by Alexa Aston
A face appeared out of the gloom and Hew staggered back. The lass sighed. “Come in, and dinnae act as if ye’ve seen a ghost. The only one here is tucked away in his shroud and not likely to harm anyone ever again.”
Iseabal’s eyes teared up at the sight of her sister’s man-servant. The strain of the past weeks had taken its toll, and she felt as if one kind word, even a kind look or a compassionate tilt of the head, would shatter her carefully constructed wall of indifference.
No one had dared answer the summons at the gate, but she’d heard the knock as she crossed the empty bailey on her return from the chapel set against the wall surrounding the tower house.
Had Marsaili answered her missive? Though she’d begged her sister to travel with all haste, even with the hounds of hell behind her, she could not have arrived this quickly. And, truth be told, Iseabal hadn’t been certain her sister would read her letter, much less ride here and provide aid.
She peered past auld Hew but saw naught but a blanket of fresh fallen snow arranged like fluffy sheep atop rocks and boulders and across low-hanging branches.
Her breath hitched. “Are ye alone? Is Marsaili not with ye? Or Flore?” Surely Hew’s sweet wife, who’d been the girls’ nurse almost since their birth twenty-three years ago, would have come to help. But Iseabal had heard from neither Hew nor Flore, or Marsaili for that matter, in the years since her sister’s marriage to the English baron.
“Aye,” Hew said. His eyes cut away, as if reluctant to fully answer her question.
“Did ye get my letter?” she asked.
“Nae.” He shook his head. “We’ve nae heard from ye these past years.”
His hands gripped his elbows, hugging them to his skinny frame, reminding Iseabal of the cold.
“Come inside,” she bade, motioning him through the gate. She closed and locked the door, pocketing the heavy metal key. Closing a hand over Hew’s forearm, she halted his steps.
“I must warn ye,” she said, capturing his attention. “Ye have noted the lack of soldiers on the wall.” She waited for Hew’s nod.
“I thought the keep was deserted,” he admitted.
Weariness drew Iseabal’s shoulders down as she remembered those who had escaped the keep no more than three days prior.
“It nearly is,” she confessed. “Da went out reiving a month back and returned with the hounds of de Wolfe on his heels.”
Hew’s aged, parchment skin blanched.
“The keep held for a sennight or so, but the English tunneled beneath the wall to the north.” She glanced over her shoulder as if she could see the damage from the postern gate. Thankfully she couldn’t, but the thundering crash of the huge stones and the screams of women and dying men still rang in her ears.
“Da was struck by a portion of the wall, and, when he regained consciousness a few hours later, the English had already burned us out.”
Iseabal wrung her hands. “There are only a few of us left. The men were either killed or taken away. They wanted to hang Da, but I begged them not to. Seeing him so close to death, their leader agreed.” Tears stung the backs of her eyes, startling her when she thought she’d shoved her emotions deep inside.
“After stripping us of food and water and anything else they could manage, they left.”
“Left ye alone?” Hew asked, indignant lines drawing his body up sharply. “With yer da dying? How many are left?”
“Six, counting me,” Iseabal replied. “Though the others are likely to bolt as soon as Da draws his last breath. I sent Marsaili a letter as soon as I could, hoping she would make the journey and find peace before Da passes.” She peered past the auld man. “Why is she not with ye?”
Hew shook his head. “I lost her,” he mourned.
Iseabal flinched. “Lost her?” she countered.
“Her husband died a little more than a month past. Her brother by marriage, a brute of a man who doesnae deserve to draw breath, kept her locked away, threatening to accuse her of Lord Andrew’s death and petition the king for her arrest if she dinnae marry him.”
“That’s against the law!” Iseabal exclaimed.
Hew shrugged. “I dinnae ken the way of the English nobles, but if she’d agreed, attention wouldnae have been drawn to the marriage, legal or no’.”
Iseabal gripped Hew’s sleeve. “Where is she?”
“She escaped a sennight ago—me with her. Her horse went lame outside of a wee village called Appleton. She agreed we should wait out the storm at the inn, but when I went back outside after securing rooms, she was gone.”
Iseabal’s hand flew to her throat. “She went on alone? Or do ye suspect foul play?”
“I dinnae ken,” Hew mourned. “’Twas another conveyance in the yard when she left. I pray she dinnae fall afoul of those men.”
“Who were they, Hew?” She tugged urgently on his arm. “Tell me!”
“The verra worst, milady,” Hew said, his face twisted in fear and grief. “’Twas the rogue known as The Saint.”
The End
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Kathryn le Veque for inviting me to be a part of this wonderful opportunity to write in her World of de Wolfe series. It was my first foray into England as a writer, and the process was immense fun! I am thrilled to be among such wonderful authors!
Thanks go to my fantastic critique group, Cate Parke, Dawn Marie Hamilton, and Derek Dodson, who helped keep me on the right path as Marsaili sassed her way through the English countryside and Lord de Wylde lost his distinctly stuffy attitude and became a man worth loving.
From the Author
Thank you so much for your interest in The World of de Wolfe! I hope you are enjoying the series and that it will encourage you to read more books by the authors in this group. Please consider leaving a review for the books you enjoy. It helps more than you know!
I love hearing from readers! You can ‘follow’ me on Amazon, or Facebook, Instagram with #cathymacrae_author, or Pinterest. Spend a bit of time wandering through my website. You can read about books, authors and the writing process on my Bits ’n Bobs blog, or find out a bit more about me, my dogs and gardening on my Wonderful Wednesday blog. Connect with me via my address [email protected]. And if you’d like to keep up via a newsletter and discover new books, promotions, and other fun, you can sign up on my website at www.cathymacraeauthor.com.
More Books by Cathy MacRae
The Highlander’s Bride Series:
The Highlander’s Accidental Bride (Book 1)
The Highlander’s Reluctant Bride (Book 2)
The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (Book 3)
The Highlander’s Outlaw Bride (Book 4)
The Highlander’s French Bride (Book 5)
With DD MacRae
The Hardy Heroines series
Highland Escape (book 1)
The Highlander’s Viking Bride (book 2)
The Highlander’s Crusader Bride (book 3)
The Highlander’s Norse Bride, a Novella (book 4)
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series
with other authors
Adam (book 11)
Malcolm (book 16)
MacLeod (book 21)
Patrick (book 26)
My Enemy, My Love
Ruth Kaufman
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Lady Aline de Lacy is one of hundreds trapped between a chateau under siege and the French army’s camp in the midst of winter. If she survives, she yearns to return to her happy life as an earl’s daughter in England.
Sir Apollo de Norville, King Philip II’s messenger, prefers the freedom of the road to settling down with a wife and the responsibility of managing lands. But after he rescues an unconscious beauty from the cold, he’s commanded to marry her as a gesture of peace. How
do you live with, much less love, your enemy?
To Kathryn Le Veque for inviting me to tell Paris’s parents’ story.
Chapter One
Winter, 1203
Château Gaillard, Normandy
“Hurry! This way,” an English soldier beneath Lady Aline de Lacy’s window shouted in Norman French, the language of this land she despised. “You’ll be safe soon.”
“We must go,” her mother urged her and her two younger sisters.
Aline’s heart sped faster than her feet as they grabbed their cloaks from hooks and hastened from the chamber. Her heart wrenched as Mary, the youngest, burst into tears as they fled down winding stairs.
Château Gaillard erupted with shouts as hundreds of denizens and townspeople who’d sought succor after the French army destroyed their homes hurried through the vast castle’s baileys and over two dry moats toward the open gate in the outer bailey.
Here a woman tripped on her skirts and struggled to her feet, barely missing being trampled by a pair of boys. There a child tripped and cried, arms raised. Caught in the flowing tide, Aline couldn’t choose her path or push her way to the child no one else seemed to notice. She shivered beneath her heaviest wool cloak.
Where were her younger brothers? Her father? Shouldn’t he oversee their exodus and bid them farewell?
An elbow jabbed her so hard she lost her breath. Aline struggled to keep her footing as the press of people pinned her arms to her sides. Never had she been so confined. Her heart sped even more. Shouts and screams added to her panic.
Her blond hair nearly blinded her as her headdress tumbled off, only to be crushed beneath shuffling feet. Better her headdress than herself. So far she was unhurt. God hadn’t been as kind to a few who moaned nearby.
Where were her mother and sisters? She’d lost them…but couldn’t turn back.
The group surged through the single gate. Her heart caught in her throat as she fought to maintain her balance. A sigh of relief escaped her in a puff of white when she broke free of the crowd and stepped outside the limestone walls for the first time in months.
Under stormy grey skies, her father, Roger de Lacy, was sending the rest of the women, children and elderly men from the stronghold King Phillip II had held under siege since September. The remaining men would be very grateful, because food was limited and no one knew how long the siege or supplies would last.
Their enemies had recently permitted hundreds of people to pass. Now it was their turn.
Her sturdiest boots crunched dead grasses. Some caught at her skirts. She tore her cloak free from a nagging branch as she trudged her way south.
The frontrunners neared the French camp. As others joined them, forward motion ceased. Why weren’t the French allowing them to continue? Distress pulsed through her. She whispered a prayer that her mother and sisters had somehow made it past the French camp or had changed their minds and were still inside and relatively protected in their quarters.
“What’s the delay?” yelled a short man she didn’t recognize.
“Let us through!” shouted Ralph, an older, bald man who worked in the stables.
Though it was unladylike, she joined others who took up and repeated the cry. Their demands and questions went unanswered. Soon she’d gone hoarse from shouting. What was happening?
Suddenly, arrows flew overhead, then rained from the sky. The French were firing upon them! Everyone screamed, ducked and ran. Chaos.
Hands guarding her head, the scant protection all she could think of, Aline joined the screaming crowd fleeing whence it came. The arrows ceased as she and hundreds more gathered at the base of the chateau. More than a few nursed injuries.
The gate was now closed. So instead of collapsing in relief that so many had escaped unscathed, she made her way to Ralph and tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re louder than I. Call to the guards to let us back in.”
“Of course, Lady Aline.”
She was the highest-ranked person for the first time in her six and twenty years, and should take the lead. The respect Ralph bestowed on her raised her confidence. Having power to assist others was a heady feeling.
He shouted, “Ho, Hubert! King Philip’s men won’t grant us passage. We can’t go back or they’ll fire on us again. Let us in. Open the gate.”
The burning heat of fear and anger didn’t prevent cold, damp air from seeping into her very bones. She couldn’t catch her breath because the air burned her throat. Every muscle ached as icy gusts blew back her hair and cloak. Her nose and ears stung, and her hands and feet felt like ice.
“I’m sorry, Ralph,” Hubert stood on the battlements high above. He didn’t look sorry. “We can’t. We have orders.”
Surely she hadn’t heard him aright.
“Against your own people?” Aline shouted. “We’re freezing. Some of us are wounded and need care.”
“We have our orders,” he repeated stoically. “I’m sorry, Lady Aline.”
“Hubert. Fetch my father. N-now.” Sounding imperious was difficult when you couldn’t stop shivering.
“Lady, ’tis he who issued the order.”
She gasped. Realization sent chills icier than the wind down her spine. “Fetch him immediately. I want to hear those words from his lips.”
Let her sire look her in the eye and refuse to admit her.
“Very well. I shall try.” He sighed and left his post.
Aline couldn’t bear the renewed fear and uncertainty on all of the faces around her. They would haunt her sleep. She stomped in a useless effort to awaken her feet and tucked her hands beneath her arms. Her leather mittens were no match for this.
Soon night would fall and the air would grow colder still.
She closed her eyes, envisioning herself back at home in England, seated before a blazing fire holding and sipping a cup of hot mead, her sisters playing at her feet and mother sewing on a nearby bench. She could even see the steam floating up from her drink, smell the honey. That helped, a little.
When she opened her eyes, Hubert had returned. Without her father.
The guard’s face was unreadable. He stared straight ahead, not down at her. “Lady Aline, I am sorry. Roger de Lacy refuses to speak with you. The Earl of Lincoln’s order stands.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
“Where are we to go?”
More cries erupted from the group.
A young kitchen maid, scarf askew, fell to her knees and burst into tears.
Unbelievable. Her father, who commanded the fortress for King John, wouldn’t face her, much less allow his daughter or people in his employ, service and care back inside. He chose to conserve the remaining supplies for his able-bodied men and soldiers, no matter the cost.
She and Ralph looked at each other in horror. Aline wanted to cry, too. She’d failed to escort her people to safety, and couldn’t think of another way to save herself, much less them all. Unfamiliar responsibility stung like nettles on skin.
How would they spend the night out in the cold? Would they freeze or starve to death, forsaken? Until the Normans let them go or the English welcomed them in, they were trapped.
Chapter Two
Two months later
Sir Apollo de Norville had witnessed gruesome consequences of war, from bloody, dead bodies abandoned on the battlefield to the seriously wounded who might or might not survive their injuries. The majority of those victims were soldiers, doing their duty to fight as commanded by their overlords. Not townspeople.
He’d never seen anything like the scene before him. Hundreds of elderly men, women and even a few children roamed aimlessly in a narrow ditch beyond Philip Augustus’s camp and beneath the chateau. Others sat beside small fires at the base of the walls. A few lay motionless under shelters formed from branches and dead leaves.
Upon his arrival moments ago from Paris with the king, he’d been horrified to learn that a group of people remained stuck between the king’s camp and the English-held fortress. How c
ould either side permit these citizens to remain outside fending for themselves for weeks…and in the midst of winter?
Even in times of war, innocent civiliens should be shown Christian charity. What could one man do? He’d hastened into the cold to the front line, just out of shooting range, to see for himself.
And was surprised to see a thin woman stumbling toward their camp, weaving from side to side as if she’d imbibed too much wine. Long, golden blond hair caked with dirt and dried grass fell in limp strands to her waist. Her faded blue gown’s hem was in tatters. Her skin was near as white as the snow dotting nearby dried grasses. Suddenly, she collapsed.
How had this lovely maiden, how had any of them, survived for so long?
None of the soldiers on watch moved toward her, so he did.
“Mademoiselle?” he asked softly.
Her eyes opened. Bright blue, like a summer sky on a cloudless day. The beauty’s gaze met his with a flash of fear followed by defeat. He knew that look well, for he’d seen it on bound prisoners on their way to be executed. His heart wrenched that she’d been reduced to this.
Clearly Gaillard’s commander hadn’t been convinced to yield and put an end to the siege, nor had Philip’s men yet found an ingress or had success undermining the walls. What did the leaders of two countries serve to gain by leaving innocent people to suffer and die?
“I won’t harm you. I promise.” He knelt and extended a gauntleted hand. Her arm lifted, then dropped to her side. Her eyes closed again. She was helpless.
Apollo picked the woman up and settled her in his arms. She was practically skin and bones. He carried her, ignoring curious looks and a couple of ribald jests from soldiers and officers as he passed through Philip Augustus’s camp to his own hut.
He couldn’t save or even help them all, but it felt good to save someone. And it didn’t hurt that she happened to be a beautiful woman.