by Tamara Leigh
Upon entering the gatehouse, she saw the stairs to the winch room were littered with the bodies of the slain, the majority of which were of Strivling.
Anger now more the cause of her trembling than fear, she considered the doorway that stood empty but for a soldier fallen across the threshold. Montagu’s men were inside, but what did the silence mean when it should be filled with the clatter of chains?
She reached to a soldier whom she refused to name, turned his fingers back from his sword, and closed her own around it. As she gained her feet, her gaze skittered over his unseeing eyes.
“I am sorry,” she gasped. “If only—”
She shook her head. No time for regrets, only for the duty owed Strivling—and Hildegard. Looking from the tip of the honed sword to its blue-black hilt, she said, “God help me,” and began picking her way up over the bodies.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Blood. Though the greatest portion belonged to Strivling’s men, that of seven of Montagu’s soldiers pooled with the blood of those they had fought.
As Edmund, Walther, Collier, and two others from the pit looked at one another, Collier ground his teeth in remembrance of the opponent he had turned from Edmund’s path back into Walther’s. Walther who had then savagely slain the man.
Now as the mercenary’s triumphant shout broke the silence, Edmund merely smiled. Doubtless, he believed the only victory worth celebrating was a complete one. And this was not yet that. It would be, though, the barony of Highchester his reward once the portcullis was raised and Montagu’s men let in.
But what of Catherine who had not defended the winch room as legend told?
Collier almost laughed at having to once more remind himself he was responsible for this version, but though it was far preferable, he wanted out of this bloody dream. He would find another way to deal with Aryn’s death.
“Montagu waits,” Edmund said as he positioned himself at one end of the portcullis winch.
Collier stepped forward to assist, but Rudd Walther shouldered past him.
“Ready,” the mercenary said. If he could not outdo Edmund—or see him dead—he would further his reward.
As the great chains were drawn up, a scream sounded above the clamor.
Collier swung around. It was as he had always imagined it—though without the face of Aryn upon Catherine Algernon.
Wielding a sword, the woman stepped over the one who had fallen in the doorway. “Traitors!” she cried, then joined her hands on the sword hilt and lunged toward the winch. Toward Walther.
As Collier moved to intercept her, he saw the mercenary release the winch lever and draw his sword, causing the chains to run out and the portcullis to slam back into place.
“Aryn!” Collier shouted.
A moment later, the impact of her blade meeting Walther's caused her to stumble sideways, but though she quickly recovered, the next clash propelled her back against the winch.
Walther had proven himself too well-versed in swordplay to allow her more than the one blow. Fortunately, his toying with her provided Collier with a narrow opportunity to reach her ahead of death.
It was the terrible dream come true, though this time it gave her enemies faces to hold murderous eyes, mouths to expel crude taunts, and bodies to reek their taste upon her tongue.
At a relatively leisurely pace that told he did not believe she had the strength to raise the sword again, the traitor once more advanced. But as she took in his whiskered jaw, leering eyes, and moldering teeth, from somewhere deep she drew forth what was needed.
She swept the sword high, arced the blade down—and would have had a piece of his flesh if another had not thrust the traitor aside. Still, she had a piece of Gilchrist.
His bellow paining her ears, she bent back against the winch and struggled to raise the sword again. But true to her dream, the enemy drove his body against hers, trapping the sword between them.
“Release it!” he growled.
Though she continued to grip the hilt with all her failing strength, Gilchrist’s hand supplanted hers. And she felt something like relief in knowing she had done all she could.
“Aryn!” he once more called her another’s name.
Staring into intensely gray eyes, she was struck by what appeared to be concern. Did he regret what he was about to do? Rather, what he had done?
Feeling moisture on her chest and abdomen, she looked down. Crimson spread across her bodice. As in all her other dreams, there was no pain and, strangely, it did not come. Darkness beckoning, she thanked God for this one mercy, then grateful her battle was finally over, sank into death’s arms.
Lord! she called ahead of what she prayed was her ascension. If this is all there is to my tale, would that I had my life to live over.
She believed she was the one who bled, Collier realized as he held Aryn against his chest, but it was the injury she had dealt him that spread blood across her gown. Did she think herself mortally wounded? Considering she had died once before in the winch room, she had good cause.
That last thought moved Collier back toward reality, but he only briefly acknowledged that Aryn in the role of Catherine was but a dream before reminding himself to guard well his time with her. Too soon, he would face a rude awakening.
He dropped the sword he had taken from her, lifted her slack body, and was alarmed by how light she was. Still, her weight sharpened the pain of his slashed arm.
Gritting his teeth, he turned from the winch and found Walther in his path. “She was mine, Gilchrist!”
Bloodthirsty rotter! “Perhaps once, but no longer.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You have wronged me.”
“Then we’ll certainly meet again.”
“Enough quarreling!” Edmund shouted. “Montagu waits!”
As Walther grabbed the winch handle, Collier strode from the room. He gave no thought to his destination. All he knew was the need to deliver Aryn from the butchery.
The drawing up of chains sounding behind him, he stepped over the one who lay across the threshold. Though avoiding the bodies on the stairs was no easy feat carrying Aryn, he made it to the bottom without mishap.
Pausing before the doorway leading out into the bailey, he looked at the woman he held. Lashes not much darker than the circles beneath her eyes, vulnerable mouth one he had kissed hundreds of times, he prayed to the one whose existence he was forever questioning, Let me linger long enough to find Aryn beneath Catherine Algernon’s anger and hatred.
Beyond, the victorious shouts of those surging beneath the raised portcullis was met by the din of others determined to defend Strivling to the death. For their lady.
But perhaps there was a way to gain the surrender of Strivling’s defenders without further bloodshed. If they saw Aryn had been captured—he must remember to call her Catherine—their reason for defending the castle would likely be lost.
With the cries of the castle garrison resounding around the walls, heads began to turn and faces to fall as Collier carried the Lady of Strivling out into the drizzling rain. Even Montagu’s men paused, though only a moment before resuming their advance on the defenders who began to lower their weapons.
Hardly had Collier halted at the center of the bailey, than a hand clapped his shoulder. “You, my friend, are like no mercenary I have met.”
Collier considered his ancestor’s rain-moistened face. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
Edmund arched an eyebrow, then looked around. “My reward,” he said and strode toward the gateway through which an armored man rode ahead of a throng of soldiers.
Lord Montagu, Collier guessed. The man’s shining armor and fine stallion belonged to no ordinary knight.
Edmund was not alone in seeking the great man’s audience, but Walther was paid no heed as Montagu conversed with Collier’s ancestor. Then the besieger of Strivling urged his mount past Catherine Algernon’s would-be killer.
“You are Gilchrist?” he called.
“I am.”
Eyebrows pinching, Montagu reined in ten feet from Collier. “Mercenary you may be, but you shall afford me my title.”
Collier was not accustomed to bowing and scraping. Even when his father had been a dominant force in his life, the two had quarreled over Winton Morrow’s belief that, right or wrong, he was owed respect and unquestioned agreement. But Collier grudgingly inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”
The nobleman lowered his gaze. “Is that your blood upon Lady Catherine?”
“It is…my lord.”
Walther laughed. “Drawn by the lady herself!”
Knowing the words were meant to shame, Collier looked sharply at the man who had followed Montagu.
“Ah, but had Gilchrist not interceded”—this from Edmund as he halted alongside Walther—“’twould have been you she stuck, Sir Rudd.”
Fury swept the mercenary’s face. “I would have slain her!”
None but Collier—except the mercenary himself—knew how true he spoke.
“Silence!” Montagu commanded and sidled his mount nearer Collier to peer at the woman who had defied him. “She will not thank you for saving her life, Gilchrist.”
He didn’t imagine she would. Had she any regard for herself, she would not have continued this senseless battle. And certainly she would not have ventured to the winch room to confront soldiers sure to strike her down.
“Better dead,” Montagu muttered.
Meaning what? Her punishment for defying King Edward would be worse than death? Collier tightened his hold on her. And felt her stir.
Better dead.
As the words pried at Catherine, she became aware of the cold and wet. Were there not fires for the damned? And if it rained in hell, surely the drops were molten.
Shivering, she pressed deeper into the warmth at her side and wondered why she should feel so safe.
“She awakens,” someone said in a distantly familiar voice. Terribly familiar, she amended. He could not be here—unless he was also dead. Or she was not.
Opening her eyes, she focused on the moist face above hers. It did not belong to the one who had spoken. It was Gilchrist who looked back at her, who held her, who had not taken her life.
She thrust her hands against his chest. “Unhand me!”
Immediately, he lowered her feet to the ground. “You’re all right,” he murmured as if to soothe her.
She stumbled back. She was not all right. Nothing was right. She should be dead.
Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, she looked down her bodice at the stain the rain had washed from red to pink, then searched a hand across it, but there was no rent in the material to evidence she had been put through with a sword.
She returned her regard to Gilchrist and saw the injured arm he held close to his abdomen. Then it was his blood upon her, not hers—blood she had drawn, not that other Yorkist. But why had she lost consciousness? The mere sight of blood? Fear of death? Regardless, Hildegard would have been disappointed.
“Greetings, Lady Catherine.” That voice again.
She swung around.
John Neville, titled Lord Montagu, looked down at her from atop his war horse, the visor of his helmet pushed back to reveal a satisfied smile. Here was the man who had two years past stormed Strivling’s walls in the first of the sieges that asserted Edward’s wrongful right over England. Strivling’s defiance had lasted three days, though only because Hildegard’s heart had failed. Against Catherine’s protests, the baron and his son had surrendered. Then, as now, Montagu had entered the walls.
Nay, she was not dead, but that did not mean she was not in hell.
“Do you remember me, my lady?”
As if she could forget one so arrogant! Satisfaction had radiated from Montagu as he looked upon Hildegard’s shrouded body, he had treated Lord Somerton and his heir poorly, and when Catherine had openly scorned him, he had snatched hold of her. She had bitten Montagu, and only Lord Somerton’s swift intervention had saved her from the hand raised against her.
Putting her head to the side, she frowned. “’Tis possible we have met.”
His smile jerked. “As well you know, though you were still something of a girl.” Slowly…lingeringly…as if appraising a fine mare, he moved his gaze over her. “No longer, I see.”
Though she ached to cover herself, she forced her arms to remain at her sides. How she hated this vile Yorkist—and every one who supported him and his king!
“You should not be so free with your emotions,” he said. “As you ought to know by now, no good comes of allowing the enemy to know your true feelings. And we are enemies, are we not, Lady Catherine?”
Raindrops sliding down her face, she stared.
He chuckled, then jutted his chin at where Strivling’s knights and men-at-arms were surrounded. “You see your people?”
Severn was not among them, but she was not surprised. Had he lived, the traitors would not have reached the winch room.
“And there.” Montagu gestured at the keep’s steps.
The villagers who had retreated to the castle ahead of the besiegers’ advance on Strivling stood despondent alongside household servants.
“They have surrendered, Lady Catherine. What of you?”
“You know I cannot.”
He clicked his tongue. “Then what am I to do with you?”
“No doubt what pleases you.”
“No doubt.” He reached, but she suffered only the brush of his fingers across her cheek before jumping back.
“Do not touch me!”
Anger squared his soft chin. “You test me sorely, Lady Catherine.”
“Be thankful I do not bite you.”
His nostrils flared. “As you are a woman, I must needs make allowances. But I warn you, do you ever again defy me, not even God will be able to save you.”
Did God enter into this? If so, where was He? “As He saved me this day?” she dared.
His hand on his thigh curled into a fist, but though he surely wished to strike her, he said, “I give you back the life you forfeited in refusing King Edward your fealty, but I shall take it do you not soon learn your place, woman.”
“Never will I—”
“’Tis not only your life to do with as I please, Lady Catherine, but the lives of your people. Have a care for them if not for yourself.”
Too true. As much as it sickened her, she had no choice.
“Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Speak it!”
“I understand.”
“Henceforth, you will show me respect.”
She inclined her head. “You have bought it, Lord Montagu.”
Again, he wanted to strike her, but he said, “Remember this day as the one I poured out the last of my mercy on you.” Then he urged his mount around.
That was all? As dear as her sacrifice in submitting to the king’s man, surely her punishment would be greater. “Lord Montagu!”
He peered across his shoulder. “Lady Catherine?”
“What is to be my place at Strivling?”
A slow smile. “Patience, lady. You shall know soon enough, and my word I give ’twill be fitting.”
Clutched by foreboding, she stared after him as he guided his horse to the keep and dismounted.
Moments later, Tilly appeared at her side. “We feared you lost to us, my lady.”
“As did I.” Catherine turned to her maid, but something drew her gaze past the woman. Thirty feet distant stood the one who had slain her in all but the last of her dreams of death—and a short while ago had appeared to have every intention of remaining true to the murderer he was. But Gilchrist had come between them.
“You shall be needed in the hall,” Tilly said.
Catherine shook her head. “My place is no longer there.”
“Aye, ’tis. Still you are the Lady of Strivling.”
“Nay, Strivling belongs to Edward now.” Though his policy of conciliation had seen these land
s returned to the Somertons following the first siege, now that the old man and his son were dead, this was no longer her home. And even had she and Lambert spoken vows and a son been born of their union, she did not believe Edward would be lenient again. One of his supporters would be awarded Strivling, and nevermore would the usurper trouble himself over it.
Tilly touched Catherine’s arm. “Regardless, the castle folk will be safer with you present.”
Would it truly make a difference? When Montagu had come the first time, he had allowed his men to overrun the hall and harass the women. Only the presence of Lord Somerton had kept the situation from turning abusive. Would the besiegers behave better if Catherine moved amongst them?
Though the thought of keeping company with the Yorkists made bile rise, if nothing else, her direction might aid the servants in more easily enduring the occupation.
“Very well, Tilly.”
“Good. But first let us see to your needs.”
Catherine looked down her stained bodice to soiled skirts and the tip of a muddied shoe. She could imagine what the rest of her looked like—face besmirched, wet hair straggling past her shoulders.
“Come, my lady.” Tilly started toward the keep.
Catherine knew she ought to ignore the one whose presence she had tried not to feel throughout her exchange with Montagu, but she looked across her shoulder.
The others dispersing around him, the rain-darkened Gilchrist stood unmoving, but his eyes were not on her. They were fixed on her maid. And Catherine could guess the reason—the black lock of hair that refused to age amidst the most glorious silver to be seen upon one of good age. Though most encountering Tilly for the first time marveled over it, those of a superstitious bent crossed themselves.
Catherine blinked when Gilchrist shifted his regard to her and searched her face with an intensity that made her feel as if he sought to peel back her layers.
What did he want with her? Revenge for the injury dealt him in the winch room? What she had denied him the night he had trespassed upon her chamber?
Telling herself she would do well to keep her distance, she hastened after Tilly.