Lady of Steel

by Mary Gillgannon

  Now. Now is your chance. Nicola reached across the table to touch the priest’s sleeve. “Father, if you would come with me to the solar, I would like to make confession now.”

  FitzAlan nodded and rose, looking very relieved. Nicola led him through the crowded hall. Along the way, her heart raced with excitement and her hands grew clammy. Did she really dare to do this? Plot with John while Richard was yet alive? It was, as Mortimer had said, treason.

  But it might be her only chance. Mortimer was Richard’s man. If the king never returned to England, Prince John would seize power. And from what she’d heard of John, he was a man who remembered those who sought his favor.

  They reached the solar and she motioned to a cushioned chair near the hearth. Too nervous to sit, Nicola stood a respectful distance away. She clutched her hands together to keep them from shaking. “Before I confess Father, I must speak with you of another matter. My husband was granted Valmar and my other properties by King Richard. Now you tell us the king is imprisoned by men who despise him. If something terrible befalls Richard, and John becomes king, I fear Prince John might take retribution against Valmar for my husband’s stubborn allegiance to Richard.” She lowered her gaze. “I beg you, Father. If you have any influence with the prince, please convey to him my support for his cause.”

  FitzAlan regarded her steadily. “The prince has no cause. Other than hoping, as does all England, that the king comes home safely.”

  Nicola repressed a shudder of nerves. This was it. Once said, there was no going back. “I may be a woman, but I’m not naive, Father. I’m well aware of the harsh realities of English politics. I’m certain Prince John prays hourly that his brother never returns to England. He wants the crown for himself, and I think he is clever enough that he will eventually have it. To that end, I’m pledging him my support, and that of Valmar, Rosebrook, Mordeaux, and the other properties I am heiress to.”

  Something glinted in FitzAlan’s brown eyes. “I mean no disrespect, madam, but the fact is, you offer what is not yours to give. Your husband is the one who controls your dower lands.”

  “My husband has not roused himself to even hold a lance these past two years. If John were to send a force here, I doubt there would be much resistance.”

  “And what would be your gain in this?” FitzAlan’s expression grew wolfish.

  “My husband is a drunkard and a sodomite. Can you blame me for wishing to be free of him?”

  “I had heard rumors of such things. Now you have confirmed it. I will carry your message to court. If and when John decides it is time to act, I will be in contact with you.” He stood and bowed. “I thank you for your candidness.”

  FitzAlan left the solar, and Nicola considered how far she had come. Before Simon was born, she would never have dared such a thing. Her concern for her son was so great that she was capable of many things, including, apparently, plotting treason.

  A moment later, she turned at the sound of Old Emma’s heavy tread on the hides covering the solar floor. The old woman’s rheumy blue eyes regarded her with concern. “Whist, lady, what are you up to?”

  “I’m safeguarding my son’s heritage.”

  Old Emma darted a glance at the doorway. “What if someone should overhear? I fear you are too bold, milady.”

  “King Richard is leagues and leagues away, while John is here in England. If I am to have any property to pass on to my son, I must play the prince’s game.”

  “’Tis not fitting. A woman should defer to her husband in these matters.”

  “My husband? You mean that monster I’m wed to?” Nicola shook her head. “I’ll not let Mortimer bring us all down. I will choose my own destiny.”

  “What of your son? If you choose ill, he will suffer.”

  Nicola closed her eyes and clenched her hands into fists. Simon. How was she to protect him?

  Old Emma came and patted her arm. “At least your son lives, and thrives. The reports from Mordeaux say Simon grows bonny and tall. He’ll make a fine knight someday.”

  Nicola jerked away. “I don’t want him to be a knight! If he never takes up arms, I would die a happy woman. Think of all the suffering that would be prevented if men would cease their constant warring!”

  Old Emma gazed at her sadly. “’Tis the way men are, and I fear only God can alter such things.”

  Chapter Three

  Mordeaux Castle, July, 1193

  Fawkes de Cressy pushed back his helm and stared across the valley at the gray bulk of Mordeaux Castle. Rather than weathered stone, his vision was filled with another image, Lady Nicola. Perfect, milk-white skin. A fall of hair like liquid night. Eyes like moonstones. A mouth of petal-like softness.

  The odors of sweat and horse and oiled armor also vanished, replaced by a scent so rich and intoxicating, it took his breath away. He’d never been able to decide what sort of flowers and spices comprised her rare perfume. Perhaps it was the sublime essence of the woman herself, mysterious, untouchable, offering the promise of almost unbearable delights.

  But soon, very soon, he would have a chance to breathe the exalted air that surrounded her exquisite flesh. To touch her, to hold her, to—

  “Why are we stopping here?” Reynard pulled his destrier up next to Fawkes’s mount. “I thought the plan was to show them the writ from the king, then take control of the castle. We can use Mordeaux as a base to attack Valmar if Mortimer decides to fight.”

  “What if something goes wrong?” Fawkes asked. “Will they honor the writ? With Richard imprisoned and John trying to seize power—”

  “Jesu, Fawkes, you can’t get cold feet now! There’s likely no more than a handful of men garrisoned here. And I can’t believe they feel that much loyalty to Mortimer. He wasn’t well liked when he first took control. By now they surely know what a fiend he is.”

  Fawkes nodded. Reynard was right. After all he’d endured, he must not lose faith. Besides, there was more than his own dream at stake. He’d promised the knights arrayed behind him a chance at a new life. For their sake, he must remain bold and confident.

  He raised his arm and brought it down. The troop of knights surged forward, down the slope and into the valley. A cloud of dust surrounded them and the clink and clatter of their heavy armor rattled in their ears.

  Fawkes knew a sense of relief as his body reacted with the familiar energy and excitement. The will to survive and triumph had taken him this far. He thought of the very walls of Acre collapsing upon him, the only tunnel leading to air and life blocked by an assassin sent by Mortimer. He thought of watching men die of fever, moaning and out of their wits. Of the long march down the coast of Palestine, when men roasted to death in their armor and fell prey to the devil Saracens, who flayed their victims alive.

  He had survived those things, by the grace of God. Now there was only this, one last confrontation, the final link in the chain that would render unto him all that he had dreamed of. Valmar Castle claimed as his own. Mortimer, dead. Lady Nicola, in his arms, safe forever.

  “God’s teeth! Look at that!” Reynard called.

  Alarm prickled along Fawkes’s spine. Knights poured through the castle’s portcullis. He slowed his mount and motioned for the men behind him to do the same. “Jesu,” he breathed. “Have they been warned? Did they know we were coming?”

  “It would seem so,” Reynard responded. “The information we had when we were in London was that Mortimer never leaves Valmar. And yet, that is surely him.”

  The knight leading the force wore a green surcote emblazoned with a gold lion rampant. The familiar device aroused Fawkes’s fury and hatred. This was his enemy. The man who had tried to kill him. The man who had humiliated and abused Nicola. Mixed with the fury was a grim satisfaction. How shocked Mortimer would be when he discovered King Richard had given Mordeaux Castle to Fawkes.

  “What should we do?” Reynard sounded panicky. “Do we charge? Or wait for them to come to us?”

  “We wait,” Fawkes said. “Mortimer
hasn’t fought a battle in years, perhaps never. He’ll want to negotiate.”

  Fawkes’s prediction was confirmed when the troop of knights halted a few paces away and their leader raised his helm. Although he immediately recognized the hated face, Fawkes knew a moment of shock. Mortimer’s face was puffy and red, and his eyes appeared as mere slits in the bloated flesh. He looked little like the youthful and vigorous man Fawkes recalled.

  “It’s you!” Mortimer bellowed. His eyes were wide with shock.

  “Yea, it is I, Fawkes de Cressy. Your assassin failed. I left his body to rot beneath the walls of Acre.” He took a step forward and drew his sword. “Now I have returned to repay you for your treachery.”

  Mortimer made a hoarse, derisive sound. “You’re naught but a lowly squire, a stableboy. You’re not worth the effort of killing.”

  Fawkes fought the urge to forget the rules of combat and rush forward for the kill. He forced himself to speak with calm. “I’m a knight now, exalted by the King of England himself. Richard also gave me the writ to Mordeaux. I challenge you to a fight to the death. For Mordeaux and Valmar, and for the lady who rightfully possesses the two castles.”

  “You’re still mooning over my bitch of a wife?” Mortimer’s smile widened, giving his face a grotesque, toad-like appearance. “The slut hardly recalls you with fondness. She’s the one who warned me of your arrival.”

  For a moment, Fawkes stood stunned, disbelieving the words he heard. Then reason returned. He smiled back. “Nay. She wouldn’t. Even if she cares naught for me, she hates you enough that she would never try to save you.”

  “You think not? Do these words sound familiar?” Mortimer clasped his hands and quoted in a gleeful falsetto, “My dearest lady. At last I’ve come to save you. My forces will reach Mordeaux Castle in a fortnight…”

  Fawkes’s gut wrenched as his own words rang out mockingly. No. She wouldn’t. It was a trick. Somehow Mortimer had found the missive. He might have intercepted it before it even reached Nicola.

  “Ah, it’s gratifying to see the poisonous viper strike another victim.” Mortimer’s voice rang out, rich and mocking. “For too long she has reserved her torments solely for me. I vow, my wife is the devil’s handmaiden, an evil, cunning Eve, a witch from hell. I would give her to you gladly, with my blessing, but unfortunately, the lands are hers. To maintain my claim, I must endure her foul presence in my household.” Mortimer straightened. “I accept your challenge. I will kill you and carry your heart back to my wife. Perhaps the sight of it will please her, hea­then sorceress that she is.”

  Fawkes sought to recover himself. It was a trick. The bastard meant to demoralize him. He would not succumb.

  They dismounted and handed off their horses, and then drew their swords. Mortimer moved toward Fawkes with a stealth and ease that belied his corpulent form. They circled and parried, assessing. Fawkes felt the battle fever surge through him. He’d waited nearly four years for this moment. Every man he’d killed, every opponent he’d struck down, had worn Mortimer’s ugly visage. Now, at last, he faced his true enemy. Mortimer had tried to murder him. He’d humiliated him and mocked him. Even worse, this man had hurt and debased Nicola.

  He lunged. His blade caught Mortimer’s arm. Mortimer retreated and parried the next blow. Again and again, cold steel grated against cold steel. Fawkes felt no fatigue, no fear, nothing but exhilaration. His body, honed in a dozen battles, sang with speed and strength. His legs easily carried him out of reach of Mortimer’s blade, and his sword arm struck out with deadly precision.

  His opponent was weakening, the movements of his bulky body growing sluggish. Mortimer’s breath came in harsh rasps. As if watching it from far away, Fawkes observed his blade striking nearer and nearer to Mortimer’s mail-clad body. Blood dripped from a wound on Mortimer’s left arm and another at his hip. Any moment he would falter and Fawkes would land the killing blow. Victory was so near he could almost taste it.

  “Is she worth it, you fool?” Mortimer panted. “If you kill me, you’ll have to face Richard someday and tell him why. Do you think he’ll be pleased you took my life over a woman, and a perfidious, scheming slut at that?”

  “She was never a slut, you bastard!” Fawkes pressed his advantage, feeling his hatred grow fiercer and more consuming. “You sent me to her! You used her like a piece of livestock!”

  Mortimer lost his balance and fell. Fawkes loomed over him, panting in rage. “Whatever she’s done, you’ll never defame or degrade her again.” With a savage thrust he drove his sword into Mortimer’s neck.

  Mortimer’s blue eyes bore a look of surprise as the wound spouted blood. Watching the red liquid flow out, Fawkes was reminded of other deaths, so many deaths. He felt vaguely queasy. He leaned over and cleaned the blade of his sword on the grass. Behind him he could hear his soldiers cheering. He had waited for this moment for so long, but now that it was here, it didn’t seem real.

  Someone clapped him on back. Reynard spoke, “It’s over, Fawkes. You’ve done it. Now all that is left is to claim everything that was Mortimer’s. First, Mordeaux, then Valmar and your new wife. How does it feel, my friend? You’re a wealthy man now. A real lord. Mordeaux appears prosperous, and Valmar was always a rich demesne. You’ll have to pay some sort of fine to the king, I’m guessing. That is, if Richard ever makes it back to England.”

  Fawkes pulled off his helm and looked down at his blood-spattered hands. “I need to wash. There must be a well in the castle.” He started off.

  Reynard grabbed his surcote. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to speak to your men? They’re all waiting to congratulate you. What’s wrong? Are you wounded?”

  Fawkes shook his head. “None of the blood is mine.”

  “Then, what’s the matter with you? You aren’t acting like a man who’s won two castles and the right to wed the woman he loves.”

  Nicola was his now. Nothing stood in the way of claiming her. He should be jubilant. So, why was there a cold emptiness in the pit of his stomach? Mortimer’s taunts. What if it was true? What if she hadn’t wanted him to prevail?

  “What’s wrong?” Reynard asked again, his voice harsh with impatience.

  “I’m well enough.”

  “Well, then, act like it!” Reynard slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Smile. Acknowledge your men.”

  Fawkes turned and saw his knights cheering. This was their dream as well as his. As knights in the garrison of a prosperous keep, they would have a roof over their head at night, food in their belly, mayhaps a serving maid to warm their bed. After the miseries of the Crusade, it sounded very like paradise.

  He raised his arm in a gesture of victory. These men were his brothers, his comrades. They’d been through so much together. To hell and back.

  The men cheered more loudly. Fawkes took a deep breath. He’d won Mordeaux and Valmar Castles, but the real prize was not yet his. Nicola.

  Would she even remember him? Making love to her had been the most splendid stirring experience of his life. He’d recalled every detail of their coupling a thousand times. But he had no idea what it meant to her. When he’d had doubts in the past, he’d told himself she would be grateful to him for saving her, and that would be enough to make her wed him willingly. Then, once he got her in bed, he would make her feel for him what he did for her.

  But now… Though he fought to dismiss Mortimer’s taunts, they gnawed at him. For the first time, he realized his dream was simply that, a dream. He’d forged his whole life around a woman he knew almost nothing about. Now it was time to find out the truth. Who was Lady Nicola? Was she a true damsel in distress, the helpless victim of Mortimer’s sick scheming? Or did something darker and more sinister lay behind that stunning countenance, those beautiful features he could not forget?

  ****

  Nicola stared out the narrow tower window, gripping her hands tightly together. Old Emma was right. She should never have meddled. Her scheming had brought about her worst nightmare. Mord
eaux was under attack. Please don’t let Simon be in danger. Please!

  She turned from the window and paced across the only open space in the tiny chamber. It had been almost six months since she spoke to Father FitzAlan, having heard nothing since, she’d decided John must not have any interest in Valmar. Perhaps the prince had been waiting until he was more certain King Richard wouldn’t return. Now that Richard was in the hands of Henry VI, the Holy Roman Emperor, and Henry was demanding a ransom of 150,000 marks, John may have felt it was safe to act.

  If only she were a man. She might have been able to convince Mortimer to surrender Mordeaux and fall back to Valmar. After all, it truly was the soundest strategy. Valmar would be much easier to defend.

  Of course, she didn’t want Mortimer to defend Valmar. The whole point was to have Prince John’s forces seize control with as little conflict and bloodshed as possible.

  Bloodshed. She shivered. She’d felt certain Mortimer was too far gone to defend his lands. But unbelievably, when the news came that an enemy force was headed for Mordeaux, Mortimer had roused himself from his usual drunken lethargy, donned his armor and ridden out with his knights to confront the threat. All she could do now was hope Mortimer had arrived at Mordeaux before John’s forces. If either army gained access to the castle, there would be a battle for control of the keep and Simon would be at risk.

  Nicola whirled at a sound on the stairs. The latch to the door rattled and Old Emma waddled in, her plump cheeks flushed as red as apples. “There’s news,” she panted.

  Nicola waited as her serving woman recovered herself. After long unbearable moments, Old Emma finally spoke. “The two armies met at Mordeaux, but they didn’t engage. The enemy knight leading the other force challenged Mortimer. They fought in single combat and your husband was killed.”

  Nicola sank down on the bed, faint with relief. Mortimer was dead. Her foul tormentor would never trouble her again. Everything had turned out as she hoped. “Thank goodness. Prince John will no doubt insist I be wed quickly. But with luck, he’ll give me some sort of choice. Even if he doesn’t, I can’t imagine the man he chooses will be worse than Mortimer.”