All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  The gates of Château Sayerne stood open, undefended.

  That was a sign of abandonment that he could not deny. Quinn stared without comprehension as one gate swung in the wind, its hinges creaking.

  How could this be?

  Where had everyone gone? And why?

  “It seems that the rumor of your boots’ stench has preceded you,” Bayard commented. The squires laughed, their voices falling silent when Quinn did not join in their merriment.

  It was the hand of his father that Quinn saw at work. He had the estate, but his bitter sire had ensured that he had naught else. It seemed that he had granted Jerome less credit for vindictiveness than was the old man’s due.

  Quinn straightened with newfound determination. He would claim his legacy, in whatever condition it might be, and rebuild the majesty of Sayerne.

  In the center of the bailey was a magical place that Quinn had loved as a child. The bailey rose there, in a hill that was a small echo of that at Tulley. From the back of a horse, one could see over the walls to the land beyond. With the low tower at one’s back, on a day so clear as this, Quinn would be able to look down the valley, all the way to Tulley. He rode directly there, ignoring the depth of the snow. His heart thundered in his chest as he turned Fortitude in place and looked upon his home.

  Far beyond the walls of Sayerne, the land rose to mountain peaks on either side of the valley of the river Helva, and those peaks touched the crisp blue of the winter sky. The snow reflected the sunlight with a brightness that hurt the eyes. He could see Tulley in the distance and imagined he could see the red banner snapping in the wind at its summit. The tower of the keep behind him cast a stark shadow across the snow and the wind whistled slightly. His father’s neglect could not destroy Quinn’s own memories or the beauty of the land itself.

  He was home, despite the odds, and that alone was cause to celebrate.

  “Good day!” he called toward the stables. He knew that no one would answer, yet the silence made him wince. He stared up at the silent tower of the keep, noting its dark windows. It looked mean and humble to his eyes now, as well as abandoned. The snow had blown into deep drifts in the bailey and even the way to the stables was not cleared.

  No one had been at Sayerne in a while.

  It was cursed cold. Would there be fuel for a fire? Any morsel to eat? And what of the horses? Would there be fodder and bedding for them? Quinn feared not.

  He refused to be daunted. He would rebuild.

  “I had no notion that our destination would be abandoned,” Bayard commented.

  “Nor I, but it is. It is no less mine for all of that.” Quinn raised his voice, letting it ring out across the bailey. “I am Lord de Sayerne, and I stake my claim on my ancestral holdings!”

  He leaped from his saddle and abruptly found himself hip-deep in snow. Fortitude snorted and stamped, tossing his dark head and prancing to one side. Of course, Quinn should have anticipated that the snow would rise over the tops of his boots for it fairly reached Fortitude’s belly.

  Bayard, curse him, laughed aloud.

  Quinn felt the snow slide its icy fingers into his boots and noticed the squires’ surprised expressions. He scowled at his old companion, hoping to reassure the boys with a jest.

  “Laugh while you may, for this snow is wicked cold in the boots.”

  “That I can see from here,” Bayard said.

  “Perhaps you should confirm how cold it is within one’s tunic.” Quinn lunged toward his fellow with a fistful of snow before Bayard could guess his intent.

  His weight threw the other knight off balance in his saddle and landed the two of them in the deep snow. They tussled, laughing and shoving handfuls of snow into each other’s garments by turn. The young squires laughed then cheered for one knight or the other.

  “Woho! It is indeed cold in the tunic!” Bayard roared. “How does it fare within the chausses?”

  Quinn shouted in dismay as Bayard shoved a handful of snow into his chausses. He spun and pelted his chuckling companion with snowballs. They chased each other, dodged and feinted, until Quinn leapt and landed solidly atop his friend.

  Bayard’s dark hair was already dusted with snow but Quinn still pushed him headfirst into a drift. The knight gained the surface again with a roar that sent the horses stepping sideways, then attacked Quinn.

  When they halted, breathless and covered in snow, Quinn could not help but laugh. “Your hair,” he managed to say. Bayard’s dark hair stood up on one side, snow shoved into it. “You could be a demon defending this place.”

  Bayard made a menacing face and the squires retreated. One slipped from his saddle and made a snowball. “Take this, demon!” he cried and his missile hit Bayard in the middle of the chest, splattering on his green tabard. The snowball fight commenced again, this time with all six of them at odds, three of the boys yet astride their palfreys.

  “Perhaps it was you who frightened everyone away,” Quinn teased.

  Bayard grinned. “Are you certain that no one sent one of your boots in advance to terrify those in residence here?”

  “Not me, though I would not put such a feat past you.”

  “Me?” Bayard shook his head in mock disappointment. “Sadly, the thought did not occur to me in time. I could have dispatched a warning with that courier from your lord if my wits had been about me. He would have had a memorable journey, riding all the way from Palestine with that boot.”

  They laughed together at that.

  “As your wits desert you, so Sayerne’s villeins have deserted me,” Quinn said, his smile fading as he considered the implications of that.

  “Perhaps we should both check our boots,” Bayard whispered, giving him a nudge.

  Quinn was glad of his comrade’s presence. Bayard could always find a bright light and together, they would see all restored to rights. “If the villeins were so dismayed at the prospect of a new lord, it is better that they left,” Quinn concluded.

  “Aye,” Bayard agreed. “There will be challenges enough without doubt in the ranks.”

  Quinn beckoned to the squires and indicated the stables. “See whether you can make your way there and tend to our steeds. They have traveled far this day and are in sore need of rest.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The youngest boy, Michel, eight summers old, jumped from his palfrey’s back with enthusiasm.

  He disappeared into a drift of snow.

  “Nay!” Quinn shouted.

  Bayard choked on a laugh.

  Quinn trudged through the drift that rose as high as his own chest and reached into the hole left by Michel’s passing. He gripped the back of a tabard, then hauled the boy above the surface of the snow and gave him a shake.

  Michel sneezed.

  Bayard chuckled and Quinn might have smiled himself, but little Michel from the sunny south had been granted a surprise he would not soon forget. Quinn lifted Michel to his shoulders and spoke to the other boys. “Make a pathway with your steeds before you dismount,” he suggested. “Use my destrier and Bayard’s first, for they will cut a larger path. Fortitude and Caligo are accustomed to the snow.”

  All three boys nodded in hasty agreement.

  “Perhaps Michel could help us in the hall,” Bayard suggested.

  “That was my thought exactly,” Quinn agreed. He waded back to the central rise where the snow was less deep. He set Michel on his feet and determined that the boy was no worse for wear. Michel had been born in the Holy Land and Quinn had kept a watchful eye on the boy as they traveled north. He had feared for the boy’s welfare when they rode through the Beauvoir pass, for the wind had been fiercely cold. Michel could not be said to lack in resolve, for he continued in defiance of any obstacle. Quinn feared his determination would lead him too far one day, for he was small of stature.

  Bayard eyed the tower, his gaze lingering on the line of the roof, and his doubts clear. “It might not be any warmer inside.”

  “There must be wood and tinder left behind.”


  “Must there?” Bayard mused but Quinn ignored him.

  Surely his father would have left him enough for a blaze? Quinn was less certain than he would have liked to be. Michel rushed ahead of the knights, undaunted by his experience with the snow, and the pair followed the boy.

  The hall was dark and musty. Only a single shaft of light drifted into the lower hall from the open portal, but the winter sunlight was bright enough to reveal that the room was barren, save for the dust that stirred as Quinn crossed the hall.

  The fire screen he remembered was gone, as were the poker and pail. The spit from the great fireplace had disappeared, as had his mother’s beautiful tapestries which had covered the walls. They had been part of her dowry and he wondered at their fate. As a boy, he had been enthralled when she told him the tales depicted upon them.

  Even the trestle tables and benches had been removed. Tufts of abandoned herbs had blown into the corners but otherwise there was not even a candle stub remaining in the great hall. A glance into the kitchens revealed that every pot and knife was gone. A lantern with an increment of oil was clearly too much to expect. The solar proved to be similarly empty, with a large hole in the roof and a snowdrift beneath it.

  Quinn’s characteristic optimism faltered then.

  “Betrayed again,” Bayard muttered.

  “Nay,” Quinn said with quiet resolve. “You cannot be betrayed by one you do not trust.”

  Someone—and Quinn knew who—had made certain that there would be naught to aid him here. From his death bed, his father had probably ordered the villeins to clear out Sayerne.

  It was as cold as a tomb within the hall and Quinn shivered. Of course, there was not a stick of wood to be seen.

  Curse his father! Quinn kicked at the few stale rushes in frustration. A squeal made him jump, followed by the sound of little feet scratching against the flagstones.

  “Fetch that, boy!” Bayard bade Michel with a terseness that commanded obedience. Michel leaped to do the knight’s bidding, then halted at his next words. “We shall need a morsel for our supper!”

  The boy turned, his horrified expression enough to make Quinn smile. Bayard maintained a serious expression by some strength of will.

  “My lord?” Michel asked tentatively.

  “Do not worry,” Quinn counseled him. “We have not even checked the storerooms yet.”

  “And they will be bountifully stocked?” Bayard responded with rare impatience. “We cannot remain here, Quinn, not even for one night. It is good that you have inherited an estate, but we cannot sustain ourselves on snow and the occasional rat. We must seek shelter elsewhere. What of your neighbors?”

  “I have not gained my inheritance only to abandon it!” Quinn replied. “The château is solid and well built...”

  “That roof,” Bayard said but Quinn continued.

  “The property is extensive enough to support many more than we six. It will take work, I admit, but the power to return Sayerne to its former glory lies within our own hands.”

  “Quinn, I see the advantages and I do not suggest that you walk away.” Bayard’s voice dropped. “I only suggest that we return in the spring, when we will not freeze to death while we sleep. Coin will not solve this alone, my friend, unless there is someone selling what you need.”

  “I will stay with you, my lord Quinn, even should the others decide to go,” Michel said steadfastly and came to stand beside them.

  Quinn smiled for the boy and ruffled his fair hair. He knew Bayard was right, but leaving so quickly after his return felt like a concession and one he should not be quick to make.

  A man cleared his throat in the portal at that moment. A short, spare man stood there, watching Quinn. The new arrival was attired in Tulley’s livery of red with four silver stars.

  They must have been spotted when they passed Tulley and followed up the valley. A messenger from the liege lord who had summoned Quinn could only bring good tidings. Perhaps the Lord de Tulley had a plan to help Quinn remain here. Perhaps he sent provisions.

  “Quinn de Sayerne?” the man asked.

  Quinn nodded. “Aye, that is my name.”

  The man surveyed Quinn and a frown lodged between his brows. Quinn realized the state of his appearance and brushed some of the snow from his hair. He would have liked to have had a cleaner tabard, even to greet his liege lord’s clerk, and to have polished his old boots, but there was naught for it now.

  “I have a message for you from the Lord de Tulley. I am to await your reply.” The clerk bowed and offered a scroll of parchment.

  Quinn accepted it and stepped back outside into the sunlight. He lingered for a moment, eying his own name written across the parchment and the weight of Tulley’s embossed seal. He ran his finger across both, for he had never received such a fine missive before.

  “How did you know I had arrived?” Quinn asked, delaying the moment of breaking the seal.

  “Your passage at Tulley was noted this morning, and of course, my lord had word of you resting at Beauvoir.”

  “Of course.” Quinn knew that Tulley missed little that happened within his holding.

  “My lord knew that you would return once the missive regarding your father’s demise had been delivered to your hand.”

  “I appreciated Lord de Tulley taking the time and trouble to inform me,” Quinn responded in an echo of the man’s formal tone. “It cannot have been easy to seek me out in the Holy Land.”

  “The Lord de Tulley is most fastidious about ensuring the line of succession is maintained appropriately.”

  “Still I appreciate his efforts,” Quinn said with a smile.

  The servant nodded brusquely. “I shall inform him of such, sir.”

  Quinn broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. He read it, then glanced up to meet Bayard’s gaze.

  “I am summoned to the lord’s hall, with my party,” he confessed. His investiture awaited him, he was certain.

  “That splendid keep? On the mount?” Bayard asked.

  “The very one.”

  “That is a fine invitation, indeed.” Bayard turned and laid his hand on Michel’s shoulder. His expression so sober that Quinn knew he meant to tease the boy. “Do not worry about the rat tonight,” he advised the squire. “We will leave him for our return. The Lord de Tulley will probably offer finer fare, and the rat will be fatter by our return.”

  “Rat?” the messenger repeated with distaste. He peered into the shadows of the hall once more and his complexion paled. “There are rats in the hall?” He grimaced and his gaze flicked between the two knights. “And you planned to dine upon them?”

  “It would have been a cold meal, as there is no fuel to be found here for the fire.” Bayard leaned closer to the messenger and his voice dropped. “To my view, rats are not so good raw, for they tend to writhe on the way down.” He made a gesture with one hand meant to clarify his meaning.

  The messenger stepped away from Bayard, his horror clear.

  “Perhaps you would like to try one?” the other knight suggested. He snapped his fingers at Michel and the boy ducked back into the hall, as if to catch a treat for the clerk.

  That man turned and hastened back to his steed, calling the remainder of the message over his shoulder. “Lord de Tulley expects you at the board as soon as you might see fit to present yourself.”

  “It is too far to ride all the way to Tulley this day,” Quinn said. “The sun will set early at this time of year...”

  “Aye, Lord de Tulley is aware of your progress. He has charged us to leave provisions for you at the barn used to store grain on the border of Sayerne. It is simple accommodation, but there is no grain this year and at least there is a roof.” He spared a glance at the roof of Sayerne’s keep and shook his head slightly in disapproval.

  It was somewhat startling to Quinn that Tulley knew so much of his doings, and the state of Sayerne, but he was glad of the suggestion. “I thank you!” he said and bowed to the clerk. “That w
ould be most welcome.” His spirits were restored by both the missive and the promise of a warm meal.

  The messenger was already in the saddle and rode out of the bailey with a speed better suited to fleeing the dogs of hell. Quinn could see the clerk’s accompanying party awaiting him in the distance, near the specified barn on Sayerne’s borders.

  “Do you imagine he could run any faster?” Bayard asked. “And over the rumor of a rat. How soft the men are in these parts.” He snorted. “We could tell him tales that would keep him sleepless for a fortnight.”

  “But it is better that many of those tales are left untold, my friend,” Quinn said. “We will start anew here, you and I, should you be inclined to remain.”

  “I have no other place to go, as you well know. A younger son must make his fortune where he finds it.” Bayard turned to Quinn. “Perhaps it is fortunate that Niall and Amaury fell ill in Venice and Lothair remained to tend them. Lord de Tulley might not have been so glad to host twice our company.”

  “Or you might not have had sufficient to eat,” Quinn teased and Bayard laughed.

  “Oh, I am well and truly prepared to enjoy a feast,” he said. “And a hot bath. Not to mention a thick palette by a fire.”

  “The others will arrive in due time, though, and I would hope to have Sayerne fit to welcome them.”

  “They will all arrive in May, as agreed,” Bayard said, surveying the keep once more. He shook his head. “There is a great deal to be done, Quinn, and you have no villeins.”

  “Aye.” Quinn clasped his companion’s shoulder. “But Sayerne is mine, Bayard, and Lord de Tulley must mean to aid my success.”

  “At what price?” the other knight asked.

  “I do not care,” Quinn replied. “I will pay it, without hesitation.”

  Bayard eyed him for a moment, as if keeping some comment to himself.

  Then Michel appeared in the doorway to the hall. “My lord, I could not find the rat.”

  Bayard’s gaze trailed to the gate, but the clerk was already out of sight. “It seems that the lord’s messenger lost his appetite.”