Fearsome Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Juston’s mouth popped open in astonishment; he couldn’t help it. “The wounded have taken the keep?”

  The rider nodded, his expression between sick and ironic. “They were not so wounded, after all, my lord,” he said. “They have sealed the keep up and we cannot get into it. They burned the stairs. With Sir Gillem dead, we have no commander except for senior solders. They continue to hold everything but the keep, but we need help.”

  Juston closed his mouth. Sir Gillem is dead and we need help. Realizing there had been an uprising from men he’d not considered a threat, he was consumed by rage he had never before experienced. Rising up from his toes, it filled his entire body like raging, liquid fire. He was so angry that he actually began to sweat.

  This is what he’d meant when he told Christopher that mercy could be deadly – this situation was a perfect example. Wounded he had taken pity on by moving them into the vault had showed their gratitude by killing his knight and seizing his property.

  He’d never been so furious in his entire life.

  “How long ago did this happen?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “It started before dawn, my lord,” the rider answered.

  “Did you see any other army approaching? While we are off fighting de Puiset, no one else is coming for Bowes?”

  “Nay, my lord. We saw no one else approaching but the patrol that was sent out at dawn has yet to return.”

  Juston sighed heavily; it was entirely possible de Puiset’s army was just a ruse to lure him away from Bowes. He’d considered that, of course, but he felt the risk of leaving Bowes had been less than the need to remain. He was fairly confident that the uprising of the wounded was isolated. At least, he would proceed on that premise. Then, the most pressing question of all came forth.

  “And the other occupants of the keep? The ladies?”

  “They are trapped in the keep, my lord.”

  That was enough for Juston. He sent two cavalrymen out to find his knights. One by one, the knights began to trickle up the hill to his command. Christopher and Marcus were the first ones to reach him, with Marcus sporting a nasty gash on his right forearm. Their faces were alight with curiosity, flushed with the rush of battle.

  “We should have the battle concluded by the end of the day,” Christopher said, assuming that was why Juston had summoned them. “Their infantry was hit hard by our archers. Now it is a matter of bringing the cavalry to their knees.”

  Juston was still so furious that his lips were white. “I have just received word that the wounded of Bowes have risen up to capture the keep,” he said. “They killed Gillem in the process.”

  Expressions of shock appeared on Christopher and Marcus’ faces. “Gillem is dead?” Christopher repeated, astonished. “God’s Bones… what happened?”

  Juston struggled to keep his fury under control. “All I know is that they have taken the keep and that the women are trapped inside,” he said. “I will, therefore, be returning to reclaim it. I will take Maxton, Kress, Achilles, and two hundred men with me. If it is just the keep, then that should be more than enough men. I will leave the rest of you to clean up this battle and send de Puiset back to Auckland in shame.”

  Christopher and Marcus nodded in agreement as they were joined by David, Gart, and Maxton. Christopher, however, was still focused on Juston and what he’d just been told.

  “Juston,” he said quietly as Marcus explained to the other what had happened. “Is it possible that Lady Emera and her sister are part of this revolt? They may not be trapped inside the keep as much as they are there willingly.”

  Juston didn’t want to admit that; God help him, he couldn’t admit that. To admit that Emera might be part of the rebellion would be to admit he’d been duped by her. He’d been made a fool of. Nay, he couldn’t admit that at all. Until he saw evidence with his own eyes, he would go on the assumption that she was an unwilling victim in all of this.

  Any other thought would destroy him.

  “Although I cannot speak for the sister, I will say that Lady Emera is not part of this,” he said quietly. “If she is trapped in the keep, then it is as a prisoner. The woman hated de la Roarke and she has no ties to Henry. There is no reason for her to participate in a revolt.”

  Christopher could see the anguish in Juston’s eyes even though the man was trying desperately to hide it. Christopher knew why; proud, arrogant Juston de Royans couldn’t admit that a woman may have fooled him. More than that, he would never admit to a woman breaking his heart.

  Therefore, Christopher didn’t press him. He simply let the subject go, sitting back and listening when Juston explained the situation to all of the knights, who had now joined him. There was outrage among the knights but, as Christopher could tell, there was also suspicion.

  They were all suspicious of Lady Emera, who was conveniently trapped in the keep with a hoard of rebels, men she had been loyally tending since the siege of Bowes. Nay, it was just too much of a coincidence for Juston’s knights, now worried that somehow the lady was luring Juston back to Bowes and to his death. If Juston couldn’t see that, then the knights would have to make sure to protect the man.

  They would be on their guard even if Juston wasn’t.

  As Christopher watched Juston, Maxton, Kress, Achilles, most of the reserved cavalry, and about one hundred soldiers head south, he couldn’t seem to shake the sense of foreboding he was feeling. It all seemed like the perfect trap to capture Juston, who would make a fine prize for Henry’s operation. Perhaps this had been planned all along because the timing of it just seemed far too coincidental.

  A lady who had seduced Richard the Lionheart’s most powerful knight, perhaps paid well by Henry’s loyalists… de Puiset, Richmond, even Carlisle. Dear God… perhaps that’s why Carlisle had been coming… to take away what would inarguably be Henry’s most valuable prisoner, Juston de Royans.

  All Christopher could do was sincerely pray that he was wrong. But one thing was for certain – he intended to wrap this battle up quickly and head back to Bowes as fast as he could.

  If Henry’s loyalists wanted Juston, it would be over his dead body.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bowes Castle

  The day was clear, which meant Arthos could see them coming.

  To the north, he could see a small army approaching, following the road through the small hills that dotted the area, and his first thought was one of glee – de Puiset was coming!

  Up on the roof of the keep, he had an unobstructed view of the countryside in all directions and now that the sun was shining, he could see for miles. When he saw the approach of the army from the north, he began jumping up and down, yelling in excitement, and the de Royans men who were surrounding the keep below were greatly concerned. The men on the battlements of the outer wall could see the approaching army, too, and it was a race between the factions to see who could identify the army first.

  Was it de Puiset?

  Was it de Royans?

  Arthos was convinced it was de Puiset as he looked down at the de Royans soldiers in the inner bailey, drawing a finger across his throat in a slicing motion and then laughing gleefully. He was thrilled that they were soon to be aided in their quest to retake Bowes as Cowling, alerted by the yelling, emerged onto the roof.

  Up until that point, he had been in the hall where Lady Emera and Lady Jessamyn were warming boiled pieces of mutton for the nooning meal. Cowling had tried to take charge of the rebellion but men like Arthos and Kenelm and Edgard would listen to him half of the time, ignore him the other half. They had no concept of conserving supplies and had been happily gulping the precious wine stores all morning, making them quite drunk. It didn’t seem to occur to them that the wine might be needed over the course of days or even weeks.

  In fact, they’d been running amok the entire day, like animals who had been released from their cages and had no idea what to do with their freedom. It was enough to cause Cowling to rethink joining them because it
was clear they had no plan in mind. They thought they were holding the keep for Henry when, in fact, they’d only retaken the keep for themselves. With that understanding, Cowling could see that all of this was doomed to failure. He didn’t want to be part of it.

  So, he’d taken up space in the hall below while Lady Emera and Lady Jessamyn worked around him, silently preparing the coming meal, not saying a word to him as he sat and brooded. It was coming to occur to him that he should more than likely assist the women in escaping because once those men became too terribly drunk, they might set their sights on the only women in the keep. Cowling wasn’t sure he could convince the men not to rape the women, especially Lady Emera because of her alleged ties to de Royans, so as he watched the women work, a plan began to form.

  He had to get them out of the keep.

  But then the shouts came, shouts from the roof two stories above. They were so loud that he could hear them quite plainly, so he left the hall and made his way up to the roof of the keep. Opening the trap door that was lodged in the floor of the roof, he emerged into the cold, brilliant sunshine as men ran about.

  The roof itself was built of wood, pitched slightly to allow for drainage, with the angle of the pitch preventing the weight of snow or water to form upon it and lead to a collapse. Therefore, only the perimeter of the roof allowed men to walk on it and Cowling made his way around the sides to the northeast corner of the keep where Arthos and several other men were gathered, looking off into the distance. Immediately, Cowling could see the approach of the army.

  “Look!” Arthos cried out gleefully. “It is de Puiset! I told you he would come, Cowling! Now, what have you to say? Henry will once again hold Bowes. By sunset, we shall be drinking a toast to the king!”

  Cowling didn’t reply. He shielded his eyes from the sunlight, watching as the tiny black dots on the horizon became bigger dots with arms and legs. Men on horseback could be seen, riding furiously, but until he saw the standards, he couldn’t get excited about it. In fact, he didn’t want to get excited about it because if it was de Puiset’s army, that meant they were in for another battle when the de Royans men, who still held the majority of the castle, fought back. Either way, they were in for a battle.

  “It is possible that it is de Puiset,” he said reluctantly, still watching the group approach in the distance. “It is equally possible that it is not.”

  Arthos went from happily laughing to frowning in an instant. “Is that all you have to say?” he demanded. “Have you no joy for the fact that de Puiset has come to save us?”

  Cowling’s gaze never left the incoming army. “If it is him, I shall be properly joyful,” he said. “But it also means there will be a battle here tonight because de Royans soldiers still hold much of the castle. Keep that in mind before you become too giddy with excitement.”

  Arthos pursed his lips irritably at the man. “You are too much doom and gloom, Cowling,” he said. “You depress me.”

  Cowling didn’t respond. He kept his focus on the incoming army as the others around him drank and cheered their beliefs that help had arrived. But the closer the group of riders came, the more Cowling was certain that they were not de Puiset.

  Seeing the blue de Royans tunics confirmed it.

  But he didn’t say anything. He knew that if Arthos and the others knew de Royans was returning, things could go very badly in general. Most certainly, Cowling was afraid for the women now. He was increasingly convinced that drunk rebels and a grudge against Lady Emera would spell disaster. Therefore, he left the roof and disappeared back down the hatch.

  Time was pressing as Cowling quickly took the spiral stairs down to the great hall. He was moving with such haste that he nearly tripped, entering the great hall just as Emera was taking a very large pot off of the fire. He rushed up as she set it on the ground, using her apron to guard her hands against the searing iron.

  “Ladies,” he addressed hurriedly. “There is no time to explain, but you must come with me now. Please.”

  Jessamyn, on her knees before the fire, sat back on her heels and looked at him curiously. “Why?” she asked. “What is the matter?”

  Emera was wiping her hands off on her apron, peering at the man who seemed to be almost panicked. Her brow furrowed.

  “Cowling?” she asked. “What has happened?”

  Cowling sighed with some frustration. He had told them there was no time to explain, yet that was exactly what they were asking him to do. He realized he had to tell them, as rapidly and as concisely as he could, what was transpiring. It was either that or drag them out of the hall, screaming, and if that happened it would most assuredly attract attention. He tried to be brief because, for the women, this was life or death.

  “The de Royans army is returning, or at least some of it is,” he said quickly. “Someone must have gotten a message to de Royans about the rebellion. I have a feeling when they realize it is de Royans who has come, those drunken fools might try to make examples out of you both. If you want to live, then you will come with me.”

  Emera and Jessamyn didn’t need to be told twice. Hurriedly, they dropped what they were doing and scampered after Cowling as he led them up to the second floor, very aware of the cries and laughter still coming from the roof. Slipping into the master’s chamber, he bolted the door to the stairwell. At least that would give them a little time before the rebels realized where they were and broke the door down. Quickly, he hustled the ladies into the second smaller adjoining chamber and bolted that door as well.

  “What are you going to do?” Emera asked anxiously. “Why did you take us in here?”

  Cowling immediately went to the window, sticking his head out and seeing how far the drop was to the bailey below. It was far too big a drop to make unassisted and he began to look around the room for something to help him lower the ladies from the chamber. His gaze fell on the bed and he rushed to it, yanking off the coverlet to reveal a variety of linens beneath.

  “Quickly,” he hissed. “We must tie the linens together and make a rope so that you may escape from the window.”

  “A rope?” Jessamyn gasped. “But we will fall to our deaths!”

  “Would you rather face the mob?”

  They wouldn’t. Fed by a frightening sense of urgency, Emera and Jessamyn swung into action, yanking the linens off of the bed and tying the ends together. End after end, they tied, and Cowling tested the ties, having to re-tie some of them. But the linen rope wasn’t nearly long enough and he unbolted the chamber door so they could strip the master’s bed as well.

  As Cowling secured the ties, Emera and Jessamyn pulled the linens from the master’s bed and dragged them into the smaller chamber for Cowling to secure to the rope. It was the three of them, working madly to make a rope of linens as the whooping and yelling on the roof suddenly went silent.

  It was not a good silence.

  That’s when Cowling knew they were in trouble.

  “De Royans!” Arthos screamed. “It’s de Royans!”

  The men on the roof could hardly believe their eyes, but there before them, illuminated by the unexpectedly sunny day, was a contingent of heavily armed men led by none other than de Royans himself.

  The High Sheriff of Yorkshire was hard to miss because he wasn’t wearing a helm, so his dark blonde curls waved wildly in the wind as he galloped up the road towards Bowes. Leading his pack of armed men, he stood out as a mountain of a man, riding like the wind, in control of both himself and his mission.

  It was an imposing sight, indeed.

  “It cannot be!” Kenelm gasped. “How could he have come instead? Where is de Puiset?”

  No one had an answer. All of the revelry and wine drinking came to an immediate halt as the wounded of Bowes watched in horror as de Royans led his army right up to the gatehouse. They could hear the creaking from the portcullis as it was raised, old ropes straining to lift the weight, and it was then that the reality of the situation began to sink in.

  De Royans, in t
he flesh, would soon be upon them.

  “Nay!” Arthos breathed in disbelief. “I cannot believe it!”

  His cohorts, Kenelm and Edgard, were equally shocked. The wine that had made them so happy was now making them wildly paranoid and fearful.

  “What should we do?” Kenelm begged. “De Royans will gain access to the keep and then he will kill us! What should we do?”

  Arthos was struggling to think clearly. There was too much wine in his head, making his thoughts spin, but he grasped at the most obvious idea. De Royans had arrived to reclaim his keep, and his whore, but the whore had to be used to ensure the safety of the rebels. That was the obvious solution until he could think of a way out of this for them all. He shoved past his fearful comrades.

  “Where are the women?” he bellowed. “Bring them to me!”

  The men began to scatter, all of them trying to make it through the hatch that led to the spiral stairs and all of them bogging it up, fighting, each man trying to push past the other. Finally, one man managed to make it down, followed by another man and still another. Soon, all of the drunkards who had been on the roof made it down the stairs one at a time and without killing each other in their inebriated state.

  They were on a hunt.

  The first place the group went to was the hall because that’s the last place the women were seen. When the hall proved empty, they split up, half going to the vault and the other half heading to the second floor where the sleeping chambers were. When they realized the master’s chamber door was bolted from the inside, they began to yell at the group below, telling them to bring axes or pikes, poles, anything that could be used to break the door down.

  They continued to pound on the oaken panel, demanding that whoever had locked it should open it, but their demands were met with silence. That infuriated the mob further as Arthos beat on the door until his hands hurt, screaming at whoever was inside.