Lord, she felt as edgy as a lone mouse in a barn full of hungry cats.
Deirdre was accustomed to having the upper hand. For years she’d daunted men with her imposing stature and her noble status as a lord’s daughter. Her clansmen followed her orders without question. And strangers quickly learned to treat her with the proper respect.
This Norman afforded her no deference whatsoever. Not as a noble heir. Not as the steward of Rivenloch. Not even as a woman. How would she ever retain control of her castle, of her lands, of her people, if she couldn’t control this one man?
She hung up her cloak, then crossed to lean against the shutter of the window. The blustery rain had returned, and she shivered, but not because of the cold. Resting her brow upon her hands, she gazed out over the misty knolls and rain-studded trees of Rivenloch, frustrated.
She was Pagan’s captive. From the moment the priest declared them man and wife, he had subtly enslaved her in one way or another, snagging his fingers in her hair for their kiss, imprisoning her hand as they walked the length of the chapel, encircling her body with fierce ownership as he carried her to the keep. And tonight, he would claim her in the ultimate act of possession.
She swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that she was truly afraid. She’d stumbled upon enough servants to know that swiving was merely a disgusting display of thrashing and moaning, over in a few moments. And yet she sensed from the way her heart pounded as Pagan kissed her, the way the blood rose in her cheeks, the way her head swam in confusion, that coupling with him would be somehow dangerous.
Still, how could she avoid it? She’d sworn not to harm him, though indeed that had never been her intent. She supposed she could plead illness or fatigue, but deception came uneasily to her. Besides, it would only delay the inevitable. Even if she drugged his wine every night...
Through the window, a distant flicker of light from the far hills distracted her. She narrowed her eyes. What was that? Another flicker. She lifted her head and studied the source of the reflection, a gap between two pines on the hilltop. There it was again, a quick glint where a slim beam of sunlight caught on something.
Suddenly the flashes increased, and Deirdre’s heart flipped against her ribs. Knights. Four, five, six, maybe more, cresting the rise. Their helms sparkled in the patch of sun. As she watched with breathless intensity, a pennant fluttered past, no larger than a tiny moth, too small to identify.
"Ballocks," she cursed under her breath.
Seven, eight, nine...
She clenched her fist against the shutter. They had turned now and were coming straight down the hill.
God’s blood! It must be the English. They'd come for Rivenloch.
CHAPTER 7
There was no time to waste.
The guards manning the parapets had spotted the knights now, and they began to pass the message of invasion along the wall.
Her heart pounding like the hooves of a warhorse, Deirdre slammed and bolted the shutter. She eyed her chest of armor. Later. Later she would arm herself. First she had to prepare the keep for battle.
She’d never done it before. She’d never had to. Rivenloch was remote, far enough from the border that the English were usually little threat, equally far from raiding Highlanders. She’d never readied her clansmen for war, but because of the recent attacks in the Borders, she’d gone over the scenario a hundred times in her head, and the men-at-arms had been drilled in defensive maneuvers by Helena until they could do them in their sleep.
Helena! Christ’s bones! What if she was still drunk?
There was no time to rouse her. The castle walls had to be fortified first. She’d send someone to fetch Helena when the keep was out of danger.
Her pulse doubling, she raced out the door, picked up her skirts, and flew down the stairs to the great hall, where the wedding revels had already begun.
“Clansmen!” she cried, her voice strong despite the urgent thrumming in her veins. “Give ear!”
The room gradually silenced.
“An army is approaching Rivenloch,” she announced. At their gasps, she raised her hand for quiet. “There’s no need for panic. You’ve been trained for this. You all know what to do.”
To her satisfaction, though they chattered worriedly amongst themselves, the castle folk began to walk purposefully toward whatever task they’d been assigned.
But Pagan suddenly stepped in front of her, blocking her view with his imposing chest. “Wait!” he barked over his shoulder.
To Deirdre’s consternation, they did.
“How big is this army?” he asked her.
She clenched her jaw. What did it matter? Did the fool not realize the need for haste? “I don’t know,” she muttered impatiently. “They were mounted knights. A dozen...maybe more.” Bending past his broad shoulder, she yelled, “You, lad! Quick! Gather the livestock within the walls!” She tried to sidle past Pagan, but he blocked her way again.
“From what direction?” he asked.
“Would you move?” she growled. “You, you, and you!” she commanded, pointing at her best archers. “Man the battlements!”
Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Fire only at my command!”
Deirdre almost choked on her outrage. “Your co-...This is my castle, sirrah! Do not think to—“
”From what direction do they come?” he asked again.
“The south,” she hissed. “How dare you usurp my authority! I’ve defended this keep for years. You’ve been here but one day. I will not have you countermand my orders!” To prove her point, she issued another command. “Angus! When the beasts are in, drop the portcullis!” At least, she thought, the wedding had served one useful purpose—the castle folk were already safely congregated within the walls.
“Is it the English?” Pagan asked.
She tried to push past the brute, but he was as unmovable as a deep-rooted oak.
He seized her by the shoulders then and held her still, though in truth he pinned her more with his fierce gaze than his hands. “Is it. The. English?” he asked, as if he were speaking to a halfwit.
“Aye.” She bit out the lie, not caring a whit whether the invaders were English or not, only wanting the meddling Norman to get out of her way. “Aye, ‘tis the English.”
“You’re certain?”
Now her patience was at an end. This was the reason one didn't send a Norman to defend a Scot's holding. If Pagan had spent any time in the Borders at all, he'd know that Highlanders, their only other enemy, fought afoot in sheepskins, not mounted and in armor. She shrugged off his hands. “If you do not remove yourself this instant, I swear by all that’s holy—“
”How many battles have your men fought, milady?”
“What? I have no time for your chin-wagging, sirrah! Do you not understand? We are under attack! Let me—” She tried to heave him out of her path again, to no avail. If only she’d brought a dagger to prod him...
”Answer me. How many battles?”
She made daggers of her eyes instead. “My men train in the tiltyard all the—”
“How many real battles have they fought?”
The question gave her pause. She compressed her lips, reluctant to answer. “‘Tis no matter.” She wanted to lie, tell him they’d fought in dozens of wars, but she could not.
“How many?”
“None, but—“
”And how many times have you been under siege?”
“Never,” she admitted. “But my people have been well trained. They know what to—“
”I’ve commanded armies in a dozen battles,” he boasted. “And I once survived a siege of half a year. I know what to do."
Why she should believe him, she didn't know. She still suspected he was but a landless knight-errant. Yet the cool confidence in his eyes, as cocksure and annoying and superior as it may be, was also reassuring. Pagan wouldn’t let Rivenloch fall.
But what she told him was also true. He’d been there only one day. She knew the castle, knew the land, knew the peopl
e. She could better manage them.
Before she could explain, Colin skipped up, clearing his throat. “Did you, my lady,” he asked, lifting his brows nonchalantly, “happen to glimpse the banner of that army?”
“‘Twas too distant.”
He nodded. “Mm.”
“Why?”
He scratched his chin. “I climbed the parapets to take a look. Something about the colors seemed...vaguely familiar.” He exchanged a curious look with Pagan.
But Deirdre had no patience for Colin’s musings. There would be time to discover exactly who the knights were later, after the keep was secure.
Between Colin and the hearth, she spotted an idle maidservant. “You! Fetch Lady Helena! She’s in her chamber. Tell her—“
”Nay!” Colin cried. “Nay. I’ll...I’ll do it. I’m certain the maid has more important duties. Besides,” he said, clasping his hands together with a clap, “‘twill make me feel useful.”
“Then tell her ‘tis urgent,” she bade him. “Tell her the men-at-arms await her orders.”
Colin gaped. “She commands the men-at-arms?”
Deirdre let out an agitated sigh. “Are you going to help or not?”
Without a word, Colin sketched an elaborate bow and started across the great hall.
“Wait!” she yelled. “Where are you going? Her chamber is not that way.”
He looked confused for a moment, then stuttered, “I...I’m just going to the cellar to...to fetch her breakfast. Can’t command men-at-arms on an empty stomach.”
She frowned, then returned her attention to Pagan. He was gazing at her strangely now, as if he weighed her worth or divined her future.
“Your archers,” he said, “they’re experienced? They won’t fire prematurely?”
“Nay,” she assured him smugly. “They’ll only fire at my command.” To her satisfaction, this time he didn’t argue the point.
Pagan hoped she was right. After all, it would be unfortunate if one of her Rivenloch archers shot one of his Cameliard knights.
He supposed he should enlighten her, tell her that Colin had recognized the approaching army as Pagan’s own knights. But it would be useful to know, and he was curious to see, how well she commanded the keep and how organized Rivenloch’s defenses were. Of course, if it had been a real assault, he never would have let her take charge. He would have sent her or dragged her, if need be, to join the rest of the women and children of Rivenloch in the innermost chambers of the keep for safety.
He wondered what Colin planned to do about Helena. Surely he didn’t mean to release the shrew. And yet, if it was true that she was Deirdre's second in command...
He turned to observe the mass of people scrambling to and fro across the great hall. Each seemed to know his purpose, and none was panicking. But in the middle of the orderly chaos, the Lord of Rivenloch stood dazed, as if he were set adrift in the sea of clansmen.
Turning back to Deirdre, Pagan said, “Your father is confused. Go to him. Make certain he’s safe. I’ll gather the men-at-arms while Colin is fetching your sister.”
She bristled at his tone of command. It was clear the willful wench craved the upper hand. He couldn’t decide if that trait was aggravating or entertaining. His thoughts strayed to the marriage bed they’d share this night, and he wondered if she’d insist upon the upper hand there, too. It was an intriguing possibility.
Deirdre’s frown melted as she observed her father, and Pagan glimpsed the weight of responsibility settle upon her shoulders. No doubt it was burdensome, caring for a feeble parent. Pagan didn’t know. His parents had died suddenly of the murrain years ago. “Very well,” she conceded. “Do so.”
He watched as she made her way to the lord, guiding him with loving care up the steps to his chamber. She was an enigma, this new bride of his, as rough as a tavern wench one moment, as gentle as a nun the next.
Pagan squared his shoulders and headed toward the armory, where the knights would be donning chain mail and taking up sword and pike, bow and mace. It was time to see what manner of fighting force Rivenloch boasted.
As soon as Deirdre made certain her father was comfortable, residing in his chamber with a squire for company, her heart began its rapid patter once again. Aye, it was one less thing to worry about, but there were a hundred others. As much as it stuck in her craw to say it, she was almost glad of Pagan’s aid. At least he had experience in warfare, something not one of her men could claim. What troubled her most, however, was the fact that Rivenloch’s walls had never been tested. Of course, Helena made it her duty to maintain the defenses, to look for weaknesses and inspect for damage. But no firebrand or battering ram or sapper’s spade had ever attempted to broach the walls. As far as anyone truly knew, the stones might crumble with the tap of a broomstick.
Deirdre gave her head a shake, dismissing the thought. There were too many other worries at the moment.
She snagged a squire in the passageway to help her don her armor. The sooner she was protected enough to mount the battlements, the sooner she could see what manner of men she was up against and how best to defend the keep.
While the squire tied the points on her gambeson and helped her into her mail chausses and hauberk, Deirdre opened the shutter the tiniest crack and peered out at the arriving army. They were still distant figures, but it was clear now there were at least a score of mounted knights and, behind them, several afoot. There were also a number of heavy-laden carts. Deirdre imagined they were filled with arms, provender, and materials for building pavilions, should they decide to lay siege.
As the squire slipped her tunic over her chain mail, the wind picked up the corner of the invaders’ far-off pennant, and she glimpsed the coat-of-arms, some beast of argent upon a sable field. As Colin had mentioned, something about the design seemed familiar to her, too.
“Ian, look at that pennant,” she bade the squire. “Where have you seen it before?”
He squinted into the distance, chewing upon his lip. “Was that not upon the tunic of that jongleur, the one who played at supper two nights—“
”Bloody hell.” Realization slowly dawned. “Bloody hell!“
She glanced down at her wedding ring. A pale unicorn upon a black field. By the Rood, these men were Pagan’s own knights!
“That son of a...” She slammed the shutter.
So he wasn't a mere knight-errant after all. He commanded his own army. He must have sent Boniface the jongleur as a spy, then ordered his knights to follow in the event Pagan’s suit was refused. It was a brilliant strategy. But that didn’t diminish Deirdre’s anger with him now for his deception. Why had he not revealed their identity? Why had he not disclosed that they were friend, not foe? Did he hope to make a fool of her?
It would be a snowy day in hell before he’d do that. She might be inexperienced, but she was well prepared. And she had more wits than he imagined. Did he wish to humiliate her, put her in her place? Then she’d show him that two could play at that game.
Pagan tried not to look disappointed as he reviewed the ranks of Scots soldiers. Though they were admirably disciplined and seemed to be brave of heart, they were the most motley bunch of knights he’d ever seen assembled. They might well be Scotland's finest, but they weren't fit to polish the sabatons of the Knights of Cameliard. Six of them claimed to be trained as horsemen, and while their armor was intact, it looked to date from the last century. A dozen more were men-at-arms whose arms were sadly lacking, limited to one or two weapons apiece. The three archers, already dispatched to patrol the parapets, appeared to be the only adept bowmen at Rivenloch. And the rest of the odd company—white-bearded old men, skinny-armed lads, and one tiny lass he smacked on the bottom and sent on her way—looked barely fit to defend a honeycomb from ants, much less protect a prize like Rivenloch.
It was indeed a good thing the King had sent Pagan to be Rivenloch’s steward. With the worthy knights of Cameliard living among them, these simple Scots could go back to whatever it was t
hey did in their daily life—farming or fishing or frolicking with their sheep—while his men defended the keep.
Still, Pagan knew better than to insult them. A captain had to be diplomatic, to inspire his men, even if they were outnumbered ten to one. He had to give them hope, even when there was none.
“Who is the best horseman here?” he asked.
There was no argument. One of the armored men stepped forward.
“And the best swordsman?”
This time there was an awkward shuffling. Finally one man asked, “For power or speed?”
“Both.”
“For power, that would be Will here,” he said, pointing a thumb at the man with the broadest girth. “For speed—“
”That would be Helena,” a feminine voice chimed in.
Pagan glanced up to see what woman came uninvited into the armory. It was Deirdre, but a Deirdre transformed. No longer the lovely, silk-gowned goddess he’d married, she was a warrior clad head to toe in chain mail and armed with a broadsword.
While he gaped in surprise, she swept past him and addressed the man who’d volunteered himself as the best horseman. “Are the chargers being saddled?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Your blades are sharp?” she asked Will.
“Aye.”
Utterly shocked, Pagan found his diplomacy deserted him. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, wench?”
She ignored him. “Helena hasn’t arrived yet?” she asked the men-at-arms. They shook their heads, and she wheeled to face him in accusation. “What’s keeping your man?”
Pagan was not about to be questioned, especially not by a wench who mocked the very essence of chivalry by her presence in the armory. “You have my permission to see what is keeping him,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “and leave me to my command.”
“You’ve served your purpose,” she countered. “I’ll take over now.”
“Indeed?” he said, arching a brow. “And will you ride into battle with your men as well?”
Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) Page 7