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

by Claire Delacroix

  I knew with utter conviction that my brother Merlyn’s faithful servant, Rhys Fitzwilliam, must have been at the root of this deed. Merlyn alone had known the value of the religious relic I had carried—though he was dead, he might not have held his tongue when he had yet lived. If his widow had told Fitz of my deceit of her, then loyal Fitz would have fetched the relic back.

  I had to concede that Fitz’s strategy had been a clever one. No man would suspect a whore of such a scheme, though her uncommon beauty and her determination should have warned me. There had been moments when I had wondered, but she had been clever enough to distract me from my own suspicions.

  I admired that, even if it irked me. Fitz might be loyal and he—or his consort—might have outwitted me once, but I would triumph in the end.

  I always do.

  The fat keeper and his fatter wife were breaking their bread in the common room, both half-rising to their feet at the sight of me.

  “Too many bites from the bed for a fine lord like yourself?” the keeper asked. He smiled amiably as he spoke, but his flicking gaze revealed his uncertainty.

  Perhaps he was complicit with Fitz and the thieving wench. “Where is the whore?” I demanded more sharply than I might have preferred.

  The wife sniffed and sat straighter. “We have no whores in our tavern.”

  Her husband held out a hand to her in caution, and if anything, his smile broadened. He was fretful and well he should be. “Lightened your purse, did she? You are not the first, sir, to not see past your prick, nor will you be the last.”

  “She cheated me.” I took a steadying breath. “I would speak with her and see the matter corrected.”

  The keeper shifted his weight uneasily. “Understand that I want no trouble, sir, but whores are what they are and there is little an honest man can do…”

  “Where is she?”

  “Will you have a cup of ale, sir?” His manner was intended to placate me, but instead, it infuriated me. “Upon the house. Nothing sweetens the morn better than a draught of ale.”

  “Drives out the damp,” the wife added and rose to fetch a cup.

  I leaned my fists upon the board and spoke through gritted teeth. “I want the girl.”

  The keeper chuckled though the sound was not merry. “Oh, it is a young man who can think solely of rutting so early in the day.”

  “Or a fornicator,” the wife muttered, setting the cup down before me with a bit too much force. She spared me a glance. “If you forgive me speaking so bold, sir, it is a priest you should be seeking this morn, that you might fall upon your knees and beg forgiveness for your sins. You should not be seeking to repeat them.”

  “I thank you for your counsel.” I spoke so tersely that she flinched. “You evade the matter with such diligence that I am persuaded that you are part of her cheating scheme. How much did she render to you?”

  The keeper flushed scarlet, bounced to his feet and jabbed a finger through the air at me. “This is a reputable tavern! There are no whores in my alehouse, upon that my name rests.”

  “Perhaps you merely turn a blind eye to what is evident to all others, for clearly there was a whore in your common room last night.”

  “I never saw that girl afore!” he roared, well and truly insulted now. “I thought she knew you.”

  “No.”

  “But she…”

  “She played a game and I indulged her.” Too late I saw that my clever wench had known that this keeper would not have tolerated her presence, had he been certain of her trade.

  She was wily, nigh as wily as me. Her scheme had ensured that nothing was left to chance—and I had to admire that, if grudgingly. Fitz’s strategy had been brilliant, and his partner uncommonly bold.

  “Mark my words,” the keeper huffed, “had I known her intent, I would have cast her back into the streets. She will not be welcome here again, upon that you may rely.”

  “You must know her, or at least have seen her before. York is not so large as that.”

  “Never has she crossed this threshold,” the keeper insisted stubbornly. “Never. I have never seen her, this I know to be fact.” He met my gaze. “She is a woman any man would recall.”

  His wife drew herself taller, but I believed him.

  The keeper must have guessed that my complaint was no longer with him, for he sat down heavily and took a swig of his ale. “I am sorry that you were cheated, sir, though there is little to be done. You can hie yourself to the sheriff and he may tell his men to seek her, or he may mock your folly, but I doubt he will find her.”

  “It is true enough.” I lifted the cup of ale grimly, not in the least bit consoled.

  The wife harrumphed, her expression making clear her opinion of fornicators and whores and their ultimate fate.

  I cast my glance around the rough hall, thinking. The road was not safe for women traveling alone, especially when darkness fell. Even if Fitz had accompanied my whore this far, she had entered the tavern alone. I had to admire her audacity. Any foul fate could have befallen her—and she was not witless, so she had known the risk.

  She had taken that risk, because she had also known the value of the prize. I felt an unwelcome kinship for this woman, though I pushed such sentimentality aside. I drained my cup and set it down upon the board, determined to find her myself.

  I could do no less. The relic she had stolen was not only mine by right and by pledge, but it alone could see my future secured. It is the mark of a good thief to not leave without the item that thief has come to retrieve.

  I am an excellent thief, let you have no doubt of that.

  When I turned away, the keeper caught at my sleeve. “The wench left a missive for you, sir, I nigh forgot. There are days when I would forget my own name, and that is the truth of it, sir.”

  I assumed this would be a gloating message from Fitz, one that told me little other than that he had triumphed and deservedly so. I was tempted to not collect it. Still, I dared not risk ignoring whatever clue he might unwittingly surrender.

  The missive was mine for a penny and it was worth every morsel of silver.

  My dearest Gawain Lammergeier—

  So you think yourself a thief beyond compare! It seems you have competition for that honor. Not only have I proven your estimation of your talents to be undeserved, but I have reclaimed what is rightfully mine own.

  Retrieve the Titulus Croce, if you dare.

  I thank you, by the way, for the generous gift of your steed in compense for your poor performance abed. In truth, I had expected a better ride, given your reputation, but we both know that reputations are oft finer than the truth. You need not fear for my welfare while riding such a costly and large destrier, for I am adept in the taming of spirited stallions.

  Yours in dreams alone—

  Evangeline

  Evangeline?

  I read the missive twice, so astounded was I by its contents. Not only was Fitz not responsible, but I had been cheated by a stranger. I knew that I had never before met this Evangeline who had spent the night so delightfully wrapped around me.

  But she had not confused me with another. There was my name, writ in her hand. She was lettered. I had the unfamiliar sense that I had been neatly targeted.

  I had been prey, I who was always predator. You will forgive that it took me some moments to reconcile myself to this unwelcome truth.

  She was no whore, this Evangeline who could write and who taunted me to retrieve my due. She not only knew who I was, but she knew precisely what she had stolen from me.

  Sadly, I did not know who she was—not until I tipped the missive in the slanting light and studied the imprint of a seal. The crest was oval, the falcon within it clearly discernible. Understanding dawned with my recognition of the mark.

  Inverfyre! So much that had previously puzzled me now made sense. I welcomed another cup of ale from the keeper, now so anxious to please me, and considered this unexpected circumstance.

  You see, I knew
Inverfyre, if not well then well enough. It had been fifteen years since my father and I had stolen the religious relic known as the Titulus Croce from that very keep.

  Yes, the very relic that Evangeline had just stolen from me.

  You see the matter more clearly now. Though still I did not know her association with Inverfyre, the very fact that she had one told me a great deal.

  I folded the missive carefully, then tapped it upon the board. I saw Evangeline again in my mind’s eye, her confident swagger as she made her way toward me across the smoke-filled tavern, the sparkle of challenge in her eyes and the audacious smile upon her lips.

  There is something seductive about a woman who knows what she desires and is unafraid to confess as much. Even the recollection sent heat through my loins. And there is something rare about a woman prepared to take a risk to win her desire. I smiled despite myself, recalling the splendor of our nigh sleepless night. Hers was a noblewoman’s name, so I had not erred in thinking her too fine to be a common whore.

  But I had erred in trusting her. And I had erred in assuming that Fitz was somehow behind this deed. Evangeline had surprised me twice in one morn, a considerable feat. Now, this bold woman taunted me to confront her again, to collect what she had stolen while I slept, exhausted by her passion.

  The very prospect quickened my pulse.

  I was not fool enough to imagine that she would not be expecting me to take her bait. No, a woman of Evangeline’s intellect dared me only because she was certain she would win the successive encounter as well.

  I tucked her missive into my chemise. Aye, she would be ensconced behind Inverfyre’s gates, waiting to spring a trap upon me. A dozen stalwart men no doubt defended her, and iron bars must already surround the relic I would make mine again.

  Inverfyre, I remembered dimly, was remote and secured with high walls, perched upon a cliff better suited to peregrines than to men. Indeed, it existed solely because of the hunting birds that could be found there—there was not a hunting man in Christendom who did not burn for a falcon from Inverfyre’s famed mews.

  I would not hasten to arrive there, nay, I would give Evangeline time to conclude that I did not pursue her. I would grant her time to become confident and more bold.

  More bold? The very prospect was tantalizing.

  The prize at stake was, of course, the Titulus Croce. Do not be troubled if you do not know it: few know it by its Latin name. Recall, if you will, the scripture in the Gospel of John regarding the crucifixion of Christ: “And Pontius Pilate wrote a title, and put it on the cross. And the writing was JESUS OF NAZARETH, KING OF THE JEWS. This title then read many of the Jews: for the place where Jesus was crucified was nigh to the city: and it was written in Hebrew, and Greek and Latin.”

  That is, incidentally, the only scripture that I know. Mine is not an occupation that allows one to rely overmuch on divine providence, or to enjoy pondering the reward of sin. My father taught this verse to me all those years past, when we waited to spring our plan upon Inverfyre, and still I remember it.

  What Evangeline had stolen from me was a part of the whole, the sole part known to yet exist. There is speculation among those who fret about such things that the Titulus was severed, that part was granted to the eastern empire and part to the west, back when the Romans yet ruled Christendom.

  The relic itself is believed to have been discovered by the party of Helena, mother of the emperor Constantine. Ah, you do recall—he was the emperor who not only became Christian, but severed the Roman Empire into two halves, establishing a city in his own name in the east. Constantinople remains a place of considerable refinement and many pleasures.

  (Perhaps I should acquire a villa there with my reward, instead of Sicily. Courtesy of Evangeline, I had plentiful time to consider my options.)

  Is the Titulus real? Who is to say? And, more importantly, why should I care? It is the sole fragment with a claim to such ancestry, and as such, it has a remarkably high value. This is why I covet it. It is my reward, my release from the company of crude men and vulgar locales. It is the compense I should have had a hundred times over for my services, a compense that I ultimately had to steal. Always I was known as the thief in the family, but in securing every last speck of my father’s property, Merlyn proved to be the more agile thief.

  He did not live to savor his triumph long, but still it irks me. After my years of cunning, after my irreplaceable contributions to the building of my father’s trade—one cannot, after all, trade in religious relics without having such relics in one’s possession—after years of loyalty, I was left with not one crumb from my father’s table.

  Is the wound bitter? No longer, but I know better now than to believe the pledge of any living soul. A man can rely upon himself alone. I relied upon my father and even that was too much. The lesson has been learned.

  Indeed, I believe it was uncommonly generous of me to settle this debt with solely one relic of the thousands Merlyn inherited. This fragment of wood, sold with care, would enable me to repose in luxury in that Sicilian villa for all my days and nights.

  And no whore—or even a thief pretending to be a whore—would cost me the sole prize I desired.

  I finally took the road to Inverfyre on the morn of January 25, the very day that Saint Paul’s conversion is celebrated by the devout. It had been three weeks since Evangeline and I had so thoroughly sampled each other’s wares.

  I had lingered. I had drunk and I had slept and I had eaten and I had ambled from one village to the next, with no clear destination in mind. I had listened, because I cannot cease to listen, and I had watched, because that is a habit of my trade.

  And I had thought rather too much about a woman who had met me touch for touch. Evangeline haunted my dreams by night and dominated my thoughts by day. No whore had ever reveled in every caress as she had, no virgin could have been so awed by the passion betwixt us.

  A more whimsical man than I might have said there was a curious magic between us, perhaps an attraction greater than mere lust. I knew that I had simply not had enough of Evangeline to be sated. Another night between her thighs, I was certain, would loose me from her spell.

  I whistled at the dancing snowflakes as I finally took the road to Inverfyre. The day was remarkably bright, though it had begun to snow soon after I and my recently acquired horse left the last village’s walls. The snow was pretty, my mood improving with each step I took closer to Inverfyre.

  As the road climbed, however, the snow began to fall in earnest. This snow tumbled from the sky in fat, wet clumps that accumulated with alarming speed.

  The horse, a short shaggy beast, proved itself worth every silver penny it had cost me. It bent its head against the wind and strode onward with heartening fortitude. By midday, however, the road was so slippery underfoot that the horse stopped, obstinately refusing to go on.

  I dismounted, intending to lead the horse, and was halted by the press of silence. I heard nothing at all, not a bird, neither a rustle nor another footstep. I fancied I could hear the snowflakes landing on the barren tree branches all around me. I glanced back to find that our footsteps were already being obscured. I realized belatedly that I had not seen another soul since the morning.

  And dread began to tickle my belly.

  I am a man of villages and towns, a man accustomed to the murmur of conversations just beyond earshot. I am a man who endeavors to accomplish his labor without awakening those who sleep within dangerous proximity. I am a man who sits on the periphery of the assembly, but is part of it nonetheless. To be utterly alone, save for a horse, was a new experience for me and not an entirely welcome one.

  I could die in this woods and none would know of it.

  Fewer would care.

  Have you been to Scotland’s shores? If not, I suggest you forgo the dubious pleasure. Not only is the weather foul and the fare scarcely better, but the land itself seems wrought by some sorcerer.

  It has moods.

  Oh, I have
not lost my wits. One glimpse of these valleys piled with mist and these peaks shrouded by low clouds, and one realizes why the Celts have always insisted that the world of unseen matters is woven tightly with our own. To be sure, there are rocks and mosses and hills and dales much like any other land, but in this one, every leaf and stone seems alive.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  This is a land occupied by wraiths and shadows, a place of dreams, an abode of nightmares. The people’s tales are filled with mournful ghosts and vengeful specters, of mischievous imps and malicious faeries, and not because the Celts are whimsical. No, I have never seen more stern and pragmatic souls in all my days, nor any more accurate to the measure.

  No, it is the place itself that provides the wellspring for these stories. Tales abound of the fey seizing mortals for their own pleasure and entertainment, of ghosts luring mortals to their demise, of wayward travelers disappearing forever into the mist. The stories were as old as the hills and perhaps not untrue. I had heard a thousand variants upon these themes in the taverns I had frequented these past weeks.

  I carry my own nightmares. Indeed, in some corner of my thoughts, I believe I knew from the moment I set foot on Scotland’s shores that a wraith was stalking me.

  It found me here.

  “Gawain!”

  I jumped, so certain was I of my solitude. I looked back in alarm, desperately seeking the boy who had shouted my name.

  Oh yes, I knew it was a boy. I knew his name, I knew the look of him, I knew how his wavy chestnut hair hung long on his neck and tumbled into his eyes, how he shoved it away with his grimy knuckles to no avail. I knew the agility of his fingers and the speed with which he could run.

  I turned slowly, seeking his running figure in the snow, his clothing stained and tattered, his arms and legs too thin. I sought his running figure between the trees, darting from shadow to shadow.