LADY EVER AFTER: A Medieval Time Travel Romance (Beyond Time Book 2)

by Tamara Leigh

  “You are sure ’twas eight hundred?” he asked, looking at the big man with eyes that ached for sleep.

  “Aye, Your Majesty. Either Morrow is mistaken, or he holds the other five hundred pounds. And the household valuables.”

  Those valuables would be worth a good deal themselves, Henry mused before returning his thoughts to the money. Though, in truth, he would have been pleased to lay hands to even a hundred pounds, he needed far more to begin raising an army.

  “And if Morrow does not possess it?” he asked.

  “Then Lady Catherine hid it all.”

  Laughter broke from Walther. “Methinks the whore has given it to Gilchrist.”

  The big man’s nostrils flared and hands bulged into fists. “Lady Catherine would not do that.”

  The mercenary snorted. “God’s blood, you are a fool—”

  “I will not abide swearing!” Henry cried, as ever sickened to hear men take the Lord’s name in vain.

  Walther bowed his head. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty.”

  “’Tis God you should ask pardon of.”

  “That I will do.”

  God in his heavens would be pleased, Henry thought. Now what had he wished to say before Walther blasphemed? He stumbled backward through thoughts which were increasingly difficult to keep ordered.

  Strivling’s wealth. Catherine. Aye. “I need Lady Catherine,” he said.

  Walther smiled. “So you shall have her, Your Majesty.”

  Soon, Henry prayed. He was exhausted trying to stay ahead of his pursuers…shamed by reliance on the generosity of those who secretly continued to support him…sick of pitying eyes…eaten by hurt over the cruel things said of him.

  How he longed to be king again without a worry in the world, his fair queen, Margaret, at his side taking his burdens upon herself—

  “Your Majesty?” Sir Richard, his chamberlain and companion these past months, leaned near. “You should try to sleep.”

  Henry peered around the tent and discovered Walther and the big man had departed. Thinking he must be quite tired not to have noticed Richard had given them their leave, Henry lay down. “You are a good man, Tunstall.”

  “Ever your loyal servant, Your Majesty.”

  As proven time and again.

  Henry pulled the blanket over the lower half of his face and closed his eyes. Though he knew God looked favorably on those who foreswore the comforts of the world—that suffering was good for the soul—his thoughts strayed to the immense canopied bed that had been his before Edward stole the throne. Now he was reduced to the floor of the wood and a coarse blanket.

  If Margaret could see him now, she would rage over the indignity he suffered. A vision of her rising before the backs of his lids almost made him laugh. But it was not funny. Was it?

  He clutched the blanket closer against the chill, and in the midst of his prayers, sank into blessed sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Cy va, cy va, cy va!”

  As the shout cleaved the air, the riders veered right. Across the wood they sped, around bramble, over fallen trees, and through a stream that sprayed them with chill water.

  Their desperate prey turned off its path and disappeared from sight, but only for a moment. Then it was before them again.

  “Cy va, cy va, cy va!” the shout urged the dogs onward.

  Making a great noise of their own, the hounds raced up the incline.

  Though Collier had never been enthusiastic about hunting, he found this medieval form exhilarating. The elements were essentially the same, but that this was not just sport separated it from the gentleman hunts he had thought pretentious, unsporting, and a waste of good time. Once the stag was brought to ground, it would feed the castle folk for days, its hide used for boots and gloves to weather the coming winter.

  Strange how necessity changed one’s way of thinking. Strange how much these past months had changed him.

  He looked sideways at Catherine. Riding astride, she kept pace with the others, among them Sir Ennis, Sir Laurence, and Eustace, who was doing his best not to fall behind. Twenty in all.

  Catherine met Collier’s gaze, flashed a smile, then raised the ivory horn suspended from a cord around her neck and blew a series of piercing notes to mark the hunt’s progress.

  Was she pregnant? This morning when she had insisted on joining the hunt, she had confirmed her time of month had not arrived and was now a week past due. However, as she was not always regular and had yet to suffer any symptoms, she had seen no reason to remain behind. And even if she were with child, as her dreams these past weeks continued to indicate, what harm in a ride so early in her pregnancy?

  When he had continued to express reservations, she had indignantly informed him she was no stranger to the hunt—and had even dispatched a deer.

  Thus, Collier had agreed she should accompany him, and now seeing her joy, he was glad she had.

  Ahead, the hounds disappeared over the swell of wooded land, and within moments, their frenzied baying proclaimed their prey’s flight was at an end.

  The hunting party paused atop the rise.

  Surrounded by nine hounds, the stag swung its antlered head, threatening to gore any who came too near.

  “Hallali!” Sir Ennis cried.

  Given the command for the final attack, the dogs closed around the stag.

  Though a doe would have been felled easily, not this great beast. It kicked its hind legs, slashed with its forelegs, and stabbed with lowered antlers.

  One of the dogs’ yelps turned pained, and it limped away. Then a second was tossed into the path of the approaching riders.

  “Son of a sow!” Sir Laurence cursed as he skirted the mortally wounded hound.

  Hunting dogs were a precious commodity, Collier had learned—nearly as well-loved as falcons and in some households better cared for than servants.

  The young knight raised his hunting spear. “You will sell your life dearly for this,” he vowed and kicked his horse forward.

  “’Tis Lord Gilchrist’s!” Sir Ennis shouted.

  During the previous hunts, Collier had deferred to whoever wished to take down the animal and had learned from their successes and failures. Now here was his chance to use the bow skill in which Ennis was instructing him.

  As it was only a matter of time before another dog was lost, Collier spurred his horse ahead. At sixty yards, he dismounted, drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it on the bowstring, and started forward.

  At forty yards, he halted. Near enough for the arrow to fly straight without dropping, yet far enough to loose another if he overshot, as was his tendency.

  He positioned himself—body turned to the side, bow held at the full length of his arm, feet straddled and heels in line with his target, head turned sharply left, string drawn back to the angle of the jaw, prey sighted over the pile of the arrow, arrow loosed, reaching for another.

  Had the stag not swung sideways to butt a hound, the arrow would have found its mark in the breast. Instead, it struck the shoulder.

  Collier grimaced. Suffering was not what he had in mind. As he sighted a second time, the stag broke from the hounds and headed toward the one who sought to end its life.

  Correcting his aim to take the animal’s flight into account, Collier released. And overshot. Heart trebling its beat at the realization if he missed again he would be gored, he wrenched another arrow from the quiver.

  He heard Catherine’s cry and Sir Ennis’s shout, but as he raised his bow, someone else released an arrow. Though it caught the stag broadside and slowed it, still it came.

  Focus, Collier silently commanded. Fifteen yards. Draw. Ten yards. Sight. Five yards. Release.

  The stag dropped two yards from where he stood. A moment later, a single long note on the horn, known as the Blowing of the Death, pierced the wood.

  Collier turned.

  Face pale, Catherine stared at him from atop her mount. But it wasn’t she who had blown the horn.
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  Eustace lowered it and grinned. And here Collier had thought him incapable of anything better than a scowl…

  Seeking to reassure Catherine, he started toward her.

  “Well done, my lord!” Sir Ennis extolled.

  A murmur of assent rose from the others.

  Collier looked to the older knight. His bow lay across his saddle, but there could be no doubt he had shot the arrow that slowed the stag. Indebted, but deciding his gratitude could save for later, Collier inclined his head and continued to Catherine.

  She summoned a smile as he lifted her from her horse, then staring up at him through thick lashes, said, “I feared I would lose you.”

  He pushed aside the hair fallen over her brow. “Would that be so bad, dearest Lancastrian?”

  “You know I could not bear it.”

  So he did.

  “My lord, your quarry awaits,” one of the men called.

  Collier peered across his shoulder at those who had dismounted in preparation for the ritualistic cutting of the animal. As before, most of the organs would be given to the hounds, with the right forefoot presented to Collier to honor the lord of the hunt. The remainder would be conveyed to Irondale’s kitchen.

  “You wish to help, Eustace?” Collier asked.

  The boy bobbed his head. “Aye, my lord.”

  My lord. That was a new one. Though Eustace appeared unmoved by Collier’s ability to manage Lewis Algernon’s demesne, he had been awed by the downing of the stag. Not surprising, Collier supposed, but it was frustrating to be measured more by his facility with weapons than what had made him a decent fortune in the world he had left behind.

  “Come down,” Collier said.

  Eustace bounded out of the saddle and hurried toward those gathered around the stag.

  “You will stay here?” Collier asked Catherine.

  “Aye, but I would have you bring me the heart bone.”

  “The heart bone?”

  “’Tis found in the stag’s heart and thought to have medicinal properties. Thus, it is often given to a pregnant woman.”

  He set a hand on her waist. “Then you are?”

  “I am fair certain.”

  Were they alone, he would sweep her into his arms. Instead, he leaned down and kissed her. “The heart bone, hmm? Sounds superstitious to me.”

  “It is, but still I wish it.”

  He drew his dagger. “You shall have it.”

  The walls were silent. Where there should have been dozens of folk eager to greet the hunting party whose success was proclaimed by the contents of the rumbling cart, only two were visible—one between the battlements, the other atop the gatehouse. And none upon the lowered drawbridge.

  Collier reined in and raised an arm to check the progress of the others.

  “Something is amiss,” Sir Ennis said, halting his horse alongside his lord’s. “We should retreat.”

  Collier scanned the castle. Bathed in the glow of twilight, it appeared harmless. It was not. “Aye, take Eustace up with you.”

  As the knight turned aside, Collier urged his horse to Catherine’s.

  Disheveled from the ride, wide eyes nearly purple amid the waning of day, she said, “What is it?”

  “Likely Walther.” He held out a hand. “Come onto my horse.”

  She reached to him, and he pulled her up behind.

  “Hold tight,” he said, then shouted, “Retreat!” and spurred opposite the castle.

  The rest of the hunting party turned. Moments later, the silence was rent by the thunder of their horses bolting across the land they had minutes earlier passed over at a leisurely pace. Then the thunder doubled. And trebled.

  Over the far hill came a score of riders, another score to the left, and yet another score to the right.

  Collier dragged on the reins, as did the rest of the hunting party. The only way open to them was Irondale, but when he looked again, he saw men had gathered before the portcullis and knew they were not his.

  What had happened to Irondale’s men-at-arms? Had they been lured back to their Lancastrian roots? Or had they resisted and now lay dead?

  “Collier?” Catherine asked.

  He peered over his shoulder into her fearful eyes. For certain, there were two things Walther wanted—revenge against the one who had found favor with Edmund Morrow, and the life denied him when Collier had come between the mercenary and Catherine.

  He had to protect her. Fortunately, riding was one thing he could do as well, if not better, than these fighting men. The horse was worthy and, if necessary, he had his sword. He closed his hand around the hilt.

  As if awaiting his cue, the others drew their swords.

  Though they must know it was Lancastrians who rode toward them, it appeared they stood with their Yorkist lord.

  But the enemy’s numbers were too great. Sixty or more against twenty.

  “Lower your weapons,” Collier ordered.

  The men looked at one another.

  “We go alone,” he said, then to Catherine, “Hold tight and stay low.”

  He waited until he saw a break in the front bearing down on them, then gripping the horse hard with his thighs, spurred forward. Sword in one hand, reins in the other, he leaned down and became one with the animal.

  The rebels swept inward to close the gap, but with space to spare, Collier guided his horse between them. As he passed beyond their reach, he allowed himself a moment of relief. By the time the rebels came about, he would have the lead needed to escape, allowing Catherine and him to reach Strivling before dawn.

  But it was not to be. In the distance, another wave of riders appeared, bows drawn and ready to release their deadly missiles.

  “Almighty,” Collier muttered. Like the downed stag, Catherine and he were quarry. Unlike the stag, he would not fight to the death, putting Catherine and their unborn child at further risk.

  Praying another opportunity for escape would present itself, he halted his destrier and eyed the one who rode at the fore.

  “’Tis Walther,” Catherine breathed.

  “Say nothing,” he said, and determined he would give the mercenary no reason to seek immediate reprisal, returned his sword to its scabbard.

  As the mercenary neared, his smile grew. “Why, ’tis Lord Gilchrist and his fair wife, Lady Catherine. A pleasure, indeed!”

  Feeling Catherine tense against his back, Collier noted the sword and dagger on Walther’s belt had no need to leave their scabbards—not with the arrows of his men ready to release.

  Walther came tight alongside and drew Collier’s sword from its sheath. Feigning interest, he turned it front to back, fingered the heavy pommel, and peered at Collier around the blade. “I have something for you, Gilchrist,” he said, then swept the sword high and down.

  Collier threw an arm up to block the blow, but he wasn’t quick enough. The pommel struck his temple with a crack felt all the way through his body.

  Feeling Catherine’s arms tighten around him, hearing her cry his name, he struggled to remain conscious as light burst over him. But when he called to her, he was voiceless, as if he were no more and would never be again.

  He was falling, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Holding to her husband, Catherine took the brunt of the landing. Shoulder, ribs, and hip shot through with pain, she wiggled out from beneath Collier, rose to her knees, and bent over him.

  Blood flowed from a head wound, but he breathed. And when she called his name, his lids fluttered. Merely stunned, but better believed unconscious until his wits returned.

  Then Walther laughed, so coarse and vulgar it was like a slap to the face. But it was also an opportunity to distract him from Collier.

  Thrusting to her feet, she snatched her dagger from its sheath. “Knave!” she cried and leapt toward him.

  This time it was his flesh her blade sank into—his shout of pain—but before she could retreat, his hand closed over hers and wrenched the dagger from his thigh.


  “Witch!” His roar spraying her with spittle, he dragged her against his horse, and she knew he would use Collier’s sword against her just as he had done—

  She gasped at the realization it was, indeed, the same sword with which this man had slain her in the dreams before Collier had come to her. Though no dream had foreshadowed this day, was that other dream finally coming true? A different time and place, but her death all the same?

  “This time, Catherine Algernon,” he bit, “you are mine.”

  He also remembered the winch room. “Ah, but this time, you are the one who bleeds!”

  His mouth worked itself into a hideous smile. “Not as you shall, my lady.” He squeezed her hand tighter.

  The pain was terrible, but more terrible was fear for Collier and the child they had made.

  “Most unfortunate,” Walther said, “before you and I can finish our business, someone wishes to speak with you.” He jutted his chin to where Collier lay behind. “And your lover.”

  Then her husband and child were safe for a while longer.

  “God’s blood!” the mercenary barked. “Where is he?”

  Catherine snapped her head around. All that remained of Collier was the impression his body had made in the grass. He had escaped. But how?

  “Where is he?” Walther demanded of his men.

  Met by bewildered silence, he snarled, “Did no one see him rise?”

  They looked at one another and offered helpless shrugs.

  Impossible, Catherine thought. Here in the vast open, surrounded by Lancastrians—and injured—Collier could not have fled unnoticed, nor would he leave her.

  “Fools!” Walther shouted, then looked back at her. “Where has he gone?”

  Please, Lord, she sent up a prayer, do not take him from me. Not now that I am learning well to love.

  “Where?” the mercenary demanded.

  She was almost glad he still held her. Otherwise, she might crumple to the ground. Forcing her chin higher, she said, “You think I would betray my husband?”

  He shoved Collier’s sword beneath his belt, tore the dagger from her, and put the blade against her cheek. “Tell me!”