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

by Claire Delacroix

  She was heating the cider over the fire when the door to the gardens was opened. Bayard entered the kitchen, shaking rain out of his cloak and hood. His eyes glinted when his gaze danced over her, but he did not speak to her.

  Berthe straightened and turned her back upon Sir Rogue.

  “Is it always so foul here?” he asked the cook.

  “Only in the spring,” George said. “You will see. It will rain and rain, until you think we have need of an ark. The snow will melt and the river will over-run its banks. The mud will be plentiful and deep, and just when you think you cannot bear to see another drop of rain, the sun will appear.” He snapped his fingers.

  “The air will turn warm, immediately,” Louis confirmed. “The birds will sing and the valley will turn lush and green.” He shook his head. “It seems to change in the blink of an eye, and then there is labor to be done in truth.”

  “So either there is rain or work,” Bayard said. “I see little merry in that combination.”

  “But then the growing begins,” the cook said with enthusiasm. “I will be very happy to have the first wild leeks of the season, perhaps for the sauce of a venison stew.”

  “We are all well and done with potage vegetables by the spring,” Louis agreed.

  “Is there any food sweeter than the first berry?” George demanded and soon everyone in the kitchen was talking of summer’s bounty.

  Berthe smiled as she listened, and swirled the cider.

  A man’s hand appeared in the periphery of her vision and she jumped, colliding with Bayard who stood directly behind her and spilling a measure of cider. “You startled me, Sir Rogue,” she chided, keenly aware of his proximity. “Though I anticipate that was your scheme.”

  She halfway expected him to wrap his other arm around her waist or bend down to whisper in her ear—indeed, she hoped for as much, but he stepped back and disappointment made her irritable. Was she not sufficiently desirable for this knight even to flirt with her?

  “I wished to ask you something of Annossy,” he said and she glanced his way. “My lord Quinn would know every way in and out of both keep and solar. Do you know of any that are secret?”

  Berthe looked down at the cider. “Have you asked my lady?”

  “Should I?”

  “I doubt she would tell you,” she said, turning to meet his steady gaze. “If indeed she knew of one.”

  Bayard eyed her for a long moment, then nodded. “I wanted also to ask you what you thought of this.” He spoke quietly, as if for her ears alone, and she found his expression unexpectedly serious. In his hand, he held a small dark bottle that looked to have some liquid within it.

  “What is that?”

  “A token of the East,” he said. “It was given to me as a gift.”

  “By a lady?” Berthe could not keep suspicion from her tone.

  Bayard shook his head. “Nay, a keeper whose tavern we favored. We were eight and when we said we rode for home, I think he knew he would miss our custom. He gave each of us a gift.” He held up the bottle so that it caught the light. It was not black glass, as Berthe had originally thought, but glass of a very deep blue. “This was mine.” His gaze met hers and his eyes seemed even darker than she knew them to be.

  “What was it like?” she asked on impulse. “In Palestine?”

  Bayard exhaled. “I do not think you truly want to know.”

  “Aye, I do. The priest talks of it as if it is a paradise...”

  “It is no paradise, to my thinking.” His voice was grim.

  “Then tell me.”

  “It is different from all I knew before,” Bayard admitted, his gaze fixed on the glass bottle. He turned it in his hand, apparently fascinated by the way it caught the light. Berthe guessed that he was sorting his memories and choosing which to share with her. She wondered how many horrors he had witnessed. “Because it is hot and dusty, and I was thirsty all the time I was there. We fought nigh all the time we were there, unless we were idle and waiting for the call to battle. Either I was fighting for my life and that of my comrades or we played endless games of draughts.” He lifted his gaze to hers again. “Men died on all sides, yet I have never felt that any endeavor was so futile.”

  “But you must have won battles and regained territory.”

  “Aye, and like as not, lost them again afterward. It is, in its way, another endless game of draughts, save that men die when they lose.” Bayard frowned and took a deep breath. “And yet it is familiar, because there are people tilling the fields and harvesting crops, cooking and praying, and living.”

  “Then you did not like it at all.”

  “I liked that I met my comrades, like Quinn,” he said. “I saw places that I had only heard the priests talk about, places I had never been certain were real. I tasted foods that were unknown to me, and I was glad of all that.” He smiled at the little bottle and her heart twisted at the sight.

  God in heaven, but he was an alluring man. If he spoke to her thus all the time, she would lose her heart in moments.

  It had to be a ploy to get beneath her skirts, and Berthe tried to remember that.

  “But what is best of all is the gift that my comrade Quinn gives to me,” he said solemnly. “For it is both unexpected and my heart’s desire.”

  “What is that?”

  “He asks me to remain here with him, at Annossy or Sayerne, to serve him.”

  “How is that a gift?” Berthe asked, confused. “You served together, but now you will pledge fealty to your friend?”

  “And willingly, for Quinn grants to me a home.” His eyes shone then and Berthe’s heart skipped. “I have been without a home for many years, and indeed, that is why I went on crusade. I hoped to find some measure of fortune, but I found better. I came to this place and have been offered a home and a position—and better yet, I met the most intriguing maiden.”

  “Here comes the tale!” Berthe scoffed but Bayard shook his head.

  “There is no tale.” He offered her the bottle. “And as a token of my intentions, I give this bottle to you.”

  Berthe frowned in confusion.

  Bayard took her hand and placed the small bottle within it. The glass was warm from his hand, and his hand was warmer as he folded her fingers around it. He leaned closer. “Open it and think of me.” Then he smiled, nodded, and strode away.

  Berthe opened her hand and looked at the bottle. Was this a tale he told to all the maidens he desired? Did he tell her this tale because he did not desire her? What an irksome man. She could not fathom what he desired of her at all.

  She put down the pot of cider and gently removed the stopper from the glass bottle. It was tight, but then, she supposed it had been sealed all the way from Palestine. She took a sniff of the contents and blinked.

  It was scent.

  A wondrous, exotic, glorious scent. Berthe could not name it, but it made her toes curl. It made her feel warm and alert. It filled her with anticipation, and desire. She took a deeper breath of it, closing her eyes as the beguiling scent slid through her. It loosed her inhibitions, which should not have surprised her in the least.

  She put the stopper back and dropped the bottle into her purse, its weight there a reminder of the intensity of Bayard’s expression. It was when she was pouring the cider into the cup for her lady that she realized the import of what he had confided in her.

  He meant to remain at Annossy.

  He meant to make a home here or at Sayerne, in service to Lord Quinn.

  She did not need to fear that he would tempt her affection and then disappear.

  And he had given her a gift, given it to her and no other. She looked but he had left the kitchen, perhaps returning to either stable or hall.

  Berthe considered the import of that.

  What if Sir Rogue was not such a rogue after all?

  She left the cider, asking a scullery maid to tend it for a moment, and ran after Bayard. She found him outside the stables, conferring with the ostler, but he tu
rned as if he had guessed she would follow.

  Or hoped she had. For his eyes lit with a pleasure that told Berthe her instinct was right.

  “I think it wondrous,” she told him, then stretched up to whisper in his ear. “It is said that a man can climb the tower on the side furthest from the gates, that there are handholds and footholds hidden in the stone, and that the solar can be gained that way.”

  “Why would anyone allow such a course to exist?” Bayard asked.

  “It is said that the lord could retake the solar thus, if it was held against him.” She smiled and shrugged. “I do not know if it is true, but the grey stone is said to be the place to begin.”

  Bayard smiled then and bent down so quickly for a kiss that she had no chance to evade him.

  Or so she told herself.

  “I thank you,” he whispered, then touched his lips to hers again. Before he could have more ideas, Berthe pivoted and hastened back to the kitchen, her cheeks burning and her heart racing. She was well aware that Bayard watched her all the way and that there was something new in his expression.

  He meant to stay.

  The night fell like a black cloak over the valley and the rain drummed upon the roof of Annossy. Melissande moved from window to window in the solar, seeking some sign of Quinn’s return. There was only darkness in every direction and the gleam of water on every surface.

  She stood with her cloak wrapped tightly around herself and considered the myriad possibilities. He could have been injured. He could have been thrown from his steed and be lying in need of aid. He could have been attacked by brigands and left to die. He could have forded the river in a poor location and been swept away, taken by surprise by the rising water.

  He could have abandoned her.

  But no man of sense would surrender a holding so rich as Annossy. Quinn had taken the seal, though.

  Perhaps he only left her.

  The fact remained that he had vowed to return this very night. Melissande reminded herself that Quinn kept his pledges and feared that something had gone awry.

  It made no sense to worry about Quinn. The man had been all the way to Palestine and back. He had fought in crusade, been imprisoned and wounded, and survived it all. He was clearly strong, but the longer he was gone, the more Melissande worried.

  There was naught that she could do and Melissande did not like that truth a whit.

  Nay, there was one thing she could do, one deed that Quinn did not fulfill this night.

  She donned her heaviest cloak and settled herself beside the window that faced the mill. Quinn was not at home to watch for the fire that would signal an attack on the mill, so Melissande would watch in his stead.

  ’Twas the duty of a wife and lady of the keep and she would not disappoint her lord husband.

  The rain fell incessantly once it started, continuing through the night. The river rose ever higher and the mist was so close to the ground the next morning that it felt as if Annossy had been swallowed by the clouds. Sound was both muffled and amplified and Melissande was tired, having sat at the window all the night long. Gaultier was in a sour mood, and tempers were short in the great hall. She returned to the books and Berthe brought her mending to sit beside her. Melissande wondered if she was the only one listening for hoof beats.

  When she heard them, it was late afternoon. She looked up, scarcely daring to believe, then rose to her feet when there was a shout from the curtain wall.

  “My lord Quinn returns!” cried a man and there was cheer from the villagers.

  Melissande put away the ledgers, leaving Louis to secure them, then hurried to the bailey. The gates were open by the time she reached it, and a party rode through. She recognized Quinn’s destrier immediately, that beast stamping and snorting as he was reined in to a halt. Quinn doffed his helmet and tossed it to Michel, then grinned at her. “My lady!” he said and swung from the saddle, bowing before her with such powerful grace that her mouth went dry.

  “My lord,” she said and curtseyed to him. “I am glad to see you returned.”

  “Are you?” he murmured, his smile widening as she blushed a little. He caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm, then spun her to face the two men who rode with him. “I would introduce two more of my comrades from Palestine, Luc and Thierry Douglas.”

  God in heaven, how many of them would there be? Despite her concerns, Melissande smiled and greeted the knights, glad beyond all that they each had only a single squire.

  Four more horses, though.

  Quinn bent down to whisper to her, the heat of his breath stirring her hair and disrupting her calculations. To her surprise, there was humor in his tone and she found herself glad when the weight of his hand landed on the back of her waist. “And as I have learned much from my lady already, I brought smoked eels from Tulley as well as more wine.”

  Melissande’s lips parted as a cart came into view behind the knights and their steeds. It was pulled by a sturdy mare and laden with barrels.

  “How did you afford it?” she whispered.

  Quinn smiled. “My lord Tulley was inclined to grant me a gift, and I had the wits, thanks to you, to name something of use.”

  “Why did he give you a gift?” she whispered, and he laughed.

  “I see we share a view of Lord de Tulley and his intentions,” Quinn said. “Come, my lady, to the hall. I have tidings to share with the people of Annossy.”

  What was this?

  “But our guests...”

  “Louis!” Quinn called and that man appeared immediately. The older man surrendered a key to Melissande as soon as he had bowed to Quinn.

  “Welcome home, my lord.”

  “And I am well met. Louis, could you see to the welfare of my guests? I fear, like all of my companions arriving from the East, they would give much for a hot bath.”

  Gaultier folded his arms across his chest to watch, but Melissande turned away from him. She was keenly aware of the weight of his dagger, hidden beneath her skirts.

  “Of course, my lord. I shall see the arrangements made immediately, my lord.” Louis bowed again, then whistled for the ostler, setting half the household to running.

  Quinn looked down at the key, then met Melissande’s gaze.

  “It is for the trunk that secures the ledgers,” she said, then realizing his import, offered the key to Quinn.

  His smile was blindingly bright and the sight dazzled her.

  His words startled her even more. “I would ask you to hold it in trust for me, my lady. Louis has told me that you have a great talent with the books and take pride in their clarity.”

  “I do.”

  “Then perhaps you might continue that labor, for sums are not my strength.”

  Melissande was astonished again and could only nod agreement. Her fingers closed around the key and she felt gratitude for this responsibility.

  “I hope that you will explain them to me, at your leisure.”

  “Of course.”

  “And now I bring tidings from Tulley,” Quinn said, raising his voice and addressing the villagers who had gathered in the bailey. “Lord de Tulley wishes the fields at Sayerne to be tilled this year, for he desires the grain of the harvest. Many of you will know that I do not hold the seal of my father’s holding and have no chance of gaining it before my lady and I have been wedded a year and been delivered of a son.” There was whispering at this, for not all had heard the details or been assured of their truth. Melissande wondered why Quinn confided this to the villagers.

  How like Tulley to insist that the fields be tilled so he could claim the harvest. She folded her arms across her chest, unable to hide her disapproval of this notion.

  But Quinn smiled, against all expectation. “No doubt he thought me a simple knight and crusader, one who knew little of practicalities. Already Lord de Tulley has forgotten the measure of the wife he himself granted to me.” Quinn turned his smile upon Melissande and she found herself blushing. He shook a finger. “I kn
ow that seed is not found free of charge and I doubt that fields that have been left untilled will be easy to sow. I know that it is a goodly ride to Sayerne from Annossy, too far to journey there and back each day to work the fields. I have been to Sayerne of late and seen that there is no place to abide and naught to eat. I know also that my lady wishes to defend the prosperity of Annossy, and rightly so, even against the needs of Sayerne.”

  Melissande watched and listened, intrigued.

  “And so I said unto Lord de Tulley that his will could not be done.”

  The company gasped.

  “Unless, of course, he was inclined to be of aid in the pursuit of his goal.”

  The villagers laughed at this and jostled each other, their expressions expectant.

  “And so I offer to you a choice. Lord de Tulley declares that he will send seed, that he will send food and materials and men to rebuild Sayerne, and that he will do all of this in exchange for one third of the harvested grain.”

  Melissande blinked in surprise. The villagers murmured to each other and conversations began in the crowd.

  Quinn had to raise his voice to finish. “And so I ask, for you are pledged to me and my service, and I know that many of you came to Annossy from Sayerne. If you would choose to return to Sayerne, come and tell me of your desire. We shall decide how many can be supported, sheltered and defended, and begin to rebuild Sayerne.” He took Melissande’s hand. “In the hope that my lady and I will welcome a son before the year is out and the seal of that holding will be ours as well.”

  There was a cheer at this notion, and Melissande could not evade the truth of how pleased many of the villeins were. Home was home, she wagered, and she guessed that they would prefer to return to the place of their memories.

  “You go too far in this, sir,” Gaultier said, stepping to Melissande’s side. “You cannot take villeins from Annossy to Sayerne, not without the approval of Lady Melissande.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed and he held fast to Melissande’s hand. “Your understanding of the law is limited, Gaultier,” he said.