Warriors Of Legend

by Kathryn Le Veque, Kathryn Loch, Dana D'Angelo

  Hugh de Montfort, called Amaury by his family, stared down at him through icy, blue eyes. “King Henry drove his own brother from his lands. I fight to return him and you took arms against me.”

  “I asked you to yield. I had no desire to kill you,” Micah said, his thoughts tangled in torment. A deep anguish threatened his sanity and he fought for breath.

  “Then you should have never taken the field,” his uncle said.

  “I believe Henry is a good king and he had to banish his brother.”

  “Henry is a traitor to his blood, as are you.”

  His uncle’s once benign features grew harsh and his eyes radiated hatred. This was not the man Micah had known as a child. Memories assailed him; the Christmas revels, joyous family celebrations, and Amaury’s pride when his nephew earned his spurs. There was no vestige of that man now. Only the ruthless glare of a warrior facing a mortal enemy on the battlefield.

  “I stand for what I believe is right,” Micah said, straining to speak the words through burgeoning pain. “Just as my father – and you – taught me.”

  “You have learned nothing, boy.”

  And Micah was suddenly six years old again, sobbing over his father’s grave.

  “Do it,” a voice snarled.

  Micah’s vision blurred but he strained to see a knight looming behind his uncle. The man stood fully armored and held a bloody sword. Cruel planes etched his face, his dark eyes cold, and soulless. An ominous chill clamped Micah’s heart.

  “Waleran?” he whispered in shock. The earl of Meulan had been a longtime friend of the Montfort family. Micah could scarcely believe he would encourage such division let alone push for Amaury to kill him. “How can you do this?”

  “Do not allow sentiment to cloud your judgment,” Waleran snapped.

  “‘Tis a shame that you must now die,” Amaury said.

  Amaury de Montfort, the man who had been a father to Micah since he was six, moved in for the kill.

  Anguish threatened to destroy Micah’s reason. All he had been taught was a lie. The bonds of love and family were a facade. The foundations of his life crumbled, plunging him into a black chasm of despair. In youthful idealism, Micah had set out to heal the rift between his uncle and the king – and convince Amaury to lay down his arms. He had been a fool.

  Right hand still locked on the hilt of his sword, left hand clutching the bleeding wound in his side, Micah stared up as his uncle stepped forward. Micah’s sorrow ebbed. A fury burned purely feral, and his pulse quickened. Rage and agony knotted the pit of his stomach but indecision froze him.

  Could he kill the man who had been his surrogate father – the mentor he had loved and whose very presence had been his security? Would he be able to live with himself if his soul was stained with the blood of his uncle?

  Amaury’s face, filled with malice, told Micah that he must decide quickly. It was kill or be killed and if his beloved uncle would not spare his nephew’s life – then Micah would pay him the same regard.

  An unusual strength flowed through his body. At twenty–three, Micah was tall and strong. He could break a man’s neck with just his hands.

  Amaury’s sword descended. With startling speed, Micah blocked. Sparks flew from the weapons as they locked. Micah rocked on his back and kicked upward. Pain shot through his body and spun the world. His foot slammed into chainmail and his uncle staggered with a muffled groan. Micah lurched to his feet, cutting outward blindly.

  Amaury leaped backward then thrust at Micah’s left side, forcing Micah into an awkward block with his sword because of his left hand still holding the wound. But Micah parried and lunged again. He snapped his sword out, in a backhand cut that drove Amaury away a second time.

  Micah knew he had to use the advantage of his longer reach. His pain blurred his vision and slowed his reflexes. Blood loss weakened his body and muscles burned with exhaustion. Micah brought his sword down in a slashing arc, keeping Amaury on the defensive. He dare not relent in his attack, he dare not think of the consequences of his actions.

  Micah caught a glimpse of Waleran, his face twisted in a gruesome smile. With the malevolence Micah sensed from the man, he wondered if he would leap into the fray. But the earl remained where he stood, an unknown factor in Micah’s battle for his life.

  Micah launched an overhand cut. Amaury’s block flicked quick but wild. Micah snapped his weapon around, his attack tightly controlled and precise. He cut at Amaury’s vulnerable legs. His uncle was unable return his errant sword. Micah’s weapon gouged through armor then bit solidly into flesh, jarring to a stop against bone.

  Amaury howled in agony, dropping like a stone. His sword flew from his hand and tumbled away. Micah’s weapon had ripped a huge gash in Amaury’s leg, slicing muscle and tendon. Micah pursued the advantage, standing over Amaury as foreboding as his uncle had been to him only a moment ago. His sword tip hovered inches above Amaury’s nose. All Micah had to do was shove it forward but he suddenly could not make himself move.

  “I yield,” his uncle said, his voice hoarse with fear and pain. “I yield!”

  Micah suddenly remembered Waleran and glanced up. The earl turned and ran, abandoning his ally to suffer his fate alone. But Waleran sprinted only a few paces before a group of Henry’s approaching soldiers intercepted him and took him into custody. Micah turned his attention back to Amaury.

  “You would kill your own nephew rather than take him prisoner. Why should I not kill you?” Micah loomed over him, fury still pounding through his aching body.

  Amaury stared at him, his expression frightened and confused. All semblance of anger vanished, and the benevolent mentor Micah once knew returned. “I am sorry…forgive me…please. I don’t know what happened. I love you like a son.”

  Confusion assailed Micah and he lowered his sword slightly. It was as if he faced two completely different men. Disgust filled him, sickening him with revulsion. Amaury, the man who only a moment ago tried to kill him, spouted words of love in an effort to save his own life. But now Micah knew the truth. He had seen and felt its agony when Amaury’s sword cut through his side. Love did not exist, the bonds of family meant nothing, they were lies and fallacies.

  Yet Micah’s heart screamed in denial. Amaury had never lifted a hand against Micah, he had never spoken a word of hatred. Micah shook his head, the pain of his wound only confusing him more. But his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

  Never again would someone hold that kind of power over him. Never again would he trust anyone with his life or with his heart.

  Micah heard hoof–beats and turned, seeing a second group of Henry’s men galloping toward him. He waved them down as he lurched away from his uncle. Let King Henry deal with the man, Micah could not.

  Sir John Warin, Micah’s best friend and second in command, reached him and dismounted. “God’s bones, man. What have you done to yourself?”

  “It’s nothing,” Micah said through clenched teeth. The world started spinning again. He was dimly aware of John looping his arm over his shoulder.

  John helped him sit. “Stay still, my friend. We’ll get you a healer.” He pressed his hand against the wound.

  Micah bit back a curse, his vision turning dark. Another knight handed him a wineskin.

  “I told you not to trust him,” John said tightly.

  “I had to try.” But Micah could not speak of the grief in his heart.

  John sighed. “I know.”

  Micah watched two other soldiers haul Amaury up and bind his hands. “What do you think Henry will do to him?”

  “Jail him and confiscate his lands.”

  Micah nodded. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to clear the Montfort name of treachery. Good God, what happened to him? He was a completely different man.”

  “Worry about that later.”

  “Aye,” Micah said, forcing down his sorrow. “Where’s that infernal healer?” He tried to catch his breath but his vision spun away into blackness. />
  Chapter One

  Appleby Castle

  Westmorland Barony, England

  Two Years Later

  The smell of smoke and burnt flesh mingled with the scent of death. Screams of the dying ended abruptly as soldiers ran through Appleby’s bailey, dispatching the fatally wounded.

  Sir Micah de Montfort swallowed against the vile taste in his mouth as he strode through the bailey. After the past two years, he should be accustomed to it. He had become Henry’s knight errant, bringing disputed castles under control of the throne. At five and twenty, Micah should have his own lands with a wife and children. But his inheritance was still held by the crown due to the crimes of his uncle.

  Perhaps this time Henry will keep his promise, he thought bitterly but he knew it was doubtful. He ascended the narrow stairs into the keep.

  Henry had dangled carrots many times and like a foolish ass, Micah went after them. But Appleby Castle seemed much more promising than the others. This time, the barony was not being disputed by petty nobles. A Scottish clan had taken the castle and slaughtered the Liulfs, the English family which had held Appleby.

  The northern district of Cumbria had been disputed by the English and the Scots for so long that the boarder was blurred beyond recognition. The Scottish clan, MacLeary, laid claim to Appleby and the barony of Westmorland by force of arms. Henry ordered Micah to oust the Scots and Micah had obeyed with his usual competence and skill.

  He strode purposefully through the keep, dimly lit by only a few guttering torches. Micah’s mail hauberk slapped against his mail hosen, the metallic rustle echoing off the thick walls. His hard–soled boots thudded against the stones and his spurs clinked softly. Micah’s white tunic was stained red with blood but none of it his. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck under his mail coif. His right hand clutched the hilt of his sword, the strong muscles in his arms and chest weary from wielding it for so long. In his left, he carried his large kite shield; the red painted wood, battered and cracked.

  Micah entered the great hall. His men worked valiantly to extinguish the small fires that still burned. Tables and chairs were overturned. Bodies and blood covered the floor and the stench of death fouled the air. Micah’s gaze fell on three knights talking earnestly in the midst of the hall.

  “Micah,” Sir John Warin said, his expression worried. “We have not found Laird MacLeary. We think he and his family may have escaped and fled back to Scotland.”

  “We cannot afford the men to search for him. Let him run home like a whipped cur to lick his wounds,” Micah said and strode past the three knights to the small dais in front of the huge hearth. A large, high backed chair was the only piece of furniture not broken or overturned. A MacLeary plaid draped over it. Micah sheathed his sword, tore the plaid from the chair, and tossed it into a nearby fire. Bracing his shield against the chair, he sat and locked John in his gaze.

  “Status,” he muttered, trying to adjust his aching body in the hard chair.

  “The keep is secured and most of the Scots are either dead or dying. We will not have many prisoners to send to King Henry.”

  Micah’s squire, William, entered the hall and slid to his knees, stopping the conversation.

  “My lord,” the squire gasped, out of breath. “I pray pardon but there is something you must see.”

  “What is it?” John snapped.

  “We have made a discovery worthy of my lord’s attention.”

  Micah frowned and stood, cutting off John’s sharp retort. “I would see this discovery.”

  “This way, Sir.” The boy scrambled to his feet and Micah and John hurried after him.

  They descended into the bowels of the keep. The torches in the wall stanchions did little to shove the darkness back. The reek of death was compounded by the stench of rotting excrement.

  “Good God, have mercy,” John whispered, his jaw clenched.

  Micah and John followed the boy to where two soldiers stood before a closed door. One soldier had a bloody scratch on his face. The men bowed and stepped aside.

  As Micah opened the door, he heard an ear–piercing scream stripped of humanity. A form hurtled at him and he reacted instantly. His hand latched around a slender throat and held the attacker at arm’s length.

  Micah blinked at the woman the torch light revealed.

  She barely reached his shoulder, her dark hair was a wild fray of blood, dirt, and matted tangles. Her face, although soiled and bruised, was elegant with high cheek bones and delicate jaw. His gaze fell to her eyes and his heart nearly froze. Large and gray, they flashed wild with fury and terror. Her blood red lips, split and puffy, curled into a snarl.

  She fought to drag in a breath. Micah loosened his hold only slightly. Her flesh was soft under his hand. His eyes traveled down her lithe body. Under the filthy rags of the chemise, he saw graceful curves, blurred slightly by starvation. The woman struggled again, trying to pry him from her throat.

  “Well, now,” Micah said softly. “What do we have here?”

  She spat on him.

  “A hellion,” John said, stepping up behind him.

  “Aye,” Micah replied, unable to tear his gaze from the raging captive.

  With a growl, the woman wrenched herself free. Micah grabbed her shoulders before she could attack him again. Her eyes widened and she gasped in pain, collapsing at his feet unconscious.

  “God’s bones,” Micah muttered and crouched next to her. Her ragged chemise lay in tatters. A dark line across the white flesh of her back caught his eye. Micah frowned and turned the crumpled form. Horror gripped him as he examined the bloody stripes on her back.

  Rage burned in his belly and he clenched his fists. Why would anyone do this to a person, especially a woman? Good God, didn’t MacLeary have a soul? Too many questions flooded through his mind. Micah had heard numerous tales of the Scottish laird’s brutality but this…this was beastly. He suddenly abhorred the man with a violence that startled him.

  Who is she? Why had she been so severely persecuted? Micah gazed down at her and his honor pricked deep within him. He swore a silent oath – this would not happen again.

  He spotted her bloody wrists, marks of being manacled for too long. “Sweet Jesu,” Micah whispered. Her name no longer mattered, he could not abide her suffering another moment. He carefully picked her up. “John, find a room that can house her and call for a healer. She shall be a prisoner no longer.”

  “Aye,” John said and hurried away.

  ***

  Micah surveyed his room and finally allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The solar had been cleared of MacLeary’s belongings and Micah’s furniture now graced it. He opened a tiny chest and withdrew his most prized possession – a teardrop sapphire with a gold filigree that had been his mother’s. She had died two years after his father, leaving his father’s brother, Amaury, Micah’s sole guardian. The necklace remained the only artifact of the Montfort family in Micah’s possession. The rest had been confiscated when his uncle blackened their name. He returned the sapphire to the chest and buried it in a drawer.

  Gratefully, Micah removed his armor. His servants had prepared a steaming bath before the great hearth. He sank into it, washing a month of blood, dirt, and sweat from his skin. A knock sounded on his door and he muttered a curse. “Who is it?”

  “John.”

  “Enter.”

  John opened the door, and realizing the state of his lord, quickly shut it behind him. “My apologies, I did not mean to disturb you.”

  Micah looked up at his friend. Grime dulled his short, sandy blond hair and a day’s growth of beard shadowed his face. “You look as if you need the same.”

  John managed a grim smile, his hazel eyes glazed with weariness. “Aye.” He moved to the table and poured himself a glass of wine. “I will see to it in a bit.” He took a long drink and set the cup down, his expression troubled. “Micah, do you think Henry will forget his promise to you as he has done so many times before?”
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br />   Micah winced. “I don’t know, John. If there is a way around his word, he will find it.”

  “Other barons are becoming nervous with his control over you. They fear if he can do it to you, he can do it to them.”

  Micah curled his lip and motioned for John to pour him a cup of wine. “Henry knows I cannot tolerate this wandering existence as his enforcer. He can’t keep me landless forever.”

  “Aye,” John replied handing him the cup. “This whole thing pricks my ire. You supported him during the rebellion, almost getting killed in the process. Why are you the one being punished?”

  “He will not easily loosen his grip on a knight so firmly under control. He knows he has me by the scruff as long as he holds my birthright and the Montfort treachery over me.”

  John snorted softly. “Perhaps with the capture of this keep, all of that will change. With Henry being brother–in–law to King David of the Scots, he knows this could lead to bad blood. Henry needs this ended quietly or else risk war with Scotland.”

  “And I am perfect for that duty,” Micah said bitterly, and took a long drink of his wine. He studied John thoughtfully. “All I can do is hope for the best.”

  John grimaced. “Don’t hoped too powerfully, Micah,” he said and began to pace.

  Micah stiffened. “You’re worrying me, John.”

  His friend bowed his head. “At least you aren’t the type to kill the messenger,” he muttered.

  “What is it?”

  “The girl we found in the dungeon…the village healer calls her Kate…,” he hesitated a long moment. “She is Katherine Liulf, the youngest daughter, and has barely seen her twentieth year.”

  Micah stared at John, the blood draining from his face. White hot fury surged through him. He bolted from the tub and John tossed him a bath sheet. How dare MacLeary persecute a noble woman?

  But Micah paused, a sudden fear obliterating his anger. King Henry, believing the Liulfs slain to the last, had ordered Micah to retake Appleby Castle, promising he would stand as baron. Now an heir of Appleby survived and had been abused by MacLeary. A dozen horrors scrambled through Micah’s mind but he tripped over the worst.