For years she’d drilled the knights of Rivenloch in castle defense. For a decade she’d trained the castle folk in siege preparation. And for all that time, Rivenloch had been blessed with nothing but peace and security.
Now, when the keep was in the middle of a real attack, when those skills were most needed, a pack of Norman strangers had usurped command of the castle. Even Deirdre, distraught over her abducted husband, but making a noble effort to wield her influence over the knights, couldn’t muster the cooperation of the Normans.
They were a stubborn, cowardly lot who refused to confront the English. How could they call themselves men when they wouldn’t lift a finger to save their own commander, who was probably even now being tortured?
She’d heard about enough of their craven mewling. If the Normans were too fainthearted to wage war, then she’d rally the men of Rivenloch. She stormed to her feet to muster her clansmen.
Unfortunately, she underestimated the willfulness of the Knights of Cameliard, in particular Sir Rauve d’Honore, the bear of a man left in charge. Even as she tried to mobilize a fighting force, he threatened death to anyone broaching the walls of Rivenloch. When she challenged his authority, he claimed to follow the orders of Pagan himself. It seemed Cameliard had insisted there be no negotiation for hostages. It was Rauve’s sworn duty to hold the castle, even if it meant sacrificing his own lord.
Helena’s blood simmered with frustration. Indeed, she could see that Rauve was as reluctant to follow his orders as she was. And it was obvious as she glanced about the great hall that, like her, the Normans itched for battle. But to a man, they were loyal to Pagan. They refused to gainsay their commander.
In any other instance, Helena would have admired such loyalty. But when she saw her sister’s stricken face, knowing what the English would do to Pagan, she couldn’t help but curse the Normans. Maybe the rest of them were content to stand idly by, but she wasn’t about to let Deirdre suffer such anguish. She’d made a promise to her sister, and she intended to keep it.
Before this night was over, she vowed, she’d come up with a way to rescue Pagan, hold on to Rivenloch, and destroy that great wooden beast that had attacked the castle, the machine the Normans called a trebuchet.
But unbeknownst to Helena, there was already such a plot afoot. And when she learned of it, sometime around midnight, she was shocked beyond words—first, that it involved a secret passageway beneath the keep of which she was completely unaware, and second, that the plan was orchestrated by none other than her little sister—sweet, innocent, passive Miriel.
It was a brilliant scheme. Even now, Deirdre and the Rivenloch knights were stealing out through Miriel’s tunnel to waylay the English as they slept. The only flaw, as far as Helena could see, was that she herself wouldn’t be able to join in the fighting beyond the walls. Within the hour, if the plan failed, she’d be required to oversee the castle defenses.
Naturally the sisters didn’t reveal their plans to the Normans. Sir Rauve would doubtless argue it was too great a risk. And perhaps it was. But it was a risk Helena and Miriel were willing to take for Deirdre’s sake.
On the hearth, a pinecone burst in a shower of sparks, illuminating Colin’s face as she knelt close to him. Even now, with the pale cast of death hovering upon his brow, he looked as handsome as a dark angel.
She pressed her fingers to his throat for the hundredth time. His pulse was faint, but she took heart in the fact it still beat. And when she touched his parted lips, his breath still stirred between them. There was hope.
She combed her fingers back through his damp hair. Then, checking to see that none of the knights slumbering nearby spied upon her, she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
When she’d fallen in love with the Norman, she didn’t know. Maybe it was when they’d fished together on the stream bank. Or when he’d first kissed her. Or when he’d claimed her virginity. Or perhaps it was all those delicious suppers he’d prepared. Whatever the cause, she knew now that she was inextricably bound to him, heart and soul.
If she lost him…
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to think about it. She might not wish to wed him, but she couldn’t abide the thought of his absence. Never again hearing his carefree laughter. Never again melting beneath his lusty gaze. Never again feeling the comfort of his arms or the brush of his lips…
“Hey, Hel-fire.”
She thought she’d imagined the whisper. But when she opened her eyes, Colin was peering up at her, his eyes narrow slits of reflection behind heavy lids.
“Colin?” she breathed.
By some miracle, he managed to lift one corner of his mouth in a smile, though she was certain it was the only muscle that possessed an ounce of strength.
Her heart leaped, and joy infused her blood. It took all her will not to throw her arms around him and shower his face with kisses. But she dared not. Already a tear threatened at the corner of her eye. She wiped it away with her thumb. “’Tis about time, you lazy Norman.”
He blinked, disoriented by his surroundings. “Where’s your father?”
“Safe.” Lord, she wanted to hold him against her breast. “You saved him.”
He nodded in satisfaction, then winced in pain. “My skull?”
“Suffered a nasty bump.” She sniffed. “’Tis lucky you’re thickheaded, or it might have been much worse.”
He smiled, then closed his weary eyes. “And Pagan?”
She hesitated. “You must be thirsty. Would you like a drink?”
He licked parched lips. “Aye.”
She filched a wineskin from a slumbering Norman, uncorked it, then eased an arm under his shoulders to lift him high enough to drink. She tipped the wineskin back to allow him small sips, and then at his nod, withdrew it. But before she could cork it again, he seized her wrist.
“Where is Pagan?” he repeated.
Getting the full story out of Helena was no easy task. First of all, they had to speak in whispers, for it was night, and the men of Cameliard slept all around them. Second, Helena seemed reluctant to disclose what seemed to him rather relevant details. And third, with his brain still fuzzy from the blow to his head, he wasn’t entirely sure he was understanding her correctly.
“She did what?”
It sounded as if Deirdre had sneaked out of the castle through some secret tunnel to single-handedly rescue Pagan from the English. But that couldn’t be right. That would have been a fool’s errand.
“Don’t worry,” Helena told him. “Miriel and I sent the men of Rivenloch after her.”
He rattled his head. Surely he’d heard wrong. No one, not even the Scots, could be that reckless. “Did you see how many English there were?”
“We’ll catch them with their trews down,” she said proudly.
“Trews down or not, they outnumber us two to one.”
“Three to one.”
He eased his head back down onto the straw and stared up at the ceiling. He saw now why the King had enlisted Pagan to take over Rivenloch’s defenses. Between Helena’s impulsiveness, Deirdre’s bravado, and Miriel’s mischief, the sisters would lose the castle in no time.
“And once Rauve agrees to let the Knights of Cameliard join the fray—” Helena continued.
“He won’t,” he told her bluntly. “Not if Pagan commanded otherwise. Rauve takes his orders seriously.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. My little sister has a convincing way about her.”
“Pah!” Just because Helena had managed to seduce a camp full of mercenaries didn’t mean that all men were so easily swayed.
But as if lending instant credibility to Helena’s claim, a rumbling erupted at the far end of the great hall. Sir Rauve began barking out orders, waking the men, readying them for battle.
Rauve claimed the command came from Lord Gellir, but Colin knew better. Lord Gellir was nowhere in sight. Besides, the old Viking could barely keep command over his own wits, let alone an army.
As Helena smiled in smug assurance, Colin lifted himself to his elbows. It was a suicide mission. They were going to die, all of them. It was foolhardy. And irresponsible. And ill-conceived. But if the rest of the Knights of Cameliard were going to leave their bloody carcasses on the field, he supposed he might as well die with them. Blade in hand. A battle cry on his lips. In glorious warfare.
“I’ll need my sword if I’m to join them,” he grumbled.
“But…” Fear flickered briefly in Helena’s eyes. “But you can’t. You’re injured. You’re—”
He shook his head. “I won’t desert my fellows.”
“I need…I need a second in command.”
He frowned up at her. A second-in-command?
“Someone must remain behind to defend the castle,” she explained.
He wanted nothing more than to say her nay, to lock her up somewhere, maybe in the storeroom under the keep, somewhere far away and safe.
But he knew her well enough by now to realize that no amount of debate would change her mind. Confiscating her sword was out of the question as well. The crafty wench had already reclaimed Mochrie’s blade from him, and taking it from her would be as difficult and cruel as stealing bread from a starving man. Helena of Rivenloch was a warrior maid. Battle raged in her veins. And her passion wouldn’t cool until she’d tasted the blood of her enemy. The least he could do was try to protect her as best he could.
He counted himself lucky that at least she didn’t wish to join the men-at-arms outside the walls. She’d have the protection of the keep a while longer. Until the English fired their trebuchet. And the castle fell.
He sighed. “I’ll be your second on one condition.”
“Aye?”
“You keep vigil over the east wall.”
She scowled. “The battle is at the west wall.”
“Precisely.”
“You can’t relegate me to—”
He sat up. “Then I’ll join my men on the field.”
“Wait! Wait.” She skewered him with an ungrateful glare.
Lord, he thought, even when she was angry, she was beautiful. It was tempting to spirit her away to her bedchamber, the battle be damned.
“Fine,” she reluctantly agreed. “I’ll take the east wall.”
By the time Colin mounted the steps to the walk of the western wall, the battle was well under way. To their advantage, the rain had stopped. Under the oil black sky, by the blaze of a dozen English pavilions set afire, he saw the men of Rivenloch fighting beside the Knights of Cameliard. The clang of swords and shields, the screams of the wounded, the bellows of men bolstering their own courage rang out across the field, resonating against the stones of Rivenloch.
At this distance, it was impossible to tell who was winning, and Colin wondered if staying behind had been a wise choice on his part. Then he remembered Helena, who, thanks to that choice, safely patrolled the deserted eastern face of the castle. And he realized that having her out of danger was worth any cost.
He’d turned away from the battle for a moment, peering across the dark courtyard to the eastern wall, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, when the archer beside him suddenly called out, “On the hill!”
Colin wheeled back to a fresh horror. Cresting the northern hills was a new line of rushlights, a line inexorably approaching the battlefield. “Bloody hell!”
He banged a fist upon the battlement. How many miscreant English armies had banded together to lay siege to Rivenloch? All of them?
He kept watch on the advancing line as they gathered at the top of the mound. They bore a dozen fiery brands, but the men numbered at least three times that. Studying the torchlit figures, Colin noted that the small soldier at the fore bore an uncanny resemblance to Miriel’s shriveled old handmaiden, Sung Li. He blinked several times. The blow to his head must have rattled his brains. When he looked again, she was gone, dissolved into the shadows.
All at once, an unholy bellowing split the night as the men atop the hill raised their voices in a fierce battle cry. Colin clenched his jaw, watching this new threat charge down the slope.
“Wait!” one of the archers cried, lowering his bow. “’Tisn’t the English! ’Tis Lachanburn!”
“Aye! Lachanburn!” another crowed.
The archers of Rivenloch began to cheer.
Colin narrowed his eyes. Could it be true? Were these Helena’s neighbors, the ones who swapped cattle with Rivenloch?
Indeed, they appeared to join forces with the Scots and Normans as they collided with the English in a clamor of ferocious howls and crashing blades.
Perhaps, he began to think, there was hope after all. Perhaps victory was in their grasp.
Colin’s muscles tensed, twitching with the instinctive urge to fight, as he watched the spectacular battle.
Below him, sparks shot out from clashing steel. Torches lit the grimacing faces of bloodthirsty warriors. Dead men, their tabards ablaze, lay scattered like flaming brands upon the sod. And orange smoke billowed into the heavens from the burning pavilions. It was a vision from hell.
Then, as if the Devil himself materialized on the field of battle, roaring with rage and lashing out with fury, there was an enormous explosion from the top of the hill where the trebuchet stood. A flash as blinding bright as lightning illuminated the sky, and a tremendous thunderbolt cracked the air. Sparks and splinters rained down over the battleground, pelting the warriors and scorching the earth.
Through the veil of smoke that enveloped the trebuchet, Colin could make out the ruins of the English war machine. What remained of its wooden beams looked like the broken mast of a storm-tossed ship. What had caused it to explode, Colin didn’t know. But the archers along the wall walk wasted no time in speculation. A great cheer arose, surging like a wave all along the battlements, and soon Colin was caught up in the jubilation.
The English, dispirited and defeated, began to retreat then, hobbling off on a southerly course that Colin suspected might take them all the way back to England. As the conquering knights of Rivenloch and Cameliard and Lachanburn celebrated on the field of battle, Colin’s heart swelled with triumph and pride. His only regret was that Helena wasn’t there to share the sweet victory with him.
Helena should have been happy. The battle was over. The English were fleeing. And tales of their horrific defeat at the hands of wild Scots savages and Norman champions would dog them for years, keeping Rivenloch and its surrounds safe from invasion for a long while to come.
Meanwhile, the gates of Rivenloch parted to welcome home the heroes. They rushed into the great hall like a flood, their bodies battered, their armor stained, but their bloody faces wreathed in smiles.
All around Helena, people laughed and cheered and sang and drank. Normans gave Lachanburns congratulatory slaps on the back. Rivenloch maids fluttered their eyes at the Knights of Cameliard. Young lads listened eagerly to old warriors’ accounts of the battle. Servants passed out cheese and ale and sewed up soldiers’ wounds. Pagan, battered almost beyond recognition, nonetheless managed a reassuring grin as he spoke with wide-eyed squires. Miriel weaved her way through the crowd, making certain everyone was content, while Deirdre sat with the Norman jongleur, Boniface, letting him treat her injuries. Even Lord Gellir, his mind clear at the moment, joined in the raucous celebration, congratulating the victors and conversing with the Lord of Lachanburn.
But despite the gaiety around her, despite the dearth of fatalities for Rivenloch, despite the fact that they had successfully routed the enemy, Helena was not in a mood to celebrate. For several reasons. Not the least of which was the fact that that scheming maidservant, Lucy Campbell, had sidled up to Colin du Lac and was whispering something in his ear. As she watched, his gaze dipped down to Lucy’s overfat breasts, and a smile curved his lips.
Irrational fury flooded her veins. Spitting an oath, she clenched her jaw and her fists and stalked over to the spot near the pantry where Lucy was working her wiles.
Without a word, H
elena snagged him by the arm and wrenched him forcefully away.
To her surprise, Colin seemed unperturbed by the interruption. He even greeted her with a fond, “Hel-fire.”
Over his shoulder, Lucy, however, looked about as content as a wet cat.
He smiled. “I’ve been searching all over for you.”
“Indeed?” she muttered, “Well, I wasn’t nestled between Lucy’s breasts.”
“What?” he asked, chuckling.
Shaking her head, she hauled him off toward a quiet corner of the hall. “You have a cut,” she explained, though it was but a scratch upon his cheek, which he discovered at once with his thumb.
He shrugged, but sat down upon a bench, allowing her to attend to his injury.
“What a fight. You should have seen it,” he said, his face lighting up.
“Aye,” she groused, “I should have.” She swabbed at his cut. “But I didn’t, did I?”
He grabbed her wrist. “Are you angry?”
“Nay,” she bit out between her teeth. “’Tis fine that I was posted on the wall opposite the battle.” She yanked her hand free and began dabbing at his cheek again. “’Tis fine that while my countrymen were engaged below in glorious combat, I was resigned to strolling back and forth along the battlements as if—”
“Hey!” He winced from her ministrations, which had intensified with her ire. “You weren’t just strolling back and forth. You were keeping watch. If the lines hadn’t held, if our forces had fallen—”
“If, if, if.” She huffed out an angry breath. “I’ve trained most of my life for war, and for what? Bloody hell, I didn’t even get to see the battle.”
“Oh, Hel-cat,” he sighed, taking her chin in his hand, “I’m so grateful you were safe behind castle walls. I couldn’t bear it if…” He choked on the words.
Though part of her was flattered and pleased by his confession, her blood yet simmered with wrath. She supposed it was her own fault. She’d only promised to stay within the castle to ensure that Colin wouldn’t leave. Wounded as he was, if he’d tried to join the battle, she feared he would have been the first to fall. And that would have devastated her.
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