Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  Alaun swore—one short, eminently expressive oath—then he clamped a lid on his fury.

  “Did you see this leader?” Edward asked the cleric.

  “Aye, Your Grace—a dark, heavy-jowled fellow. I have recently seen him about the town, but have never heard his name.” Father Laertis drew himself up. “Sire, I was on my way to beg the bishop to send relief to the ladies of the convent.”

  The situation was guaranteed to appeal to Edward. Through the haze of his rage, Alaun heard the king say, “You may leave the matter in my hands, Father. Convey my greetings to the bishop, and assure him the convent will be relieved within two hours.”

  The good father looked confused. “But, sire—tis barely more than two hours till dusk.”

  Edward rose. “Aye, and Claerwhen is less than an hour away. Come, Montisfryn, de Versallet! We’ll finish with this lot by nightfall!”

  *

  As Edward ordered, so it occurred. John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, rode in at Hereford’s northeastern gate—and rode straight out by the west one. His forces formed the rearguard of an aggressively intent, highly skilled small army that descended on the sleepy hamlet of Vowchurch and, unchallenged, crossed the Dore. Once on the far bank, the generals paused to take stock. At Alaun’s suggestion, Roland was summoned to where he and the others conferred on a small hillock.

  As Roland came up, Edward was speaking, squatting to draw in the dust. “From memory, the rise yonder forms the rim of a large depression. The convent stands at the far side, built out from the cliff beyond. Tis my thinking the outlaws must be encamped directly beneath the walls—here.” Edward made a mark in the earth, then glanced up at Roland. “Is that so, de Haverthorne?”

  “Aye, sire.” Roland accepted the stick from Edward and filled in the outlaws’ position. “Tis my feeling this leader has not much experience in tactics, sire, for he’s drawn up his force very tightly—from here to here—and set his pickets close in—about here.”

  Alaun pounced on that. “So they’ll not have seen us yet?”

  Roland agreed.

  Edward grinned ferociously. “Tis easy, then—we’ll deploy about them. De Vere, you take the left, de Versallet and I will hold the center and I’ll send Nick Dreythorne to command Montisfryn’s men on the right.”

  That last command was not one Alaun had expected. Straightening, he raised his brows at the king.

  Edward’s hazel eyes met his, then he clapped him on the shoulder. “Take a small force and strike direct for the leader’s tent. Leave the battle to us, my friend, and concentrate your energies on getting your lady out of it.”

  Grim-faced, Alaun nodded.

  The Earl of Oxford was frowning. “One moment, sire. What if, in order to escape our approach, the brigands force the walls of the convent?”

  Edward snorted and pulled on his gauntlets. “The walls of Claerwhen are amongst the strongest in the land. I should know—Philippa extracted the price of reinforcing them from me some years back.”

  “But what if they use pitch-arrows to set the buildings within ablaze—to act as a diversion?”

  “The buildings within are all good stone and slate. That damned convent is in better order than any castle standing—except his.” Edward jerked a thumb in Alaun’s direction. “And before you suggest that the good ladies might not approve of us bloodying their walls, let me tell you that old Maude de Lacey, who is presently Mother Superior, would be more likely to order up hot pitch and firestones than swoon at the sight of battle. Nay—quibble no more. Let us have done.”

  Thus relieved of his major command, Alaun left the other commanders to coordinate their attack. Summoning ten of his most experienced men, he and Roland headed off on foot. The wagons had caught up and were quietly rolling across the narrow bridge; to right and left, the king’s forces were already deploying along the riverbank, ready to advance.

  Alaun and his men toiled up the short incline, cresting the ridge well to the right, where a wood gave them cover. Slipping stealthily beneath the trees, they silenced the pickets stationed within the wood, then moved on, only stopping where the trees gave way to grassed pasture. The largest tent, one of dun-colored canvas, stood a hundred yards away.

  Alaun could not take his eyes from it. He knew how easy it was for someone to be killed in the chaos of battle. Fear such as he had never known gripped him; black terror filled his soul. A deathly chill clutched his gut, slowly permeating to his bones. Beneath his helm, his lips moved in silent prayer.

  Still as a statue in the shadows of the trees, despite the desperate compulsion riding him, he waited for the approach of the king’s forces.

  *

  Within the dun-colored tent, Eloise sat bound on a stool, her back to the central pole, a gag over her lips, a bruise throbbing high on her cheekbone. Her head ached, but beyond that and her less than comfortable position, she was conscious only of growing impatience. Fear had no purchase in her mind; her captors would have thought her insane had they known that she considered them nothing more than nuisances sent by the saints to plague her.

  She already knew salvation was at hand. Her only worry was that whoever Montisfryn had sent to verify that she had reached the convent safely would bring Montisfryn himself, and possibly Edward and her father, too, down upon the outlaws—and her.

  It would be nice to be saved, but for what? Montisfryn would be furious, and Edward and her father equally irate, although possibly not for the same reasons.

  Such thoughts made her head throb even more; determinedly, she banished them. She would worry about such dangers when they arrived.

  “I don’t like it.”

  The black knight Eloise had seen in the grounds of Gloucester cathedral paced back and forth across the tent. “That damned witch of an abbess is up to something.”

  “You worry too much, Cedric.” His strangled-voiced clerkish friend lounged on a stool by a table. “In his usual impetuous way, Edward is probably halfway to Shrewsbury by now. The ladies of the convent will, I’m sure, see the sense in sharing their provisions in return for their colleague.”

  The clerk’s sharp gaze rested on Eloise; after a moment, it shifted, fixing on the black knight’s ogreish visage.

  “It would be wise to bear in mind, Cedric, that Lady de Cannar is presently our most valuable asset. Not only will fear for her gain us provisions enough to dare Wales in winter, but if we play our cards right and keep her in our hands, we may well turn a nice profit.”

  “Nay—I like that scheme not. We should leave her here.” Sir Cedric thumped the table as he passed. “Taking her will keep de Versallet, at least, on our trail, and what if, as she claims, Montisfryn seeks her? His forces are considerable—he will crush us like ants. All we have are a handful of hedge-knights.”

  “Afraid?” The strangled voice sneered. “I thought you boasted you could take on any knight spurred and not fail.”

  The sneer was returned in full measure. “In single combat, aye, but we are not talking about honorable, chivalric fighting here, Master Driscoll. If we engage with any of the king’s vassals, the fighting will be bloody and furious—and we will not prevail. I did not join your enterprise to have my skull crushed by some knight’s mace.”

  Master Driscoll. It was the first time Eloise had heard the clerk’s name. She had yet to fully understand what these men were about, but Master Driscoll was at the heart of it.

  When she’d ridden into their midst, surprised but not alarmed as there had been nothing to show if they were friend or foe—and she’d never imagined a foe camped outside her convent gates—these two had been all but at each other’s throats. Apparently, they had tried to storm the convent, only to discover how impregnable Claerwhen was. Eventually learning who she was, and that she was known to those within, after some discussion, they had dragged her before the walls.

  Summoned to the walks high above, Mother Maude had looked down at her, and had clicked her tongue. “What are you doing here, Eloise?”

/>   She’d explained, only to have Mother Maude bend an exasperated glare upon her.

  Sir Cedric, standing beside her, thumbs hooked in his belt, had raised his dark voice. “Open your doors and let us provision our wagons, lady, and we will return your daughter to you.”

  “Nay, Mother! Do not. They will not kill me—I’m worth more to them alive.” She hadn’t anticipated Sir Cedric’s reaction, but a blur at the edge of her vision had had her moving away—his blow had not landed full on her jaw. It had felled her nonetheless.

  “Cease, sir knight! Lay another finger on the lady and you will rue the day!”

  The furious words had fallen, ringing, from the battlements above, giving even Sir Cedric pause.

  Senses swimming, Eloise had glanced up to see her erstwhile Mother Superior shoot a contemptuous glare at the burly knight. Then the wily old lady had turned to Master Driscoll. “This matter will require discussion. I’m Mother Superior here—although my word is final, I am bound to consult the wishes of the community. I will go and confer, and return with our answer.”

  With that, Mother Maude had departed, leaving Eloise blinking up at the vacant battlements, recalling that, not only did Mother Maude rule with absolute authority, but that the river and Vowchurch could be seen from the higher levels of Claerwhen’s towers.

  The only explanation for Mother Maude’s words was that help was close at hand.

  Chafing restlessly against her bonds, Eloise wondered when it would arrive.

  When it did, she was one of the first to know. The tent pole to which she was bound started to vibrate. A surge of nervy excitement rushed through her. Destriers were approaching—lots of them.

  *

  In the shadows of the wood, Alaun breathed deeply, his eyes on the line of Edward’s advance. Mounted knights came over the ridge, trotting forward to enclose the outlaw encampment in a semicircle of burnished steel. To shouts of alarm and the usual rush to don armor and seize weapons, the line drew inexorably closer, locking the outlaws against the convent walls. The knights halted just out of bowshot of the hastily drawn up defenders.

  Still, Alaun waited.

  An order was barked, and archers, his own men on the right flank and the massed archers of the king, de Versallet, and de Vere on the left, stepped forward. Sheets of arrows rained down, felling the outlaws’ bowmen before they’d received orders to mass and fire. Panic rose within the outlaws’ ranks, then a brawling voice was raised, cursing the waverers back into line.

  Lifting his head, Alaun located the source; a huge, black-armored knight, who had emerged from the dun-colored tent.

  Beneath his helm, Alaun’s lips curled in a snarl. The warrior-impulse to go after the leader was strong, but was a river ripple compared to the tidal wave of instinct that compelled him to Eloise’s side. His eyes returned to the dun-colored tent, then he glanced at the men behind him. “We secure and hold the tent at all costs.”

  They nodded.

  Alaun turned to see the king’s archers retire, revealing the knights, now dismounted. Limited by the convent walls, the field was too circumscribed for a mounted charge. Instead, Edward’s massed men-at-arms raised their voices in a bellowing roar, the names of their commanders joining those of all the saints as they strode forward, eager to dispatch their foes.

  Alaun waited until the first wave had broken over the outermost outlaws and the battle was fully engaged before raising his arm, his sword gripped in his fist. “On!”

  Despite their lack of numbers, his men were used to such fighting; in a tight wedge, they drove through the ranks of the outlaws like a hot knife through butter, leaving corpses in their wake.

  The outlaw leader, large and black, remained behind the innermost ranks, watching the battle, gauging the tide. He had yet to join the fight, but his huge broadsword hung ready in his fist. Twenty yards from the tent, Alaun’s force fanned out to encircle it. In that instant, the black knight turned and saw them.

  With a bellow, he summoned a small group held in reserve in the lee of the convent walls close behind the tent. They rushed forward, interposing themselves between Alaun’s party and their objective. Cursing, Alaun and his men redeployed to meet the unexpected attack. The outlaw line to their left collapsed, pushed in by knights of Alaun’s household eager to support him. As a result, he was caught up in the melee, surrounded on all sides, too busy defending, then crushing, to immediately press on to the tent.

  Around and about them the battle raged.

  Pulling his sword from the chest of a pikesman, Sir Cedric de Croilly stepped back and rapidly took stock. Desperation’s cold claws were already deep in his flesh. His forces would shortly fail—he would be handed over to Edward, a king who took great delight in making examples of those of whom he disapproved. And traitorous knights sat high on Edward’s list of abominations.

  There was but one slim chance of altering the outcome. Cursing darkly, Sir Cedric turned and fought his way back to his tent.

  *

  Inside the tent, Eloise sat her stool, every muscle rigid, her eyes fixed on the slim dagger that had appeared in Master Driscoll’s white fingers. Fear caressed her nape; panic threatened. She ignored both emotions, her only thought to survive.

  “Such a pity, dear lady, that it has to come to this.” Master Driscoll rose from the stool and paused to resettle his garnache. “But you can see that it wouldn’t do to leave you alive to identify me?”

  With an empty smile, he started toward her.

  For the hundredth time, Eloise tested the bonds at her back. They held fast, her wrists crossed behind the tent pole. Her feet, however, were free. She would have to try to trip Driscoll once he drew near. Eyes wide, her every sense concentrated on the man approaching, death in his hand, she didn’t even blink when the tent flap was thrown aside.

  “What are you about?”

  Sir Cedric’s snarl had never sounded so sweet. Eloise dragged in a quick breath.

  His eyes on Driscoll, who had swung to face him, Sir Cedric brought his sword forward. “I thought you said she was our greatest asset? You wouldn’t be trying to cover your tracks at my expense, would you, Master Driscoll?”

  Driscoll backed, but was caught off guard when Sir Cedric brought his sword flashing up. The clerk screamed, clutching bloody fingers as the knife went flying. Sir Cedric backhanded him viciously, sending him sprawling across the table.

  “Don’t move.” Sir Cedric scooped up the dagger.

  Driscoll’s features were livid. “What do you think you’re about?” He put a hand to his cut lip. “Edward will never let you go.”

  “He’ll let me go to honor a fight.”

  Moving behind Eloise, Sir Cedric sliced through her bindings.

  Before her sigh of relief could even reach her lips, he hauled her to her feet. He released her only to wrap his left arm about her neck, locking her head in a vice. The point of Driscoll’s dagger, now in Sir Cedric’s fist, pricked her throat.

  As he backed toward the exit, dragging Eloise with him, Sir Cedric sneered at Driscoll. “You gave me the idea yourself, old man. I can beat any knight born in single combat—and the lady is my ticket to the fight.”

  With that, Sir Cedric half lifted, half swung Eloise through the tent flap.

  Straight into the hell of battle.

  The noise was deafening. It had been loud in the tent; now, without even the canvas to mute the roar, the din fell on Eloise’s senses, nearly driving her to her knees. Sir Cedric tightened his grip, holding her up before him, the knife poised to pierce her throat if she struggled. He halted in front of the tent, where a small area remained clear at the epicenter of the melee.

  Her gag still in place, Eloise looked wildly about.

  “Halt!”

  The roar erupted directly beside her ear. She felt the blood drain from her face. The fighting had degenerated into so many individual combats, knights, pikesmen, and men-at-arms intent on slaughtering each other in a seething cauldron of flailing broads
words, swinging maces, and jabbing daggers and pikes.

  The scene was one of nightmarish vignettes, the dead crushed beneath the feet of the living.

  “Hold! Or the lady dies!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Hold hard!” The cry was Edward’s. It was taken up by his commanders and relayed along the lines. Gradually, the clamor subsided, the warring parties obeying the call, stepping back, lowering weapons, warily eyeing their opponents as, chests heaving, all fought to catch their breath.

  “What goes on here?” The fiery Plantagenet strode through the ranks, clearing a path with one heavily protected arm, knocking aside any who did not hurry out of his way. Edward halted ten yards before the tent, his bloody broadsword in his right hand; Montisfryn shouldered forward to come up alongside.

  Eloise felt faint, relief slipping like a drug through her veins.

  Alaun glanced at Edward and met the king’s hazel gaze.

  “Where in hell have you been?” Edward’s voice was low, muted by his helm.

  Alaun grimaced behind his. “Unavoidably detained by an unforeseen obstacle. It’s dead now.”

  Edward grunted. For a long moment, he eyed the man hiding behind Eloise’s skirts. “Well?” Edward demanded, the word loaded with contempt. “You perceive me all ears, sirrah.”

  “I propose a trade. The lady’s safety—”

  “One moment.” Edward raised his visor. “I warn you—do not ask for liberty, for I will not grant it. Not for any man above the rank of sergeant. For the rest, I am willing to parley.”

  Sir Cedric’s lip curled. “What care I for such?” The question produced a stunned silence. “I ask for myself your safe-conduct into exile. For the rest—you may have them.”

  The contempt of Edward’s men was open. As for Sir Cedric’s own followers, they all turned and, recovering from their shock, were only restrained from advancing on their blackguardly commander by Edward’s intimidating presence.

  Openly disgusted, Edward studied the rogue knight. “You seriously believe I’ll allow you to walk free without facing judgment for your crimes?”