A small attempt was made to mimic a feast at the evening meal. At the end Anna escorted her sister upstairs.
Morvan waited for her to return. When the night grew old and still she did not, he went looking for her.
If she thought that he was going to accept her decision to join the battle, she was mistaken. All day he had been plagued by images of her dead on the field. Fouke and Haarold might not care if she died, and Ascanio might assume that angels protected her, but a tight knot in his stomach had convinced Morvan that he would not let her ride tomorrow.
Without looking, he knew that she was not in her chamber. He found her in the solar, sitting in the large, carved chair, gazing into the hearth fire. Her curls were wild about her head, as if she had just risen from a bed in which she could not sleep. A green robe, overlarge like most of her men's garments, wrapped her loosely. She held her sword, its tip resting on the floor, its hilt lax in her hand.
She looked at the flames as if she didn't really see them. He felt her mood as he'd always been able to since that first night. Sadness and resignation emanated from her. Something else too. Confusion?
She did not even look at him when he stepped into the chamber, as if she had known he was coming.
Aye, she had known. They were tied to each other in that way. She might not speak of it, might want to deny it, but it was there. Every time he entered her presence, the sense of raw connection sharpened again.
“Contemplating the morning?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Catherine and Josce.”
That did not surprise him. If he had felt a twinge of envy, what must she have experienced?
“She appeared so mature, suddenly,” she said. “Poised and grown up. And Josce—when did he get so tall and broad? They were children when I returned from the abbey, I'm sure. I find myself wondering how long I have been blind. I am thinking that I live an illusion in believing that I am needed here.”
“They are still young, married or not. You are needed.”
“Nay. I have been letting the freedom seduce me, but I can feel the truth at the door. It will be over soon.”
“Not so soon. Not tomorrow.”
It came out too sharply. That pulled her out of her reverie.
She rose, sword still dragging from her hand, and turned a direct gaze at him, as if suddenly aware that his presence here signaled something significant. The loosely tied robe gaped at the neck and over her legs, revealing too much, but she did not notice.
She looked wild and magnificent.
“I have been told that Haarold thinks I should be beaten into changing my mind about the battle. If you have come for that, you had better have brought your blade.”
“Nay, I found the notion too arousing, and I have given Ascanio certain promises about you.”
She frowned, not understanding. He almost laughed, bitterly. She was so astonishingly ignorant. Unaware of how she affected some men.
Men like him.
She stood there, her very strength a challenge to his most ancient instincts, a denial of all he had been bred to believe and uphold. His reaction was heady and erotic and primitive. The image of that beating had aroused him. The thought of her stretched naked over his lap had done wicked things to his blood. It was not the notion of hurting her that stirred him, but of conquering her. Here was a castle worthy of a siege, and a potential submission that would exalt the victor.
His blood had always known it, but seeing Gurwant react the same way had made him recognize its dark power. That a rich estate went with the woman had become secondary, for both her enemy and her protector. And she had no idea of what both men considered the true prize. None.
He was barely able to resist the pounding urge to disarm her and tear the seductive robe from her body. “I think that an intelligent woman will decide on her own against going.”
“An intelligent woman will have assessed the odds, and know that every man will be needed tomorrow.”
“Aye. Every man.”
She sighed, disappointed in him. He didn't care. He could not let her do this.
“I thought that you at least would see the rightness of it,” she said. “If this was your home, and you were me, would you sit in your bower if you could help? I am not some little hoyden who plays with weapons, Morvan. I am the best archer in this keep.”
His mind tried to accept it, but his heart and his very essence rejected her logic. “This is not going to be a hunt, or a minor skirmish against some thieves. Men will die on that field, hacked to pieces in a kind of death that makes the plague look merciful. You might die thus.”
Her gaze softened, but did not waver. “I know. I am ready.”
“Are you? Or do you believe that you truly are a saint, and that angels protect you?”
“I have never believed that. I am all too aware that when God makes women saints, he rarely forms them like me. Now, the morning will come too soon, and we both should rest. I thank you for your concern, but I will fight for my home with the skill and strength given me. Perhaps I was born to be what I am because of this day.”
She turned away to face the hearth.
Dismissing him.
A warrior's pride and fury flooded him. His legs took him across the chamber. He grabbed her hand and forced the weapon to clatter to the floor. He swung her around, gripping her shoulders. “You do not understand. You will not ride tomorrow. You will not do this.”
Her eyes narrowed and sparked. That only made his blood hotter.
She tried to twist out of his hold. “You do not understand. You do not command me.”
She glared at him, all challenge and strength, goading his primitive soul.
Words would not make her submit. Nor would hurting her. But there was another way.
Pulling her closer, he imprisoned her in his arms. Shock flashed in her eyes. She turned her head away.
The press of her body sent fire scorching through him. Her vain struggle fed the flames. He grasped her curls and held her gaze to his.
Slowly, her resistance dulled and her curves molded against his embrace. Her lower lip trembled. “I thought that you had given Ascanio promises.”
“It is not dishonorable to break them for a good cause.” He took that pulsing lip between his teeth. The tremble spread, announcing her vulnerability. It only fueled his heat. He kissed her, pressing her close so that he could feel all of her along his body, her breasts and hips and legs. He demanded more and she did not stop him, but parted her lips.
A chaos of impulses streaked through his fogging sense. Urges to protect and possess and command and conquer spurred his desire. He would bind her to him with passion and pleasure and she would never defy him and wield her weapons on the field.
His hunger turned forceful and hard. He bit down to the hot pulse of her neck, and plunged his hand beneath the parting robe. Softness. Warmth. Her gasping breaths proclaimed his victory. He slid the sagging shoulder of the robe down and tasted her skin. As he caressed her breast, a throaty cry escaped her. The aching pleasure surged in response, saturated with triumph.
She grabbed his hair and pressed her mouth to his ear. “I know what you are about. I know why you do this.”
He looked in her eyes while he whisked his fingers over her nipple. Her gaze reflected the pleasure, and his control of it.
“You expect to make me obedient to your will. Docile.” Her words came out on broken breaths. Ragged. No longer so strong.
“I think only to give you pleasure, so that we both know some life before we face death.” He held her breast and dipped to kiss its hard tip. His tongue swirled. Her whole body moved in response. He used his skill to push her into abandon, and to silence her intruding voice of reason.
“You make my senses half crazed, but I am sane enough still to know the truth,” she whispered. Her fight for control of herself could be heard in her voice. “This is not about giving, Morvan. It is not even about desire for me. It is about taking. Not me, but La Roche
de Roald itself.”
He pulled back and looked in her eyes. They glistened with passion, but also a fierce belief. He did not remove his hand from her body. He would not give that up until he had to.
“This is not about your estate, Anna.”
“You seek only to make me pliant for my safety's sake? I think not, but even so you waste your passion. That might work with your court ladies, but not me. I am made of different stuff. My ignorance makes me weak to you in this, but in nothing else.”
Her warmth still enlivened his hand. He imagined knowing all the heat and pulses, the glory of making this complete. But then his mind's eye saw her leaving him, rising from the bed and donning her tunic and lifting her bow to ride out to face the enemy.
The urge to conquer and tame rushed in again, throbbing an order to finish it. The pounding of his hunger joined in. But a deeper understanding admitted the truth. No matter what happened this night, she would fight on the morrow.
He gazed in her eyes and sought some crack in her determination. Only resolve glimmered back. For an instant, no more, he perceived more than he had seen before. A new knowledge of her spirit streamed into him. The revelation did not shock him. It only confirmed that a mere knight in her service could never keep her safe, even if he claimed her this way.
He lowered his head and kissed her breast again, and seared his memory with its softness and her flexing response.
“If I thought that your resolve could be changed, I would take you and not care why you thought I did it. Perhaps I would even beat you as Haarold suggested. You say that you will join us because your skill is needed, but it occurs to me that this is not about that.” He released her, and stepped away from the tantalizing closeness. His essence roared with anger at the retreat.
“I am surprised that I did not realize it sooner, Anna, for I know you well. You do not go just because you are needed. I think that you also go because you enjoy it.”
He turned away from her stunned expression. He went to prepare for the morning, and to pray that the angels did indeed watch over her.
CHAPTER 10
TWO HOURS BEFORE DAWN Anna entered the lowest level of the keep and began leading her small army out of La Roche de Roald. Guards carried torches to light the way through the foundation maze.
Down some of the blind corridors she could see doors, their hinges rusted from damp and disuse. She wondered if any enemies of her ancestors lay interred behind them. The possibility of facing those skeletons kept her from ever exploring the chambers.
Since Drago's death, she had been the only one who could guide someone to the cliff stairs. But this morning, as a precaution against the worst, she had passed the secret on to Catherine.
It had been a short, sleepless night. Thoughts of the upcoming battle had made her restless, but so had reflection on Morvan's visit. She had succumbed too quickly to his flattery and touch. Something inside her, beyond her control, had responded hungrily to his hold on her. Maybe fear of the battle had done that. Perhaps a part of her had wanted him to defeat her, so that she would have an excuse not to stand where she did right now.
His parting words kept running through her mind, suggesting that the part of her that welcomed this was bigger than any fear. Was he right? Did she enjoy it? Had playing the lord become an end in itself ? Did she look forward to this battle like a warrior, and not like a woman forced by circumstances to do the unthinkable? Was she, in the end, as unnatural as that? She, who never used mirrors, now had one thrust in front of her soul and she couldn't, for all of her trying, see what was truly reflected there.
She found herself in front of the postern door. She swung it open and the sounds of surf crashed against the granite vaults. Her army followed her to the beach.
The cliff rose ragged and uneven, at places soaring above the beach, at others dipping down to scalable heights. A mile north she turned to a path that led up the jumble of rocks to the forest above.
She heard the soft whinnies before she reached the clearing. Carlos had brought twenty horses from the farm. He pointed her to one tree. Tied there were three magnificent coursers with the lean lines and slender legs that bespoke their strong Saracen heritage. They were the fastest horses and would be the mounts used by Carlos and herself and Louis.
She slid her sword through the leather loops on her saddle's left side. She swung herself up, then bent to attach a quiver near her right leg.
Hands reached out and began tying the lower thongs to their saddle rings. She gazed at the bright eyes of the man who owned those hands. Morvan looked back, the flickering torchlight making his face appear stern. Memories of last night's intimacies passed silently between them.
He rested one hand on her knee. “Stay close to the wall. Within our archers' range,” he commanded roughly.
She would not be effective then. “I will be careful.”
“If things go badly, ride back. Gregory will be looking for you. He will get you inside.”
She hadn't known that he had given Gregory special orders. She should have guessed that he would.
“If you are in danger, remove your hood. They cannot afford to harm you.”
He was telling her to let Gurwant take her alive and unwounded. She had already decided that she would not.
He reached up and pulled her shoulder down. His hand found her head, and he pressed her mouth to his.
Carlos began to lead the men from the clearing. Morvan stepped back to pull on his gauntlets.
“Do not blame yourself for not stopping me. And do not get yourself killed worrying about me,” she said. “Carlos will be nearby, and is better at this than you would think. God go with you, Morvan.”
“And with you, my lady.”
He mounted his bay. It was a fine horse, she reassured herself, with more stamina and speed than a destrier. In an action such as this it might serve him better than a warhorse.
They made their way through the forest. Finally Carlos gestured that they had arrived. The foot soldiers took positions to the right and left and formed their lines. She, Carlos, and Louis moved their horses to the northern edge of the group. Everyone silently waited.
Slowly, the blackness beyond the low fires of Gurwant's camp began to change. Rough shapes emerged that formed into sleeping men and restless horses. The bodies by the central fire grew distinct first, and she saw to her dismay that not all of the men were sleeping. A few, including Gurwant himself, were already up and armored.
Something beyond the camp caught her attention. On the southern field motionless shadows loomed that could only be the English archers from Brest.
Suddenly a silvery gray light spread over the field. The distant shadows grew arms and legs and strode forward together. A whistling sound broke the morning silence as volley after volley of arrows from their longbows flew toward Gurwant's camp.
Anna's own archers ran from the forest and joined the onslaught, aiming as they had been told at the clutch of horses by the forest edge.
Hell broke loose. Battle cries rent the silence. Her knights and men-at-arms charged toward the confusion of Gurwant's camp.
She galloped past the camp with Carlos and Louis close behind. As she dropped her reins and began to let her own arrows fly, she saw Haarold and a small force pour out of the castle gate.
Their surprise attack had at least evened the odds. Many of Gurwant's sleeping soldiers never rose, and most of the others fought on foot, unarmored and un-prepared. Gurwant and his knights had managed to get horses, however, and the blond head of her adversary could be seen towering above the battle as he hacked with his ax through the melee.
The battle began spreading out. Controlling her horse with her legs, she galloped along the northern periphery, aiming her bolts carefully, trying to bring down the mounted enemies by hitting the horses that carried them.
Over and over she made her sweeping runs. Her blood coursed with fear and exhilaration. Despite an overwhelming sensation of danger, she had never before fe
lt so gloriously alive and clearheaded.
She galloped toward the castle on another pass, then turned her horse. Her heart jolted. One of Gurwant's knights had broken away from the battle and now charged toward the northern field. He raised his sword as he bore down on young Louis, who didn't see the danger behind him.
She sighted an arrow to bring down the knight's horse, but suddenly Louis was between them and in the way. Slinging her bow onto her saddle, she unsheathed her sword and spurred her horse. The knight had just reached Louis when she ran her mount straight into his, swinging her sword just in time to deflect the death blow aimed at the youth's neck.
The blade grazed Louis's arm. His horse bolted out of the way, but hers and the knight's joined in a tangle of legs that sent them both crashing to the ground.
The impact stole her breath. Pain spread through her hips and legs. As the horses righted themselves, the knight moved laboriously under his armor, pushing himself up. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the reins of her horse, but he skittered nervously and she was not able to mount.
She smelled death behind her. She dropped the reins and turned. The knight had risen. He lowered his visor and faced her.
She grasped her weapon in both hands. The battle suddenly seemed far away, and the field very big.
She heard the knight laugh before he moved toward her.
Morvan knew exactly that moment when the outcome of the battle was decided. As he wielded his sword, forcing his way through the foot soldiers to meet the mounted knights, he noticed the enemy falling back. That meant moving toward the castle wall. The fate of Gurwant's army was sealed with those first steps of retreat.
It was Gurwant himself whom he wanted, and he worked his way toward that towering blond head.
A movement to his left caught his attention. He reared his horse just in time to knock down a swords-man thrusting at the animal's legs. The bay pivoted before settling down and he found himself facing north, where he knew Anna should be riding.
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