by Tamara Leigh
She halted alongside her knight. “How did you gain entry?”
Her proximity flooding him with memories of the woman he loved, he found himself slipping further into the belief this was, indeed, reality—that before him stood Aryn Viscott.
“How?” she demanded.
“I came over the wall with the others.”
“And for a day and night were amongst us?” She shook her head. “Believable only if there is a traitor in our midst who hid you and let you into the keep. Tell me, who aided you?”
“No one.”
Her eyes grew colder. “You lie.”
Had the siege hardened her? Or was this who Catherine Algernon had always been?
Once more, he silently cursed himself for allowing his thoughts to bend him toward believing this woman existed outside of a dream.
“Who aided you?” she pressed, and when he didn’t answer, drew nearer. “You would give your life for one unworthy of scraping dung from King Henry’s boots?”
Despite his father’s efforts to channel his son’s interests into activities that better lent themselves to the accumulation of wealth, Collier knew his history. Deciding he might as well entertain himself, he said, “Henry is no longer king.”
Her eyes flashed. “Though your precious Edward sits the throne, rot is all that will remain of him come summer.”
She was wrong. It was Catherine Algernon who would give her life for a king who had years ago lost what little mind he had. “The battle is over,” he said.
Her eyes delved his, and he glimpsed questioning in their violet depths before she dropped back on her heels. “’Tis your battle that is over, Collier Gilchrist. Mine does not end until what is wrong is set right.”
And for that, she would die in the winch room.
“He is mine?” Severn asked.
She lowered her gaze to the floor.
“My lady?”
“First I would speak with Morrow again. I am certain he knows Montagu’s weakness.”
“He is as stubborn as this one. Let us be done with them both.”
“I have spoken, Sir Severn.”
Glowering, he shouted over his shoulder, “Guards!”
They returned and removed Collier’s manacles. As they dragged him toward the trapdoor, he looked back at Catherine where she stood with shoulders squared and hands clenched at her sides.
What went through her mind? What thoughts and fears haunted her during what she could not know were her last hours?
And why do I keep slipping into the belief she’s real? he asked himself.
“Climb down,” Severn said.
Knowing if he didn’t comply he would be tossed in, Collier descended the rope ladder.
“Morrow!” Severn shouted.
When Collier reached the earthen floor, a shadowed figure said low, “Be prepared,” then began his ascent.
As Edmund Morrow neared the top, Collier saw his ancestor was tall and broad. Then the ladder was pulled up and the trapdoor dropped, returning the pit to darkness.
Knowing if the dream continued to follow the course of history, Edmund would soon overpower his captors and lead the others out, Collier leaned against the wall to await that unfolding—or his awakening. Hopefully, the latter, the thought of witnessing the death of Catherine Algernon in the person of Aryn too much to bear.
Closing his eyes, he told himself that what had happened to the fifteenth-century woman might not come to pass. The dream, being a product of his mind, fueled by his knowledge of history and loss of Aryn, could veer in another direction. Indeed, it might already have done so. Perhaps Catherine would die in the room above—unless she’d been present during Edmund’s escape and fled only to confront him and the other Yorkists in the winch room.
In which case, might he be able to save her as he hadn’t saved Aryn? Could he effect change in the past? If so, how would it carry over into the twenty-first century?
“Lord!” he snarled and, dropping his head back against the wall, rebuked himself for believing the impossible. Catherine Algernon was long dead, her life as forfeit as Aryn’s. And there was nothing he could do about either.
CHAPTER SIX
“My lady, make haste!”
Fear cinching her throat, Catherine peered over her shoulder. “Montagu?”
The soldier’s gaze slid past her to Severn, then to Morrow who was being led to the manacles. “Aye, my lady. ’Tis thought to be a mine.”
Catherine drew a steadying breath. “Proceed with the questioning, Sir Severn,” she said and followed the soldier up from the dungeon.
As she hurried toward the northern tower with the morning mists swirling around her feet, she was struck by the quiet—so quiet she could hear the roll of the sea against the rocks below Strivling.
She looked to the men-at-arms manning the wall-walk. Some returned her gaze, bewilderment plowing their brows as they surely pondered the same as she—why had the day’s siege not begun? Always, Montagu heralded first light with flaming arrows, balls of burning pitch, and siege engines that weakened Strivling’s walls.
The end is near, a voice whispered.
Digging her nails into her palms, she shook her head to dispel the images visited on her last eve, then entered the northern tower. She was met by a half dozen soldiers who regarded her with an air of defeat. They knew.
It was unnecessary for her to look nearer upon the bowl of water set on the floor, but she knelt and considered the rippled surface caused by vibrations not yet felt.
As feared, Montagu tunneled beneath the wall. How long ere the king’s man brought down the tower and his men swarmed over them like rats?
She closed her eyes, heard again the words of the one who called himself Collier Gilchrist.
The battle is over, he had said with such conviction it had been a struggle not to shudder. Just as it had been nearly impossible to hide her fear over being so near him again. Though chained to a wall, his impressive height and build had made her feel like something easily ground underfoot—as it appeared Strivling would soon be.
Hildegard, she silently entreated, what am I to do?
She opened her eyes and caught her breath when she felt beneath her knees that which rippled the water.
Think! she silently commanded.
They could begin a countermine and break into Montagu’s mine, stop the Yorkists before—
Nay, the hand-to-hand combat in the underground gallery would surely see Strivling’s men fall to the enemy’s greater number. So what to do? The only advantage she had—if it could be made one—was the Yorkists she had imprisoned in the pit.
Rising, she ordered the men, “Return to your stations.”
The hope in their eyes flickered out. They were tired of defending a castle they could not hold against the usurping Edward. Even so, they would stand by her.
As she watched them file out of the tower, what remained of Catherine Algernon—that piece Hildegard had scorned as weakness—wept. But though she knew her refusal to submit to Montagu could mean the deaths of these men, as ever, she must defer to the woman who had raised her to rule Strivling.
And she would—once she put herself back together sufficiently to question Morrow.
Light dropped into the pit, then the ladder.
“Hurry!” Edmund shouted.
Surprised silence answered him, followed by the clamor of men staggering up from the walls.
Collier made it to the ladder first, and at the top came face-to-face with his ancestor.
“You are Collier?” Edmund asked.
Stunned by the man who only distantly resembled his portrait, Collier stared. But it was more than the ravages of the pit. More than the bruised cheek and jaw. The artist had taken great license in giving Edmund Morrow refined features that made him appear handsome, overlooking the puckered skin that ran from the underside of his subject’s jaw to the neck of his tunic—scarred, as if by fire.
Of course, this was a dream, Collier angrily r
eminded himself, meaning it was he who had taken great license with his ancestor’s appearance as he had done with that of Catherine Algernon. He must stop losing sight of—
He nearly laughed. Why not lose sight of reality? Why fight the dream that offered respite and adrenaline-inducing adventure—more, Aryn whom he would only ever have in his dreams?
Gripping the hand offered him, he said, “I’m Collier Gilchrist.”
Edmund heaved him up into the room.
As Collier attained his full height that stood him half a head taller than his ancestor, Edmund said, “Almighty! I thought I was a big man.” He gave a grunt of laughter and jerked his head toward those he had overpowered. “Choose your weapon.”
Collier looked from Severn who sat crumpled against the far wall, to the guards who lay nearby. And was grateful there was no sign of the Lady of Strivling, though it only meant it was in the winch room they would meet again. Unable to stand by and watch her die, he crossed the room, knelt beside Severn, and gripped the hilt of the knight’s dagger. But as he pulled it from its sheath, a hand fell to his arm.
“Bloody rotter!” he rasped and looked up as Severn dropped his head back against the wall. Though Catherine’s man lived, he was of no threat, his chest bloodied and eyes slits in his fleshy face.
Edmund had done this and, doubtless, hadn’t thought twice about shedding blood.
“Lady Catherine,” Severn wheezed. “Pray, do not harm—”
Someone leapt forward, swept the knight’s sword from its scabbard, and impaled him on it.
Collier lunged upright to face the man who stood triumphant over his defenseless prey. “He was of no threat!”
“But neither was he dead,” the relatively short man scorned, then he set a foot on Severn’s chest and, using the knight’s body for leverage, pulled the sword free. “By your own blade, knave!”
Before Collier could plant a fist in his face, Edmund shouted, “We go now, Walther!”
Collier hoped he didn’t startle as violently on the outside as he did on the inside. He had known Catherine’s murderer was in the pit, but to face him now…
“Walther! Gilchrist!”
Both men turned.
As if aware of the tension between them, Edmund looked from one to the other with warning. Now was not the time for discord. If Montagu was to be let into Strivling, they had to go now.
Sword before him, Edmund ran from the room and the others, having scavenged from the dead, followed the one who had earned the right to be their leader.
“You with us?” Rudd Walther challenged.
Collier looked into the eyes of Severn’s executioner, a true mercenary who would show no remorse except for the spilling of his own blood. “I’m with Morrow.”
Walther’s scant eyebrows arched. “Poor choice,” he said and ran from the room.
Wondering how he was to keep this man from taking Catherine Algernon’s life, Collier brought up the rear.
Quietly, they ascended the narrow stairway, but upon reaching the landing, Edmund abandoned caution. And when Collier came after Walther into the guard’s station, two more of Catherine’s men lay dead.
Edmund snatched a ring of keys from the body at his feet, then looked to Walther. “Lead the way to the winch room.”
The mercenary reached for the keys, but Edmund moved them out of reach. “Let us be clear on this, Walther. Strivling is mine.”
Though the mercenary was slow to move, Collier sensed the weighing of his mind and bunching of his muscles. And from the adjustment of Edmund’s stance, he felt it as well.
“Do we stand here long enough,” Collier’s ancestor finally spoke, “’twill not be an issue.”
The mercenary glanced around and, as if realizing he stood alone against Edmund, inclined his head. “’Tis this way.”
“Gilchrist!” Edmund called.
Collier strode forward. As the two followed Walther to the rear of the guard’s station, Edmund said low, “I want you at my back.”
Because of his size, Collier mused. If Edmund knew the one to whom he entrusted his life was a man who had never killed, he would choose another. And yet, no one had a greater stake in keeping Edmund alive. The generations of Morrows could not be born without him.
Were this real, Collier reminded himself, then said, “I’ll watch your back.”
Edmund strode to where Walther awaited the key that would gain them passage to the winch room, fit it in the lock, and turned it.
A torch in hand, Walther passed through the doorway and began his ascent of the stairs, followed by Edmund, Collier, and the others. As they neared the top, a beam of light shone from beneath the door ahead.
“This is it!” Walther shoved the torch in a wall sconce.
“Weapons at the ready,” Edmund rasped.
Collier considered his dagger. Even to save his ancestor’s life, was he capable of killing?
Edmund threw open the door, flooding the stairway with light.
Four defenders. That was all the Yorkists had to contend with to take the winch room. They did so quickly, having given Catherine’s men only enough time to draw their swords. And leading the way was Walther, who slashed through life as if it were wheat to be harvested.
“Secure the door,” Edmund ordered, then turned to Collier. “Your sword, Gilchrist.” He tossed a weapon taken from one of Strivling’s men, then said, “Roland and Walther, man the portcullis winch. Gilchrist, aid me with the drawbridge.”
Collier slid the dagger and sword beneath his belt and stepped behind one of two immense mechanisms on which chain was spooled.
“The rest of you,” Edmund said, “stand at the ready. Our battle is not done.”
As evidenced by the sound of boots on the stairs.
Collier grabbed the lever on his side of the winch and followed Edmund’s lead. As the clatter of drawbridge chains merged with the din of portcullis chains, the door crashed inward and Strivling’s men-at-arms surged inside. Edmund’s men eagerly engaged them, but the defenders were worthier of sword than the first who had only the chance of God to turn back the besiegers.
“Walther!” Edmund shouted as the mercenary and the other man abandoned the portcullis winch, but both were too intent on joining the slaughter to pay him heed.
When the drawbridge met the ground, Collier’s ancestor urged, “Hurry, Gilchrist!" and started toward the portcullis winch just as three of Strivling’s soldiers broke through the Yorkists.
Drawing his sword, Edmund altered his course.
Collier did the same, but once again his use of the weapon was strictly defensive. Dream or not, he was no killer.
Though his opponent was of considerably smaller stature, the man possessed speed that had Collier struggling to keep his flesh from the defender’s blade.
Upon hearing Edmund’s shout, Collier glanced around. His ancestor was pressed against the far wall by two of Strivling’s men, blood darkening his tunic in the vicinity of his lower ribs.
Knowing what he did next was fairly unorthodox for one armed with a sword, Collier lunged and slammed a fist in his opponent’s nose.
The man’s eyes widened and he dropped.
Wishing he had used his fists sooner, Collier ran to Edmund and crossed swords only once with one of the attackers before slamming an elbow into the man’s face and knocking him back against the wall.
“Finish him!” Edmund commanded.
Collier knew he was expected to use his sword, and he did—the hilt, rather than the blade.
Confident the soldier wouldn’t soon rise, he turned as the man’s companion sought to open up Edmund’s belly. For his effort, Strivling’s man-at-arms gained only a few links of chain mail, but he might have taken more had he not glanced at Collier.
Edmund embraced the opportunity, and his opponent cried out and crumpled.
“I cannot say I approve of your fighting technique, Gilchrist,” Edmund said, pressing a hand to his injured ribs, “but I thank you, friend.”
Collier looked past him to the battle being waged against those who sought to recapture the winch room. Strivling’s men continued to come up off the stairs, though almost to a man they were cut down once they entered the room.
What of Catherine? When would she make her entrance?
“The portcullis,” Edmund reminded him.
However, there was another determined they wouldn’t raise it. The soldier put his sword through a Yorkist, then easily slipped past another—too easily.
Collier met the gaze of the mercenary who could have stopped the one charging toward Edmund. Knowing why Walther had not, he stepped into the advancing soldier’s path.
“They have escaped!”
The shout knelling through Catherine, its meaning stealing her breath, she snapped up her head.
The next hue and cry portended worse. “They have taken the winch room!”
As she ran from the northern tower, she saw a half-dozen of Strivling’s men enter the gatehouse with swords drawn. But as more moved to join them, Montagu’s siege began afresh.
When burning pitch struck the smithy’s roof, Catherine faltered. When an arrow met its mark among the battlements and the stricken soldier cried out, she stumbled and fell to her knees.
Though she knew the next missile might find her, the horror of what this day held rooted her to the spot.
More arrows. More burning pitch. More cries of pain.
Get up! she told herself. Do your duty!
Which was to defend the winch room, and yet it repulsed her. Death awaited her there.
Dropping her head back, she stared at the lowering sky. Where there had not been clouds earlier, they now blew in with the urgency of a storm upon the sea.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, “if I have erred, deliver us.”
The clouds continued to accumulate, and as each tried to find a fit over Strivling, a drop of rain fell to her cheek.
“What am I to do?” she cried.
Be strong, Hildegard spoke to her from out of the past. For me, King Henry, and God.
Though Catherine wished it was the Lord who spoke to her, she pushed upright and ran.