Slowly sinking onto the bench that he had previously occupied, Emera prayed hard for what was to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Cowling! Wake up!”
Cowling had been in a deep slumber when he heard someone calling his name. His mind misty, he had to shake off the cobwebs as he rolled onto his back, trying to see in the darkness of the vault. In the black, he could make out the outline of Arthos.
“What is it?” Cowling demanded, irritable. “What do you want?”
Arthos huddled down next to Cowling’s head so he wouldn’t have to shout. “The army is moving out,” he hissed. “In the dead of night, they are pulling out to meet de Puiset. The Bishop of Durham must be coming to save us!”
Cowling sat up, pushing Arthos away because the man was too close to him. He didn’t like breathing in that foul breath. But the impact of Arthos’ words settled in to his sleepy mind.
“De Royans’ army is leaving?” he repeated just to make sure he heard correctly. “Who told you this?”
Arthos pointed up, to the floor above. “We could hear them,” he said. “They were feasting and then something happened because they fled the hall. I went up to see what had happened, peeking into the hall so they could not see me, and there were very few men left in the hall. They all went outside. Now, the army is assembling! They have already opened the gatehouse and the infantry is leaving!”
It was startling news. Cowling rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood up, unsteadily. Around him in the darkness of the vault, he could see that the other men were awake and whispering, some of them standing, all of them excited with the prospect of retaking the keep. Finally, they would take back what rightfully belonged to them in a perfect moment of weakness for de Royans. Cowling scratched his head.
“But who told you de Puiset was coming?” he asked. “Has this been confirmed?”
Arthos nodded his head. “The servants in the hall said they heard men speaking of Durham coming to Bowes,” he said. “Why else would de Royans remove his army?”
He had a point. But Cowling still didn’t seem excited about it, merely confused. “Did you bring in more supplies since we spoke?” he asked Arthos. “We cannot hold the keep if we have no supplies.”
Arthos had the glow of victory in his eyes. “We will not only take the keep, but the inner bailey as well,” he said excitedly. “The servants have said they are all with us. The well and the kitchens are within the inner bailey. We can lock ourselves up and wait for help to arrive.”
Cowling shook his head. “Do you not think de Royans’ men can mount the inner wall if you try to hold it?” he asked in frustration. “You are not thinking clearly. The keep is the only thing we will be able to hold because, surely, a hundred de Royans men will overwhelm less than fifty wounded men. You must only think on holding the keep and nothing more because we have no weapons for anything larger.”
Arthos wasn’t thrilled with Cowling’s dissention but the man had a point. They had no weapons to hold the inner ward should de Royans’ men try to regain it. That meant the keep, as Cowling had said, was their best option. He was disappointed at that realization, unable to hide it.
“Then the servants can bring food and other things into the keep,” Arthos said, disgruntled. “As I said, they are willing to help and they can move without suspicion. They have already brought us what weapons they could steal – we have several bows, arrows, and swords they managed to steal from the pile of weaponry taken from our dead men that de Royans is keeping near the stables.”
He was scrambling to prove to Cowling that he knew what he was doing and that the planned rebellion left nothing to chance. But Cowling still wasn’t certain. So many things depended upon preparation and timing, of which they’d had little. Hastily planned ventures like this never succeeded but he knew he couldn’t discourage the men. They were set on it.
“Then if you are truly going to take the keep, do it quickly,” Cowling said. “Tell the servants to bring any and all food into the keep, and pots to warm water and cook food, and peat. We will need lots of peat or we will freeze to death.”
Arthos nodded. “Are you with us, then?”
“I have never been against you.”
That was good enough for Arthos. He scurried off to discuss the situation with the rest of the wounded as Cowling wondered if this would be successful. Was Durham really coming to aid Bowes? Or was that pure speculation on Arthos’ part? One thing was for sure – if the wounded of Bowes regained the keep, it would spell trouble for Juston de Royans to have a battle on two fronts. As much as Cowling admired and respected Juston, he had been serving Henry too long to change his loyalties for a man who had once also served Henry. Cowling didn’t know how Juston had come to serve Richard, but it didn’t matter. Henry was king and Bowes belonged to Henry.
Nothing personal to Juston.
After that, the wounded of Bowes worked through the night obtaining what they needed in order to survive their rebellion. When morning finally came, that dull gray sky that signified yet another day had risen, the wounded of Bowes rose up out of their vault and filtered into the hall.
The time had come.
With hemp ropes, shovels, fire pokers, and anything else they could use for weapons, they managed to kill three de Royans’ soldiers who had been in the great hall, tossing their bodies out into the inner ward and leaving a fourth soldier to tell the others what had happened. They then lit the wooden staircase of the forebuilding on fire and shored up the entry door, effectively sealing off the keep from any type of counterattack. Small windows, walls that were impossible to scale, and an iron entry door that could not be burned or rammed made the keep of Bowes quite impenetrable.
For Gillem and the two hundred men left behind by Juston, the seizure of the keep came as a great surprise. They had been up all night, watching the army depart and fade off into the darkness before securing the gatehouse and reinforcing the outer defenses of Bowes as best they could. Their concern was the outer ward because of the weakened western wall, never the inner ward or the keep, so a panicked soldier describing the Bowes wounded that had killed his comrades had been a nasty shock. Now, the keep of Bowes was in the hands of men who had not been considered a threat. It had been a terrible oversight on Juston’s part.
Worse still, kitchen servants and other Bowes servants, who had been thus far serving de Royans and his men without question, now turned into an army of the wretched who tried to fight off Gillem and his soldiers with fire pokers and pitchforks. Shocked by the insurrection but quickly realizing that this rebellion had been well-planned, Gillem didn’t hesitate to kill those opposing him. He did away with the fat cook and two kitchen servants personally while his soldiers took care of the rest.
Seventeen servants in all, including grooms from the stables and the castle’s carpenter, were killed in the rebellion and their bodies left scattered so those in the keep could see what had happened. Now, Gillem was furious with what had happened and he was going to make those who had organized it pay. Leaving the bodies of the murdered rebels in full view of the keep was a message to those inside… this, too, shall be you!
As the night progressed and headed towards a stormy gray dawn, Gillem was quite certain Juston’s whore was the leader of the rebellion. He had no doubt in his mind, certain that she and her sister were inside the keep, more than likely laughing at the chaos they had caused.
Gillem wasn’t too unhappy about that realization, in truth, because he could then kill the woman and be justified. She was a traitor, he would tell Juston, and he was certain that Juston would thank him for his cunning and intelligence. Gillem felt a good deal of satisfaction at the thought of breaching the keep, finding that black-haired vixen, and slitting her soft white throat. It became his one and only thought.
He was going to kill her and Juston would brand him a hero.
The murder of an innocent woman was the last thing on Gillem’s mind when an arrow, fired from one of the lancet w
indows that dotted the hall, found its mark in his neck. In the end, it was Gillem whose white throat had been pierced by a sharp edge and it was his rich, red blood running out onto the frozen ground of the inner ward.
The death count at Bowes grew by one.
Emera didn’t think she’d be able to sleep that night, but she had.
Lying next to her sister in her small but comfortable bed, she lay awake long into the night, gazing into the fire as it flickered in the hearth, thinking about Juston as he rode out with his men on this dark and frozen night. Because of the limited view from the keep, with small windows and, in the case of her chamber, windows that were facing the wrong direction, she couldn’t watch the army as they left the castle. All she could do was pray for Juston’s safety as he headed out to prevent the Bishop of Durham from coming to Bowes.
The day leading up to the army’s departure had, truthfully, been exhausting and it was Jessamyn who eventually pulled her into bed at a late hour. Snuggled down beneath the warm coverlet, her back to her sister’s back, the two of them kept each other warm as the icy winter chill filtered in through the chamber window. All was quiet and peaceful in the chamber even if the world outside was in chaos.
“Emmy…,” Jessamyn said quietly. “Do not become angry with what I am to say, but it is clear that de Royans is smitten with you. I suppose I did not realize just how much until I saw the expression on his face tonight.”
Staring into the flames, Emera smiled. “Why would I become angry with you for saying that?”
“Because the man is a soldier. This is not the first castle he has conquered nor will it be his last. Do you not fear he will simply grow tired of you and then find a new lady to be smitten with at the next castle he seizes?”
It was a depressing thought, one Emera had never entertained. Was it possible he’d grow weary of her at some point? Was it possible that the giddy desire they felt for one another would someday be extinguished by another woman’s flame?
Damn her sister for being logical about the situation!
“He told me that he has not had feelings for another woman since his wife was killed,” Emera said, some uncertainty in her voice. “I do not believe he will become tired of me. He said that I have his heart.”
“Does he even have one to give?”
“That is cruel, Jess.”
Jessamyn sighed. “I am sorry,” she said. “I am only thinking of you. I do not want you to be hurt.”
Emera softened. “I know,” she said softly. “Aye, he has a heart to give. He had a wife several years ago that he had given it to, but his wife and children were murdered by a knight bearing the name of Lusignan.”
Jessamyn rolled over, looking at her sister even though Emera was still facing away from her. “Lusignan?” she repeated, shocked. “That is terrible! What happened?”
Emera sighed. “I do not know,” she said. “He only said they were murdered. And then when we traveled to Gainford, Tristan told me that Sir Erik had told him that a man named Dorian Lusignan had murdered Juston’s family.”
Jessamyn gasped. “Dorian Lusignan!” she cried softly. “Emmy, we have an uncle by that name!”
“I know.”
“You did not tell de Royans, did you?”
Emera shook her head. “Nay,” she said sadly. “I will never tell him and neither will you. It does not matter, does it? His family is still dead. Telling him we have an uncle by that name will not bring them back.”
Jessamyn was looking at her sister’s back, still, sensing there was more to it. “You do not want him to know, do you?” she asked softly. “You are afraid of what will happen if he finds out about Uncle Dorian. That, mayhap, he will end up hating you because of your ties to the man.”
It was the truth. Jessamyn knew her all too well and Emera closed her eyes tightly to the selfish suggestion.
“Aye,” she muttered. “I am afraid of what he will do if he knows the truth. I could not bear it if he hated me, Jess. Now that I have found… now that he and I… oh, Jess! Of course I could not bear it if he were to end up hating me!”
She began to sniffle and Jessamyn put a hand on her back, soothingly. “Emmy, do you love him? Do you truly love him?”
Emera wiped at her eyes. “I… I think so. He is generous and humorous and intelligent. He is brave to a fault. I have not known him for very long, but what I do know of him, I love. I could not bear to lose that. I have never known such happiness before, not ever.”
Jessamyn patted her on the back before rolling over so her back was once again wedged in against her sister’s. “I never thought you would ever feel anything for a man,” she said quietly. “I have watched you grow up, Em. You were always so serious, so bold. You told me you wanted to follow in mother’s footsteps as a healer. You even spoke of going to the charity hospital in Sherburn. But I never thought I would see the day when a man turned your head and softened your heart.”
Emera could hear awe in her sister’s tone. “Nor did I,” she said. “Please, Jess… never mention Uncle Dorian. If Juston ever asks you, plead ignorance. I do not want him to know what we suspect.”
“I will never tell, I swear it. If it means so much to you, it will never pass my lips.”
“Thank you.”
After that, the conversation died as the fire continued to snap in the hearth. The night deepened and somewhere in that icy, stormy night, Emera fell asleep, warm and comfortable. It was a rarity. But as a cold dawn loomed and the fire in the hearth burned low, someone pounded on their chamber door.
It was loud, angry pounding. Jessamyn, still half-asleep, staggered out of bed and made her way over to the door. Throwing the bolt, the panel was shoved open from the other side, so hard that Jessamyn was thrown into the wall. As she screamed, Emera sat bolt upright as a collection of men flooded into the chamber. She recognized every one of them – the wounded men of Bowes.
Somehow, they were no longer in the vault and were now crowded into her chamber. Startled, she was genuinely fearful for them because they were not allowed out of the vault. They were prisoners, all of them, and if Juston’s men discovered what they’d done, it could go very badly for them.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “You are not permitted to come out of the vault!”
The man at the head of the group was a man she had been acquainted with throughout her residency at Bowes – Arthos was his name. He was a simple soldier, an older man, who never seemed to have much to say. She had thought him rather quiet. But he was standing inside her chamber now, surrounded by other men with healing wounds, and all of them carrying some kind of club or pike in their hand. It seemed that the quiet soldier now had plenty to say.
“’Tis a new day, ladies,” Arthos said. “We have reclaimed Bowes for Henry.”
That was not the answer Emera expected to hear. She looked at the men who had barged into her chamber, and the weapons in their hands, and her initial confusion turned into something dark and deep. She was starting to get a very bad feeling about all of this. Tossing back the coverlet, she climbed out of bed, making sure she was closer to the fire poker in her chamber than they were. Something told her that she might very well need to defend herself.
It was just a feeling she had.
“What is happening?” she asked steadily. “What have you done?”
Arthos kept his gaze on her. “The keep is ours,” he said. “De Royans took his army away and we reclaimed what belongs to us.”
Emera looked at the man as if he was mad. “But de Royans left men behind to secure the castle,” she said. “He even left a knight behind. Where are they?”
Before Arthos could answer, Cowling pushed his way to the front. He wasn’t armed and he seemed to be much less worked up than the rest of them, gripping their weapons and shuffling about. Cowling was showing no signs of aggression.
“The knight is dead,” he told her calmly. “We killed him a short while ago.”
Emera’s eyes widened. �
��You killed Sir Gillem?”
Arthos nodded. “Cowling shot an arrow from window in the great hall and took him down,” he said, somewhat proudly. “With the knight gone, the army has no commander. The other men that de Royans left behind are still here, but they cannot get into the keep. We have burned the exterior staircase and we will hold the keep until de Puiset arrives.”
Now, Emera was starting to get a clear picture of what had happened. Her jaw dropped. “What’s this?” she gasped. “Are you mad? De Royans will discover what you’ve done and kill you all when he returns!”
That wasn’t what Arthos wanted to hear from her. He was suddenly moving in her direction and, panicked, Emera grabbed the fire poker and swung it at the man, clipping his hand. He yelped angrily as she backed up against the wall, wielding the poker defensively.
“Get out of here, all of you,” she hissed. “How dare you barge into my chamber like a pack of wild dogs? Get out of here this instant!”
Arthos was still rubbing his hand where she’d hit him. “You have no right to call us names when it ’tis you who have bedded with the enemy,” he snarled. “Everyone knows you have betrayed us, that you have allied yourself with Juston de Royans like a common whore. Don’t think we don’t know that you side with the enemy!”
“Hold,” Cowling commanded quietly, holding up his hands and putting himself between Emera and the mob. He could see that this was going to get out of hand, very quickly, and hastened to ease the situation. “Lady Emera tended your wounds; she tended the wounds of all of you. If she is a traitor, then she is a traitor who was kind to you. Who wiped your dirty arse, Arthos? It was her when you could not do it yourself. Do not be so quick to judge her. Think of the good she has done for you.”
What he said was true and the men began to shift around, nervously, looking at each other with uncertainty. Kenelm, who was standing behind Arthos, elbowed the man to get his attention.
Fearsome Brides Page 31