Anice's Bargain

by Madeline Martin

  Anice’s Bargain

  Madeline Martin

  Copyright 2019 © Madeline Martin

  ANICE’S BARGAIN © 2019 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.

  * * *

  ANICE’S BARGAIN is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Teresa Sprecklemeyer @ The Midnight Muse Designs.

  To my wonderful Momma

  * * *

  You’ve given me so much in my life and have instilled in me a love of learning and books. You have been there to cheer me on in the good times and talk me through the ones that have been difficult. We’ve traveled the globe together and have many more adventures to look forward to. Every memory of my life glows with you and the love and support you’ve always given me. Thank you for being such an incredible role model, mother and friend.

  I love you beyond words!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Madeline Martin

  1

  March 1336

  Brampton, England

  * * *

  It was not their first siege, but it was certainly their longest. The Grahams were determined.

  Lady Anice Barrington, second daughter to the third Earl of Werrick, regarded the dismal larder with her father at her side. Their gazes were mutually fixed on the lone sack of grain.

  “The last,” he muttered. His brow furrowed into a complex map of creases, carved by a life of sorrow and hardship.

  “Is there nothing else?” Anice asked. The large red brown dog sitting near her feet shifted and gave a low whimper as though he could understand their dismal discussion. Piquette was not allowed to receive his own ration of food and so Anice split her meager portion with her beloved pet. It was hardly enough to fill either of them. They were left persistently desperate with hunger, though neither offered up complaint.

  Nan, the cook of Werrick Castle, crossed her arms over her chest in a show of authoritative knowledge. “Nothing left save any vegetables we manage to grow in the garden, my lady. But they get eaten as soon as they’re plucked from the earth.”

  “We’ll need to reduce food distribution.” The earl nodded absently to himself, content with his decision.

  Nan cast Anice an anxious glance, the steel in her back melting. “We’ve already done that several times. The people are starving.” The cook had once been round and plump, the way one in her position ought to be—or so Nan had said. The lean months, however, had left her sharp chin jutting from sagging skin and her kirtle swinging around her once generous frame. They were all too thin, too hungry.

  Anice stood mutely, unable to come up with a solution. They would be out of food within days. Reducing their rations further would do nothing but anger the people of Werrick and prolong the inevitable by a day or two at best. But what would happen when it was all gone?

  Anice shivered at the possibilities, all of them awful.

  Lord Werrick dragged a hand down his tired face. “I wish Marin were here,” he said quietly. “She would know what to do.”

  Anice bit the inside of her cheek and focused on the sharp pain rather than the cut of her father’s words. He had not meant them, after all. Or at least, he had not meant for them to hurt. Anice’s eldest sister, Marin, had been gone from Werrick for almost three years, living in their mother’s favorite castle in England. Hunger made Anice’s head swim. It was all too easy to remember the peaceful life there with lovely rose gardens and sunlit gardens. And food. So much food.

  Sweet, fresh apples with juice that ran down one’s chin when she bit into the crisp flesh. Crusty bread that broke under her fingers and revealed the soft, steaming doughy center. Slathered with butter. Greasy, salty—

  Stop.

  “Perhaps we can speak to the Grahams,” Anice suggested abruptly. Anything to take her mind off food. “I’ve heard reivers will sometimes bargain.”

  Her father shook his head, his stare going distant. It tugged at Anice’s heart when he did that, lost to the horrors she wished she could blot from his memory.

  “I cannot lose another messenger.” He looked down at her with his large, solemn eyes—eyes that had shone with joy when Anice had been a girl. How she missed those long-ago days, back before her mother died.

  In a brave attempt to bring a message to the king requesting his help, their messenger had rushed past the Grahams, gotten caught, and paid with his life. He’d lived only twenty summers, the same age as Anice, and had volunteered hoping to save the lot of them. Anice’s father had reluctantly agreed. The young man’s body had been left in front of the gates the following morning with the missive torn, the dozens of pieces fluttering in the grass about him like macabre, blood-spattered moths.

  Several more men had followed that messenger, either to escape the stomach-gnawing hunger within Werrick’s walls, or in an attempt to help. And while Anice did not know if any of them made it through, they remained without aid.

  “We haven’t tried discussing it with the Grahams ourselves,” Anice protested.

  “And who would go?” he asked.

  Anice straightened. “Me.” She ran her fingers over her dog’s soft fur. “Me and Piquette.”

  At the mention of his name, Piquette stiffened to attention, always loyal, always brave.

  He blinked and his face reddened. “Absolutely not.”

  “Mayhap they wouldn’t kill a woman.”

  “Nay, you know what they would do to a woman.” His jaw flexed beneath his gaunt face. Anice opened her mouth to protest, but he swept a hand in front of her. “I’ll not discuss the idea of sending one of my daughters to be left at the mercy of those barbarians. “He turned on his heel and strode from the kitchen. His footsteps rang out on the flagstones until the door closed behind him, muffling his derisive departure.

  A little black cat wound its warm body around Anice’s feet and cast Piquette a wary glance. Poor Bixby hadn’t been the same since Marin left. Though in truth, it was most likely her husband, Bran, who the cat missed the most. Bixby flopped in front of her and she gently nuzzled his chest with the toe of her shoe, much to Piquette’s grumbling agitation. Anice bent and rubbed her fingers at the little white star on Bixby’s chest, while scratching behind Piquette’s ear. It was easier to offer affection to the animals than to regard Nan and the pity dulling the older woman’s eyes
.

  Anice wasn’t Marin. That much was obvious with each passing day. She didn’t help their steward, William, with the books the same way Marin had; she didn’t have the soothing patience; she wasn’t as organized and couldn’t keep the castle together as Marin had. As with much else in Anice’s life, she was failing as others succeeded, no matter her immense effort and good intentions.

  Nan’s warm brown eyes fixed on Anice. “I’m inclined to agree with your da. There now, you needn’t be upset.” Nan settled a hand over Anice’s cheek. Though there was little food to be had, the comforting scent of baking bread still clung to Nan’s sleeve.

  Since Marin had left, Nan had taken on more of a maternal role with the remaining four sisters—yet another area Anice had been found wanting.

  Bixby rolled abruptly. His ears flicked and he darted into a shadow. At least one of them would eat well today. He always knew where to find the rats.

  Piquette watched him with a furrowed brow, too big and clumsy for an attempt of his own.

  “If I went down there, mayhap I could make them listen.” Anice kept her back held straight as she spoke. She was a woman of twenty, running the Werrick Castle as lady of the keep. Had Timothy not been slain in combat she would also be a wife.

  If only he hadn’t been pulled to the battle of Berwick with her father. If only he’d returned home, they could have resumed their plans to wed. Memories of her time with Timothy twisted at something inside of her, the same as it always did when thoughts of him surfaced. Not with the regret of a lover, but rather, with a pang of guilt.

  “How about a smile on your lovely face instead?” Nan smoothed Anice’s hair from her brow. “Your beauty is enough to cheer up the whole of Werrick.”

  Anice swallowed the rising ire within her and complied. Not for herself, but for Nan.

  She kept the smile pitched to the corners of her mouth until she was out of the kitchen and she let it fall without ceremony. Piquette nuzzled her palm with his big wet nose.

  No doubt her father would have trusted Marin to go speak to the Graham reivers. He might go so far as to allow Ella, whose intelligence could unravel any stitch of trouble. Or Catriona, whose immaculate aim with an arrow could knock a feather from a bird mid-flight a hundred yards in the air. Or Leila, with her ability to foresee what was to come.

  But Anice had none of those qualities. She was simply beautiful. A dull, shallow label she loathed. Regardless of how much she despised it, she clung to the praise. While paltry, the notoriety was better than being nothing.

  Despite her father’s refusal and Nan’s warnings, Anice knew best how to aid her family. And it had everything to do with her beauty.

  She waited until the castle went still that night, then crept down to the kitchen. In more ordinary times, servants would have been awake still with dishes to scour and foods to prepare for the following day. In their new life, everyone went to sleep early, even the servants, conserving their little strength remaining.

  She slipped into the pathetically empty larder, where wine barrels were piled against one another. Beneath the collection lay a secret door, leading outside the castle walls. Piquette padded silently behind her.

  Though she’d tried to get him to stay in her room without her, he’d refused. Forcing him would have resulted in a fuss she could ill afford, so she had finally conceded to allow him to join.

  He sat and watched her with his head tilted, as she shifted about the casks, long since empty of their contents. The barrels were easily moved, the passage opened and within seconds, they were navigating the earthen tunnels beneath the castle. Anice cupped her hand over the candle flame to prevent it from snuffing out in the dank, cool air. Outside of the flickering light, darkness pressed in on them, threatening to swallow them whole.

  In truth, she was grateful for Piquette’s presence, for the warm comfort of his massive body hugged up against her leg. He brought what she needed most—strength.

  At last, they made their way to the gate of the narrow exit. She pulled the key from her pocket, clicked the lock open and eased out into the night through the tangle of concealing vines. Above, the stars winked down at her with such brightness, they appeared to be slivers of forgotten sunlight caught in a blackened sky.

  Once the gate was locked and the vines rearranged to conceal the spot Piquette had barreled through, Anice hid the key beneath a large boulder. In the full face of a brilliant moon, they made their way through the dewy summer grass to the scattering of firelight below.

  She had spent hours preparing for this moment, ensuring she’d chosen the right gown, that her hair gleamed like spun gold; her scent was feminine, but not overpowering. Mayhap everyone was correct. Mayhap there was nothing more to her than being attractive. After all, what she was about to do lacked skill and thought. If she stopped and truly thought of her actions, she would no doubt run back into the safety of Werrick’s walls.

  She spun the small ruby ring on her right hand, the one her mother had given to her before their world had abruptly changed. Anice did not intend to quit this mission. Not until she was at the Graham encampment and had the opportunity to speak to whoever was in charge of the marauding band of murderers.

  They had to listen. And if her beauty was the only way to make that happen, so be it.

  James Graham regretted having come to Werrick Castle. He’d been fool enough to think he might be able to sway his father from the war-torn path he had blazed for years over the border between England and Scotland.

  “We’re wearing them down, lad.” The elder Graham grinned in the light of the campfire. Shadows danced over his aged face and gave him a ghoulish appearance. His hair, once a deep brown like James’s, fell in wisps of white around his skeletal cheeks. He bobbed his head in slow consideration. “I can feel their surrender coming, deep in my bones.”

  Such words used to bring pride to James. Back when he had believed their way of life was the only way to live, prior to his acknowledgment of the damage left behind their success. Back when he looked up to this father and contemplated his words wise.

  No doubt the laird of the Grahams was correct now, but it did not mean James took joy in such truths. They’d been camped at the base of the massive castle for nearly five months now. In the last month, their fires roasting freshly caught game had lured soldiers to the parapets. No doubt the scent of cooking meat made them wild with hunger.

  The people of Werrick Castle would be on the barest bit of grain, if they had any left. The village nearby had not suffered at the hands of the Grahams, not when they were too important for their purpose in supplying the camping force with food, ale and women.

  James hoped the sparing of the village also had to do with the lessening of his father’s blood lust, mayhap even a modicum of guilt. The acts of their prior years had been more than James could bear. He suppressed a shudder.

  “Just think, Son. When they surrender, ye can have the land ye’ve been wanting.” Laird Graham bumped his elbow against James’s arm.

  He cast a dark look at his father. “I dinna want the land like this.”

  “Ach, aye.” Laird Graham nodded to himself. “Someone is just going to give it to ye then, provide ye with heaps of coin to start anew and we’ll all sprout rainbows from our arses.” He gave a wheezing laugh that bled into a wracking cough.

  James looked away to afford his father privacy, while the old man gathered his breath once more. He was dying. They both knew it, but neither bothered to say it aloud.

  “We have enough coin,” James ground out.

  “For caring for the land.” His father cleared his throat in a great, rattling hum. “We dinna have enough for land and living. These people dinna need a farming tenant. Especially no’ when its frozen or been buried under rains like in the past. Nay, lad—our people need a laird. They are used to battle, to being led into war and winning, no’ tilling soil.”

  “Better to till soil than to murder.” James met his father’s gaze. “To live a life
they dinna have to regret.”

  Laird Graham stared at James, his eyes glittering like flecks of onyx. “I liked ye better before that witless English bastard got to ye.”

  This argument again. The one about the man who had saved James first from death, then from a life of lies and theft. He’d showed James there were other ways to live, ways Laird Graham might never agree with.

  Somewhere in the distance came the shouts of several men, followed by the clatter of weapons striking. Another fight. Sieges led to bored men and bored men seldom possessed good intentions. They wanted a fight, something solid and ripe for their blades to split. They wanted war, a break from the tedium of endless waiting.

  “Ye should settle into the life ye used to have.” His father’s tone was impatient. “Find yerself a wife, have a few bairns.”

  It was a tender spot and James’s father knew it. There’d been no other woman since Morna. James scowled.

  Laird Graham gave another winded laugh, this one shallow in his obvious attempt to prevent another coughing fit.

  “Ye’re always on about having me change my ways.” The elder Graham smirked at his son. “Mayhap I’ll consider altering my set ways when ye decide to wed.”

  It was no secret Laird Graham hoped to see grandsons prior to his death, to pass on his marauding influence, more likely. For James’s part, he wanted his father’s remaining time to be spent in peace, in a world built on hard work and honesty rather than theft and greed. As it was, the old man’s dark heart would send him straight to the flames of hell. Before that, as death was stretching a hand toward him, there would be the reminder of all the hurt he had caused.