Lisa Jackson_Medieval Trilogy 01

by Impostress

  Angrily, Elyn yanked on the necklace that encircled her throat. The fine chain broke, but she caught the glittering crucifix before it dropped to the ground. Rubies, emeralds, and sapphires glittered ominously in the rain. “Did you not promise me, Kiera? Did you not swear that you would return my favor by doing anything I asked?”

  “Yes, although—”

  “So now I’m asking, begging …” she said, shaking her fist so hard that the bejeweled cross swung crazily from its broken links. “Are you not as good as your word?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “You vowed, Kiera, to me.” Elyn hooked a thumb at her chest. Her eyes snapped angrily. “You insisted that you owed me this favor. ’Twas your idea, not mine.”

  “Yes, I know I did, nonetheless—”

  “So, now, sister, ’tis time to pay.”

  Kiera’s heart tore. She grabbed the cross and chain. “I’ll do anything else, Elyn, but this … this I cannot. I cannot lie to Father. To Penbrooke. To God. I cannot pretend to marry the man. Elyn, please, go to Father. I’ll go with you. Mayhap something can be worked out.”

  “Would you give yourself to Penbrooke in my stead?”

  “He would not want me because Father has entailed the castle to you, and Penbrooke wants access to the sea to expand trade, which Lawenydd provides,” Kiera said.

  “So you are a liar and a coward,” Elyn said, her voice cold. “You know, Kiera, I really thought better of you.”

  “Then you’ll speak with Father.”

  Elyn’s lips barely moved as the purple clouds roiled overhead. “Worry not, sister,” she said, turning toward the keep, “I’ll do what I have to.”

  This marriage will be little more than a sham, Baron Kelan of Penbrooke thought as he guided his horse toward the final rise and his doom. His mood was as dark as the cloudy sky, and his muscles were beginning to protest from a hard three days’ ride with his pitiful handful of men, none of whom seemed to have lost their amusement that he was finally to be wed.

  “ ’Tis well past time,” Orvis, one of Kelan’s guards and a friend, had said with a chuckle as he’d raised a tankard of ale to his lips the night before they’d left Penbrooke. He’d wiped a sleeve over his ragged reddish beard. “Your days of sowin’ wild oats are over.”

  “Aye, and now maybe some of the ladies will look my way,” Tadd had chimed in, his blue eyes full of devilment as he’d fingered his dark beard. Tadd was his brother. At twenty, two years younger than Kelan, Tadd was every bit as full of piss and vinegar as Kelan had once been.

  “As if ye need more women,” Orvis had grumbled, for he was fat and dull with the finesse of a blacksmith and the manners of the gong farmer who cleaned the latrine pits. Yet he was loyal and true, a man whom Kelan had known since his youth. “Ye need to be passin’ a few my way, Sir Tadd, instead of beddin’ ’em all yerself.”

  Tadd had lifted a skeptical brow. “And what would you do with them, Orvis?” he’d taunted.

  “I know me way around a woman, don’t you think I don’t.” Offended, Orvis had buried his bulbous nose in his mazer.

  Kelan had paid the men no mind that night or any other. Their needling and jokes at his expense were to be expected, but he hadn’t counted on the smug faith of Father Barton, an elderly priest who couldn’t hide his pleasure that the wayward, prodigal son of Lord Alwyn was about to wed, and therefore change his heathen ways. Now that Kelan was the baron, he needed a wife. Or so thought the priest.

  “Ye’ll enjoy the sacrament of marriage,” the old man had intoned less than an hour ago. With his thin white hair, hooked nose, and ever-pursed mouth, he had glanced at Kelan with sanctimonious piety. A bemused smile had dared to soften the set of his lips. He’d clucked to his mount, a docile grayish mare, as she’d plodded along the soggy, rutted road leading to Lawenydd. “A good woman and children, ’tis all a man can ask for.”

  “ ’Tis not what I asked for, nor,” he reminded the priest, “what you wanted for yourself.”

  “We all have different callings, my son. Yours is to wed and beget children. Sons.”

  “So it seems.”

  “ ’Twill be a blessing.”

  “How would you know? Have you ever been married?”

  Father Barton had clucked his tongue. “I am married to God, my son.”

  “And is He a good wife?”

  “There be no need for irreverence.” Those old lips had pursed again in tight disapproval, and the priest’s good humor had vanished as surely as if it had been swept away by the salt-laden wind.

  “Nor be there a need for unwanted advice.”

  “Then think of your poor ailing mother.” Father Barton had sketched a quick sign of the cross over his chest. “ ’Twill make her happy.”

  There was little doubt of that. His mother, too frail to make the trip, had made it known that all she wanted from him was that he take a wife and have children, preferably a son to become the next Baron of Penbrooke. She was dying. She wanted desperately to meet Kelan’s bride, had begged her son to be quick with the marriage and return. Kelan had not the heart to deny her. But despite his dead father’s schemes, the priest’s talk of the joys of marriage, and his mother’s desperate need to know the Penbrooke bloodline would continue, Kelan felt a cold dread at the prospect of this arranged marriage to a woman he had never seen and had heard little about.

  Now, with his horse a good quarter mile ahead of the others and his gloved hands clamped over the reins, he fought the urge to spur his steed and ride fast and far from his fate. His jaw was clenched so hard it ached; every muscle in his body was rigid. Soon he would meet his bride. His stomach soured at the thought. This woman with whom he was supposed to live forever.

  Marriage. ’Twas a fool’s sacrament.

  Were he not firstborn and were his mother not on her deathbed, Kelan would never have agreed to such a hideous convention. Never.

  The union was the result of two old men’s wishes. His father had wanted an ally to the south, one with whom he could share borders, men, weapons, and trade, a barony with access to the sea. Even more than that, Alwyn had wanted Kelan to sire a son, an heir that would someday become baron. On his deathbed he’d elicited a promise that Kelan would marry Elyn of Lawenydd, and Kelan couldn’t go back on his word.

  Nonsense! That’s what it was.

  Because of his dead father’s wishes and his mother’s continued, quiet supplication, Kelan had become betrothed to a woman—no doubt a withered old maid, she was almost nineteen for God’s sake and should have been married long ago—whom he’d never met. The castles were not near each other, and as he’d been banished for a time, he’d never had a glimpse of his bride. Perhaps it was for the best.

  Llwyd of Lawenydd had his own reasons for suggesting the marriage. He wanted protection from the north and use of the river that cut through Penbrooke on its way to the ocean. Though the baronies did not share a border, they would make a strong alliance and could, together, force the small, weaker baronies between to do their bidding. Baron Llwyd had no sons of his own, only daughters to be used as pawns, bartered and traded as if they were wheat or cattle or horses. So an alliance had been formed, one joined by two unwilling marriage partners, to be cemented by a male heir.

  Kelan’s chest constricted. Well, so be it. ’Twas not as if he believed in love, he thought as his horse crested the forested hill and trees gave way to the vast fields of Lawenydd.

  Dried, wintry stubble covered the ground leading toward a tall castle constructed of dark stone. Across a wide moat, the gates to the keep were thrown wide. Farmers’ wagons, a peddler’s cart, horsemen, and people on foot were converging at the castle while high overhead, atop square towers, the yellow-and-white standards of Lawenydd snapped in the stiff breeze blowing off the sea. He heard the sharp beat of hooves and turned in the saddle to spy his brother riding at breakneck speed only to pull up beside him.

  “Ahh … home of your beloved,” Tadd observed, eyeing the keep as if it
were a prize to be won at a cockfight. “’Tis a bit on the humble side, but ’tis no matter … see over there.” He hitched his chin to the town and the piers jutting into the swirling gray waters. Whitecaps and swells rolled with the angry tide. Two ships were at anchor, their sails furled tight, their spars pronging upward toward the ever-darkening sky as the hulls bobbed on the turbulent waves. “What better dowry than access to the sea?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Still not happy?”

  Kelan’s lips twisted. “Are you?”

  “Aye. Often.” Tadd slid a wicked glance in his brother’s direction. “For though my fate is more lowly than yours, though I will not inherit the keep or anything of worth, I do have my freedom.” His eyes were like ice as he said, “So you who reap the privilege must also suffer the consequence of being firstborn. ‘Tis necessary that you produce heirs, whereas I can bed any wench I choose and father as many bastards as time allows.” He crooked a dark eyebrow as he stared at the castle looming in the distance. “And time, it hastens by much too quickly. Come, brother, smile. ’Tis your wedding day!”

  Chapter Two

  Shivering in her woolen cloak, Penelope peered through the crenels in the south tower. The wind slapped at her face and snatched at her hood as it screamed across the wide curtain wall, but she stayed unmoving in her hiding spot. Her fingers were near frozen despite her gloves. Blowing upon her hands, she spied the newcomers from her niche.

  A small band of men—soldiers they appeared for the most part—entered the castle gates. There were less than ten of them, not much of a party, but they were far from what Penelope had expected. Aside from one ancient-looking man bundled in baggy, dirt-colored clothes, they were a strong, virile-looking lot. Granted they were a little on the rugged side, but then she supposed, at least to hear her sisters talk, she’d expected that these horsemen would be ruffians of the lowest order—cutthroats, pickpockets, murderers, and such. She’d heard Elyn and Kiera talking about Penbrooke and it sounded like a dark, decrepit, overgrown place where only ogres and trolls and criminals resided. And now Elyn was to marry the leader.

  Except that Elyn had been missing since morning.

  But that was a well-kept secret and all day long Penelope, Kiera, and Hildy, a trusted household servant who had long been the three sisters’ nursemaid and confidante, had been searching for her. To no avail. Kiera had admitted the daft plan Elyn had cooked up, and was worrying that if Elyn didn’t return, she would have to go through with it. It was all so romantic and thrilling. Hildy and Penelope would have to play their parts and even then things could go awry.

  Swiping at her nose with the back of a gloved hand, Penelope crept from her cranny and hurried down the tower steps as fast as her feet could fly. At ground level, she burst from the tower, tripping over a calico-cat and nearly knocking flat a girl carrying two plucked geese to the kitchens.

  “Hey—watch where ye‘re—” Upon recognizing Penelope, one of the baron’s daughters, the serving girl back-stepped. “Oh, m’lady, ‘tis sorry I am. I didn’t see ye. ’Tis all my fault.”

  “ ’Tis nothing. Worry not.” What a twit! Penelope couldn’t waste time with excuses or apologies. She raced behind her mother’s bench in the garden, leaped over a puddle, and flew into the kitchen, rounding the comer as a boy threw bundles of wood onto the cook fires and another turned the spit where a pig was sizzling, grease dripping into a collection pan on the floor. A girl was grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle, another slicing apples, while the cook was stuffing sliced eels that were split from one end to the other.

  But Penelope, intent on her mission, barely noticed. The cook glanced up as she raced to the back stairs. “Miss Penelope, should ye be—”

  She didn’t hear the rest. Her boots were already pounding up the stairs to the third floor, where breathless, she threw herself into Elyn’s room.

  “He’s here!” she panted, flinging herself onto the bed and looking up at the whitewashed ceiling while a small fire crackled in the grate and a few sparse candles flickered in the surrounding sconces. “The Lord of Penbrooke’s arrived.”

  Kiera’s stomach turned. She had two choices—to tell the truth and let both Penbrooke and her father be embarrassed, or to go along with Elyn’s ludicrous scheme. Just last night, before bed, Elyn had come to her chamber and held her hand, lacing her fingers through Kiera’s. “I just want you to know that I would do anything for you,” she’d said. “Even if things were reversed and you were the one to marry the Beast of Penbrooke, I would stand in for you, for just one night, especially since Penbrooke will not know the ceiling from the floor once he drinks the potion. After all, ‘tis not that much to ask, for I am to be married to a man I detest for the rest of my life. I can only hope ’twill be short.” Blinking against the tears in her eyes, Elyn had hugged Kiera fiercely.

  Kiera felt as if she hadn’t slept a wink. All night long she’d stared miserably at the dim shadows cast upon the ceiling by the fire and wondered if she’d been entirely too selfish. How would she feel if she’d been promised to a man she’d never met who was rumored to be a rake? She’d dozed near morning and dreamed that Elyn had come to her and whispered, “I’m sorry,” as she’d left their mother’s jeweled cross in her hand. Kiera had woken with a start, sweating, her heart pounding, the room empty. She’d wanted to dismiss the silly dream but found the necklace wound around her wrist. And Elyn was nowhere to be found.

  And now the Lord of Penbrooke was here.

  He would insist upon meeting his bride. Sweet Jesus!

  Upon the bed, Penelope rolled onto her stomach.

  “How many men are with him?” Kiera asked, the wheels in her mind turning, sweat collecting upon her skin. Could she go through with her sister’s mad plot if only to save her father from embarrassment?

  “A handful.”

  “And a priest?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  Kiera’s heart was pounding wildly, her pulse racing. She rubbed her damp palms upon her skirt. It would only be for a few hours. That was all. Then her sister would be wed, her father happy, an alliance with Penbrooke in place. Soon it would be done. ’Twas nothing. Yet her throat was dry, her stomach twisting, her heart a frightened drum.

  “What?” Penelope asked. “Kiera, what are you thinking?” Kiera glanced at Elyn’s wedding dress. White lace and tufted velvet, draped over a screen that partitioned off part of the chamber. Could she go through with it? Don the dress and veil, utter the sacred vows …

  “Elyn’s not returned?” Penelope asked.

  “Nay.” Pushing her hair from her eyes, Kiera slumped onto a stool by the fire and knew she was as pale as death. Where the devil was Elyn?

  “So are you going to do it? Are you really going to pretend to be her?” Penelope asked, her eyes bright with a sense of adventure. Ever since Kiera had confided in her, swearing her to secrecy this morning, Penelope, the youngest and most flighty of the three sisters, had been unable to hide her excitement.

  “Did you get the vial from the apothecary?” Kiera asked.

  “Aye. A concoction of herbs that he said would make even a wild man drowsy.”

  “And you know what to do with it?” Oh, this was insane!

  “Yes!”

  Penelope was to make sure that the elixir was placed in a mazer scratched with an X on its bottom. Kiera would know that cup was for the bridegroom. The rest of the potion was to be left in the vial and hidden in the rushes on the floor near the bed.

  Kiera couldn’t believe what she was contemplating, but she felt as if she had to go through with it. What other choice had Elyn left her? Anxious as a caged wolf, she paced to the window and opened the slats to stare at the inner bailey. How had Elyn left the castle so early this morning? How had she not been detected, especially on this, her wedding day? Had someone helped her? Brock? Mayhap he’d slipped inside just as the castle gates were opening and helped her escape. Oh, dear God, could she go through with the deceit? Sw
allowing back her indecision, she faced her sister again.

  “Now, remember,” Kiera said, “all you have to do is—if anyone asks—claim that I’m Elyn. I’ll be wearing the dress and veil.” She motioned toward the stool where the veil of thick, patterned lace rested. By the saints, this was idiocy! “No one should question you. If they ask for me—”

  “You, Kiera, or you, Elyn?”

  “Me. Kiera. If they ask for me, you are to tell them that I’m ghastly sick. Hildy will agree. Everyone will think that I’m in my chamber and can’t come down to the nuptials.”

  “ ’Twill be odd.”

  Kiera threw up her hands. Maybe she was making a horrid, horrid mistake. “It’s all odd!”

  Penelope looked worried for the first time. “What if Father asks about you?”

  “The story is the same.” Kiera rubbed her temple against a sudden headache.

  “I don’t like lying to Father.”

  “Neither do I. But … but we must,” she said as she touched the jeweled cross at her throat. “Now, make sure that the Beast of Penbrooke drinks plenty of wine tonight at the feast. Hildy will see that there is potion in it, so that he will feel dizzy and sleepy. He’ll come up to the chamber and I’ll give him more wine.”

  “What if—”

  “He’ll fall asleep,” Kiera cut in. “Later, when Elyn returns, I’ll sneak back into my room, and she’ll take her place as his bride. When he awakens he will have a pounding head but will be with his real wife. No one will know there has been a deception.” The last word tasted bitter upon her tongue, yet she ignored it.

  “Not even the Lord of Penbrooke?”

  “Not if we’re lucky.”

  “And if we aren’t?” Penelope asked.

  Kiera’s eyes closed for a second. Her sister had voiced Kiera’s worst fear. She sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest. “If we aren’t, then God help us.”