bleeding Christ, I wish I’d known. I would have had the lad sit in the other wagon. That is information he should not be repeating.”
Christopher nodded. “I realize that,” he said. “I monitored the conversation and that was the only inflammatory thing he said, I assure you. The rest of the time, he was just babbling.”
Juston still wasn’t happy. “I already told her about what happened with Lusignan and my family. She did not need to hear it again.”
It was apparent to all who were listening that Juston was very concerned about the lady, perhaps too concerned. Normally one to speak unemotionally about most subjects, his conversation when speaking on the lady was quite impassioned. It was a definite indication that, perhaps, there was something more than just polite regard. Although Gart and Christopher passed knowing glances, considering the conversation they’d had earlier in the day, the person who was listening most closely to Juston’s tone was Gillem.
Seated down the table from Gart, and well into his food and wine, he couldn’t help but hear Juston as he spoke about the lady and it only served to upset him even more than usual. He had heard the rumors that morning about Juston and the lady, rumors started by servants in the keep as they had seen Juston carry Lady Emera up to his chamber the night before. It didn’t take a great intellect to figure out what had happened after that, which only served to fuel Gillem’s bitterness towards Juston and the lady.
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