by Tamara Leigh
As Collier dragged the man into the shadow of the smithy, he wondered if he could simply walk past those stationed before the inner bailey as if he were one of them. Would they—?
Cold steel touched his neck.
“Drop your weapon,” a voice rasped.
Though Collier’s first thought was to resist, a slashed throat would be of no use to his wife and child. He released the dagger.
Keeping the blade at Collier’s throat, the one at his back came around. And flashed the smile of Edmund Morrow.
“Thank God,” Collier breathed.
“I thought it was you,” his ancestor whispered as he lowered his dagger. “Who else would leave a trail of senseless men?” Edmund swept up Collier’s dagger and extended it. “I know you may not need it, but should you…”
Collier took it. “How did you learn Irondale was taken?”
“Young Antony.”
Then where he had failed as a squire, he had succeeded in leading Edmund to the Lancastrians.
“King Henry is believed to be inside the keep.”
Collier stiffened. Henry was supposed to be keeping to safe houses. Walther’s amassing of rebel forces must have brought him here.
“Now we take back Irondale,” Edmund said. “And deliver Henry into Edward’s hands.”
His bulk engulfing her in shadow, Severn came to stand over Catherine.
Looking up from where she had sat before the hearth in Eustace’s chamber this past half hour, she said, “I thought you dead.”
His wiry eyebrows rose. “As did Walther.”
Of course. When pressed, Collier had revealed to her what the mercenary had done upon exiting the pit at Strivling—needlessly putting Severn through with his own sword. Fortunately for Severn, he was of enormous proportions. Unfortunately for Walther, it was surely by a slender thread Severn held himself from retaliation.
“You appear to have mended well,” she said.
Severn’s nostrils flared. “Lady Hildegard would have been disappointed.”
Because Catherine had not given her life to defend Strivling. Because for naught should she have wed a Yorkist—not even to spare the lives of her people. “This I know, just as I know Hildegard would have had all of England fall ere admitting her wrong.”
“Wrong?”
Though Severn had been the old baron’s knight, it was Hildegard to whom he had been loyal, revering her as if she were the worthiest warrior.
“How long have you been with King Henry?” Catherine asked.
“Since shortly after I stole half-dead from Strivling.”
Though she could not see around him to where Walther stood near the chamber door, she knew the mercenary listened. “That long, and yet you do not know how Hildegard could have been wrong?”
The big man’s lids narrowed.
“Come, Severn, even that vile mercenary knows Henry is unfit to rule England. Had Walther not been sent from Strivling in disgrace, he would not have sided with so weak a man.”
Giving a bark of anger, Walther advanced. “’Twill be a pleasure to cut out your traitor’s tongue!” he said as he halted to the right of her.
“Traitor?” Catherine snorted. “You are hardly one to accuse another of such.”
“At least I know what I am and make no excuses.”
And what was she? A woman who had turned her loyalties from the Lancasters, but not to the Yorks—rather, to the man who had given her reason to love and be loved. “Were I the coward you are, I would not be so proud.”
Walther drew back an arm, but Severn caught it and thrust his face near the other man’s. “Keep your distance, miscreant, else I shall forget King Henry believes he needs you.”
Walther jerked free, tried to stare down Severn, then pivoted. The scabbard of his sword riding alongside Collier’s sword, he strode opposite.
Severn lowered to his haunches before Catherine. “Where is Strivling’s wealth, my lady?”
She swallowed. “As told the king, methinks Montagu took it.”
“Never would you have allowed him near it.”
“In that you are right. He surely found it on his own.”
Severn touched her arm. “I gave my word to Lady Hildegard I would protect you, but do you not speak in truth, I shall be unable to keep my vow.”
She smiled sorrowfully. “There is naught I can tell you.”
“Then God be with you.”
And my child, she prayed. As Severn straightened and turned aside, she pressed a hand to her abdomen. It seemed her dreams as she had once known them were truly over, for she had been given no glimpse of this day. Her recent dreams were all of the child Collier had left her with.
“Collier,” she whispered, and as she struggled against tears, heard a clamor rise from beyond the chamber—shouts, steel on steel, cries of pain, booted feet on stairs.
She jumped up and looked from Severn to Walther, whose expressions told they also guessed the Yorkists were here.
“The king!” Severn shouted, and drawing his sword, lunged toward the door.
Walther also pulled his sword, but it was Catherine he turned his gaze upon.
“Leave her,” Severn ordered and threw open the door to the greater sounds of struggle in the hall below. “The king requires us.”
It was obvious the mercenary preferred not to rally to Henry’s side, but in no position to refuse, he snatched the key from the door.
“Nay!” Catherine cried and ran forward.
“We would not want to find you gone when we return,” Walther said and thrust a hand to her chest.
As she stumbled backward, she called, “Severn!”
The only response was the slamming of the door and the turning of the key in the lock.
Catherine looked around. To her knowledge, Irondale boasted no secret passages. That left only the windows—and nothing below them but a sheer drop. Still, she ducked into an embrasure and peered out.
Small fires lit about the bailey illuminated Yorkists battling Lancastrians and cast their long shadows over the walls. Who would be the victor?
Yorkist, she prayed, and reflected on how different her life was from three months past when she would rather have died than be ruled by Edward. Collier had changed that.
Aching for him, she straightened from the window and set her mind to escape.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Irondale’s weaponless men-at-arms stood unmoving among the melee, eyes fixed on Sir Ennis who had positioned himself to the side of the dais in front of Lady Lavinia and Eustace.
They waited to see which way the senior knight would go, Collier realized. Which way would he go? With the man who had been hastened from the lord’s table when Edmund’s forces had broken into the hall? Or would he stay the course set by Lewis Algernon?
As Collier knew it might be believed he had fled, he began fighting his way toward the dais wielding the sword taken from a fallen soldier—injuring where necessary, but landing no killing blow.
Ahead, a Lancastrian slammed his sword against that of a young man-at-arms whose wound spread crimson down his sleeve and tunic. Clearly, Edmund’s retainer was about to fall.
Collier surged forward and, a moment later, the Lancastrian reeled back. Knuckles aching, Collier retrieved his opponent’s sword, stepped past the wide-eyed young man, and met Sir Ennis’s gaze across the distance.
The knight inclined his head and gave the signal. Irondale’s men were Yorkist.
Collier had to drop two more Lancastrians before he made it to Sir Ennis’s side. “Where is my wife?” he asked as he thrust a sword into the man’s hand.
“Abovestairs.”
“Walther?”
“King Henry sent him and another with Lady Catherine.”
Fear bounded through Collier. “What of Henry?”
The struggle in the knight’s eyes revealed uncertainty. Though he accepted Yorkist rule, he was loath to endanger the man to whom he had once been loyal.
Collier st
epped nearer. “Trust me in this. I no more wish Henry’s death than you.”
Though puzzlement creased the knight’s brow, he said, “Methinks there was no course for him but to flee abovestairs.”
True. Edmund’s men had covered all exits when they converged on the hall. Unfortunately, that meant Henry was trapped up there.
Collier would have to work a miracle of his own to put time back on track. “What of Antony?”
“He is with Henry.”
Collier looked to where Lady Lavinia clutched her younger son against her side. “The tapestry.” He nodded to the wall hanging behind the dais. “Get behind there and stay until I call you out.”
The lady took her son’s arm and ushered him into hiding.
“Come, Sir Ennis,” Collier said and started toward the stairs.
The soft click was—as Collier might have phrased it—music to her ears.
Catherine pulled the needle from the keyhole and mused that she had found a better use for the sharp little bloodletter than stitching. But as she started to rise from her knees, the door slammed inward and knocked her back.
“Nay!” she cried, and when Walther yanked her to her feet, snatched Collier’s sword from beneath his belt. Its grip was warm, as if her husband’s hand had recently been upon it, but hardly had she drawn the weapon back than the mercenary slammed his forearm against hers.
The sword fell.
She screamed and pummeled her fists against him.
“I have not time for this,” Walther snarled, evading the knee she tried to land in his groin—but not the rake of her nails down his cheek.
Cursing, he made a fist, causing her to hunch forward and cross her arms over her abdomen.
The blow did not fall. “So, we have a little traitor in the making,” he said.
Knowing he would use her pregnancy to his advantage, she dropped her arms to her sides. “I am not with child.”
“You lie poorly, my lady. But one warning I give, try me further, and I will cut Gilchrist’s whelp from your belly.”
Could he be so evil?
“Are we of a mind, Lady Catherine?”
She jerked her chin.
“Then come.”
Preceding him out of the chamber, she saw King Henry’s men on the landing above the stairs were struggling to hold back those who sought to recover Irondale.
“To the chapel,” Walther said.
She turned opposite the landing, and at the far end of the corridor opened the door to the sacred place. As she stepped inside, she saw Severn and Antony. Though the latter quickly averted his eyes, she glimpsed enough in them to know he was fearful…lost…his dream of glory eroded.
At the altar, King Henry lay prostrate, Sir Richard hovering nearby.
“Your Majesty!” Walther called as he thrust Catherine farther into the chapel.
The king did not cease with his muttered prayers.
“We haven’t much time!” The mercenary pushed Catherine toward Severn, then continued forward, clearly intending to drag Henry to his feet.
Sir Richard stepped into his path. “You will not lay hands to the king.”
“Do we not leave now, ’tis Yorkists who will lay hands to him,” Walther said, “and by the morrow, your beloved king’s head will be on Edward’s plate.”
It was Henry who answered as he slowly sat back on his heels. “Young Antony says there is no way down from here.”
Walther looked to the boy. “Surely there is a hidden passageway.”
“There are only the stairs to the hall.”
After a long moment, Walther said, “And there is the rooftop.”
“But there is no way down,” Antony protested.
“Is there not?” Walther strode to the altar and tore the cloth from it, causing the holy cross that had perched on it to crash to the floor. Brandishing the altar piece, he announced, “We will fashion a rope and climb down.”
Eyes bulging, mouth working, King Henry stared.
Catherine glanced at the door. Could she make it out of the chapel? If so, what of the Lancastrians beyond?
“Do you cause me to chase you, my lady,” Walther said as he reached for a panel of material draping the wall, “you will pay tenfold.”
“St. John!” Henry exploded. “’Tis the house of the Lord you desecrate.”
The mercenary tore down the panel and reached for another.
“Wait!” Antony cried. “We can use the rope that draws water abovestairs.”
“Good lad,” Walther said. “Fetch it and meet us on the roof.”
Eyes down, Antony skirted Catherine and hurried from the chapel.
“Are you with me?” Walther asked Henry.
“I stay,” the king said. “God will protect me.”
The mercenary laughed. “As He protected your throne?”
“He but tests me. I must trust He will deliver me.”
“Fool! Stay and die, but do not expect me to die with you.” Walther started toward Catherine.
“Your Majesty,” Sir Richard entreated, “it may be the only way.”
The king shook his head. “I stay!”
“What of your queen? What would she do?”
Henry blinked. “I…”
Queen Margaret would accompany Sir Rudd,” the knight said.
With Henry reconsidering his decision, Walther thrust Catherine ahead of him.
“You do not need me,” she protested.
“I do not. Just the money. And you are going to tell me where ’tis.”
“But I cannot climb a rope!”
“Then you shall learn—and quickly.”
Out of the chapel and down the corridor, she searched for a way to escape. There seemed only the dagger beneath his belt, but he would be on her before she could pull it free. Thus, it seemed her only hope was for the Yorkists to break through the Lancastrians on the landing ahead, forcing Walther to leave her side to defend himself.
As she sidestepped King Henry’s men, she glimpsed others on the stairs below. The Yorkists were making good progress as they fought their way upward. And among them was Sir Ennis.
“Hurry!” Walther prodded her with the point of his sword.
She began her ascent. Shortly, with Walther, King Henry, Sir Richard, and Severn following, she stepped onto the torchlit roof where Antony awaited them.
“The rope is secure,” he said. “We will lower ourselves into the garden and make our way to the postern gate.”
Walther leaned into the embrasure from which the rope dangled. “Well done. You might make a soldier yet.”
Severn stepped forward. “I shall go first and King Henry after me.”
“You may trust I shall ensure the rope remains secure,” Walther said.
“I shall tend the rope,” Sir Richard said, “and be the last to follow.”
Feeling the cool night air, Catherine hugged her arms around her and watched as Severn bounded onto the embrasure. A moment later, he went from sight.
Shoulders stooped, King Henry reached for the rope.
Was he capable of making the descent? He seemed so frail.
“Stop!”
The deep, peculiarly accented voice she had thought never to hear again making her heart leap, she swung around.
Sword in hand, her husband stepped onto the roof beside Sir Ennis.
“Collier!” Hardly had Catherine commanded her feet to him than Walther yanked her back.
“Stand away, Gilchrist.” He pressed the flat of his sword to her abdomen.
Collier halted and, looking from the mercenary to Catherine, tightened his grip on his sword he had recovered from Eustace’s chamber.
“We are going over the wall,” Walther said. “Do you try to stop us, your wife and child die.”
No different than if he allowed Walther to take them from Irondale…
Collier looked to Antony who stood to one side of Walther, then the two opposite. Sword drawn, a knight had positioned himself before one whose h
ooded head was all that was visible of him.
King Henry. Fortunately, the first duty of the knight was to protect his king. Thus, he would only move from his place in order to defend Henry.
“What do you wish to do?” Sir Ennis asked.
What needed to be done. Collier fixed his gaze on the mercenary, set his sword before him, and started forward.
Walther swept the blade to Catherine’s neck, but as much as Collier feared for her, he cautiously continued forward.
And then Antony cried, “Loose her!” and lunged.
Retaining his hold on Catherine, Walther swept his sword forward and caught the boy on the shoulder, causing him to stumble backward.
“Whelp!” Walther spat, then bared his teeth at Collier. “You have been warned, Gilchrist!”
“So I have.” Collier did not break stride. “Now a warning of my own—harm my wife and your death will be the longest, most painful any man has known.”
Holding to Catherine, Walther backed toward the embrasure with a hitch in his step that drew Collier’s gaze to the man’s bandaged leg—an injury Collier would take full advantage of.
“You think I fear one who chooses fists over the sword?” the mercenary scorned. “A man who cannot tolerate the letting of blood?”
“This time I will kill you, Walther—unless you release my wife, in which case I’ll allow you and the others to go free.”
Though Collier felt Sir Ennis’s astonished gaze, he ignored it.
“Your wife lies better than you,” Walther snarled.
Collier halted fifteen feet from the mercenary, and in an attempt to reassure Catherine, met her gaze and was rewarded with a tremulous smile. Then moving his attention to the one shielded by the knight, he said, “King Henry?”
The man inclined his head.
“I have no quarrel with you. All I want is my wife.”
“In exchange, you will allow the king to go free?” spoke the knight who would defend Henry to the death.
After breaking through the Lancastrian defense on the stairs and retrieving his sword from Eustace’s chamber, Collier had ordered ten of his men to hold the upper floor and sent the remainder back to the hall. He could not hide that Henry had been here, but how he had disappeared…