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

by Claire Delacroix

  No, that would not do.

  I could find Connor MacDoughall, the man who was her father in truth. I could not help but consider that a poor option. What little I knew of Connor—that he was tight with his coin and lied to the pretty wenches he bedded—was scarcely an endorsement. And clearly, I could not return her to Inverfyre.

  But I could take her to Ravensmuir.

  I brightened at the prospect. It was perfect. My brother’s widow, Ysabella, already had a young brother. Why not another child underfoot? The prospect of seeking aid from my brother’s widow was daunting, since I had shamelessly deceived her when last we met, but surely she would feel compassion for a babe.

  The sorry truth was that my past deeds could affect this adorable child’s future, just as they had recently affected my own. That was not a comforting thought.

  Perhaps I could abandon the girl at Ravensmuir’s portal. She released my finger and gave me another toothless yet utterly charming smile. No, no, I would have to have Ysabella’s sworn pledge to raise this infant with care. No less would do.

  Perhaps the babe was hungry. I did not know what young children ate. Oh, babes suckled, I knew this, but I was not able to offer that particular choice.

  How could long she survive without food?

  How fast could I ride to Ravensmuir?

  As I watched, the babe tightened her face again, though this time, she did not cry out. She wrinkled her nose in a most delightful fashion and her cheeks pinkened. Her eyes closed tightly, as if she considered some philosophical matter deeply. I studied her, sensing that something was afoot, but did not comprehend the small sound that I heard emanate from her.

  She smiled at me sunnily as a fetid smell rose from her swaddling. I choked on the fumes. Indeed, my eyes watered. I peeked and nearly lost whatever was in my own gut. I had not realized that a babe could make such a mess. I was not certain what to do about it.

  Riding with all haste for Ravensmuir seemed the best course.

  It took four days to reach the coast, and they were the four longest days of my life. The babe cried and fussed for the first day, straining against my grip. When we reached a river, I tried to clean her bottom, but she only made another mess before I was done. In the end, she looked worse than she had afore I tried to clean her—at least she had begun with her swaddling neatly arranged.

  At first light in a tiny village, I charmed a maid who perched on a stool milking a stoic cow, then stole the bucket of milk when the maiden looked away. I sprinted back to the hidden babe and horse, and galloped several miles before halting to feed her. To my relief, the babe suckled heartily from the cloth I dipped into the milk.

  Then she vomited upon my shoulder.

  The second meal she seemed inclined to keep. She burped and hiccupped and howled the second day away, miring herself and taking solace solely from sucking upon my finger. I took the open road, uncaring whether any pursued me now or not. I had need of haste. I managed to get some water into her every few hours, and the occasional cup of milk.

  Everything seemed to erupt into her swaddling in doubled quantities and with astonishing speed.

  By the time I washed her on the third morning, her flesh was covered with an angry red rash. I was nigh mad with lack of sleep and worry for her survival.

  The last time a child’s fate had depended upon me, I had failed completely. I was determined not to repeat that particular sin.

  When the babe ceased to cry at all, I realized that silence was far worse than her weeping. She would not even take my finger that afternoon. Her tiny face was pale and her eyes remained closed no matter how I sang or cajoled her.

  Terrified that this soul entrusted to my care could be lost through my incompetence, I abandoned any thought of respite for the horse and rode through the night.

  We reached the coast north of Ravensmuir just before the dawn.

  Uncaring who saw me, I raced the horse along the cliffs, then dismounted before the furthest entry to the labyrinth that snaked beneath the keep. I led the horse into the darkness, whispering reassurances to it when it balked. There is a maze of tunnels beneath my family abode, a maze that I know as well as the shape of my own hand. It is disconcerting to step into dark tunnels, though, and more so for a horse. I nestled the silent child against my shoulder, and coaxed the horse onward.

  The babe was a mess, I knew this, and would do little to charm Ysabella into accepting responsibility for her. I still had no idea how to best make this proposal, which was most unlike me. I like to be prepared, but the babe had consumed my every thought.

  I carried her to a chamber directly below the keep where a warm stream trickled from the rock. The oil lanterns and flint were hidden where they always were, and I lit one lantern. I peeled off the babe’s clothing gently and whispered to her, telling her tales of how fine a life she would have here at Ravensmuir even as I feared that Ysabella would refuse me.

  “You must smile,” I bade her. “Smiles soften hearts and yours could melt a stone. You must open your eyes and smile, just as you did to me.”

  The babe was despondent. Her flesh looked so swollen and sore that I almost wept. I swaddled her when I had washed her as best as I was able and lifted her to my shoulder again, touching her cheek with a fingertip. “You can charm them, I know this well. Come, grant me one small smile to show that you yet can.”

  I sang the ditty to her, but this time, she made no response. She settled her face against my palm and sighed, a single tear leaking from the corner of her closed eye.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I whispered in dismay as I gathered her closer. “What have I done?”

  “I should think it quite evident what you have done,” Merlyn said quietly from the shadows behind me.

  I would have known my brother’s voice anywhere, no less his ability to move as quietly as a cat. I struggled not to jump, though I knew Merlyn to be dead. I turned slowly, as if unsurprised by his presence, fearing that madness had claimed my wits in my exhaustion.

  How much worse could it be to face a vengeful corpse?

  Merlyn stood there, wreathed in shadows, and looking remarkably solid and hale for a specter.

  My eyes narrowed at his smug smile. “There is nothing amusing about this.”

  “On the contrary, there is much amusing in finding you snared finally by the fruits of your own deeds.”

  “She is not mine!”

  Merlyn smiled with disbelief.

  “And you are said to be dead.”

  “Not yet, though I fear that truth may disappoint some.” Merlyn gave me a quelling glance, but I held his gaze. He strolled closer, then frowned. His gentle touch had the babe’s eyes opening so quickly that I was jealous of what he knew of children.

  Merlyn looked at me, his gaze dark with accusation. “This child is gravely ill, Gawain. From whence did she come? Where is her mother, or did you cast her aside for the sake of the child?”

  “The mother is dead.”

  “How charming,” Merlyn said wryly. “I shall hope that you had no involvement in that.” He plucked the babe from my grasp with enviable ease, as if I were incompetent beyond belief. His was the annoying manner of an older brother who knows best, and it irked me no less than it had when we were small. His frown deepened as he studied her. “God in heaven, Gawain, what have you done to this child?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Clearly. It is unlike even you to be so thoughtless.”

  “I did not know what to do with her or how to care for her, so I brought her here.” I straightened. “I hoped Ysabella would see fit to take the babe beneath her care.”

  Merlyn’s quick glance only fortified my own doubts. “After your last deceit? My lady has a considerable dislike of you since you lied to her and deceived her.”

  “But surely, for the sake of the child…”

  “If Ysabella agrees, she will accept the child from you, not for you.”

  “I do not care.”

  Merlyn studied me. “Why did
you even seize the babe? What advantage did you hope to secure?”

  “I did not seize her, nor was there any advantage I hoped to gain.” I was disgusted by my brother’s skepticism and my voice rose. “The grandmother mistook me for the child’s father. I had no choice.”

  “You could have abandoned the child.”

  I spoke with resolve. “No, I could not.”

  Merlyn spoke carefully, as if testing me. “Of course you could have done so. People abandon children all the time. Babes are left at monasteries and churches every day of the year.”

  “Nonetheless, I could not do it.” I felt him watch me as I lifted a finger to the babe’s cheek. “Will she recover?”

  Silence grew between us as my brother studied me. “It has been said that it would be a cold day in Hell that you gave a care for any other than yourself,” Merlyn mused.

  I shivered elaborately, then met his gaze in challenge.

  He smiled. “Do you not think it somewhat harsh to refer to our family abode as Hell?”

  “It has been no Heaven to me.”

  “Whose deeds ensured as much?”

  “The past is of no matter now, Merlyn. What is of concern is this child. She could have perished. She is so small and fragile.” The babe made an effort to smile at my touch, the expression wrenching my heart. “Do you think she will survive?”

  Merlyn watched me, apparently incredulous.

  “I do not know,” he said finally, his voice softer than it had been before. “But what of Michel? Does he not yet trot at your side like a loyal hound? Or did he become disenchanted with you when he learned you had not hung the stars and the moon?”

  I looked away, my mood newly grim at this untimely and unwelcome reminder. My words were tight, my voice unfamiliar to me. “Michel died.”

  Silence stretched long again, and I felt the urge to fidget beneath Merlyn’s gaze. I had heard others complain that his stillness made them believe that he could read their very thoughts, though I had always been immune to Merlyn’s ploys.

  Until this day.

  I thought I might scream in frustration by the time he finally sighed and shook his head. “Another casualty of your fleeting interest?”

  “Leave it be!” I snapped.

  Merlyn’s eyes widened briefly at my rare show of emotion before he shrugged. “Michel’s death is most unfortunate. He was a charming boy, if somewhat untrustworthy.”

  I flinched and I have no doubt that Merlyn noted that he had found a wound. When I said nothing further, he turned and walked toward one of the tunnels, the babe cuddled against his chest. “Extinguish the lanterns and bring your horse.”

  “Then you will aid her?”

  “The choice is not mine and you know that well.” He disappeared into the shadows, sure-footed and silent.

  Belatedly, it seemed somewhat of a poor idea to have tricked my tempestuous and outspoken sister-in-law.

  “I would make a wager with you, Merlyn!” I cried impulsively. It seemed suddenly critical to somehow to win his favor, at least. I had no doubt that he could sway Ysabella if he so chose. “For your pledge to raise the babe with care, I would return the Titulus Croce to you.”

  It was not what I had intended to say, but once the words passed my lips, I had no desire to rescind them. Merlyn must have pivoted, for I heard the grind of his boots upon the stone. He stepped briskly out of the shadows and halted before me, his gaze searching mine.

  “Let me see it,” he said crisply.

  “We should make haste…”

  “Forgive me, but I doubt that you even possess it any longer. You have been known to concoct a lie to suit your own needs, Gawain.”

  My fingers must have been cold, for I fumbled with the flap of my saddlebag in my haste to open it. I grasped the bundle there in both hands and offered it to my brother, like a supplicant before a vengeful deity.

  Merlyn’s expression was stony. “Unwrap it,” he said.

  I did so, my hands shaking. The wrappings fell away and I stared in shock at my so-called prize.

  Merlyn made a sound of disgust, then turned upon his heel once more. “Even now, you would try to deceive me,” he said with undisguised annoyance. “At least, you might have offered a decent forgery. What manner of fool do you take me to be?”

  Then Merlyn was gone, leaving me holding this remarkably crude forgery of the Titulus. I had not stolen this, this thing, I knew that well. I had checked the wrapped relic when I removed it from the church’s sanctuary and it had been the genuine Titulus.

  My prize had been exchanged while the bag was out of my possession, either by the thugs or by the old alewife.

  Undoubtedly the exchange had been done at Evangeline’s command. How galling that she had distracted me with mere lust, the oldest trick known to man! I was disgusted with myself far more than I was with her.

  Indeed, I felt a shred of admiration for the lady’s cunning.

  I swore, flung the useless piece of wood aside, and then hastened after Merlyn. The exchange was a trick worthy of one of my own deceptions! How humiliating to have the jest played upon me—how untimely to have Merlyn think my estimation of him so low. Had there not been a child’s survival at stake, I might have found it amusing that Evangeline had outwitted me so adeptly—again.

  But I had to ensure the care of my ward, and quickly. Ysabella would have no qualms in refusing, simply because I was the one who asked for her favor, and Merlyn would certainly now be less inclined to argue for me. I would need all my charm.

  And perhaps one of my babe’s endearing smiles.

  My lips set grimly as I marched toward the keep. Matters were not resolved betwixt Evangeline and me, that much was clear.

  A Cornered Queen

  Evangeline

  VII

  March, 1372

  I stand in the small cemetery outside of Inverfyre’s walls. A glistening half moon pours silver light upon the ground and the carved stones. I can see my objective clearly. There is only one stone I visit, one stone that draws my footsteps in sleep.

  The tree boughs are barren overhead, black veins against the deep blue of the sky. A wind begins to gust as I walk and the branches clatter above me.

  Like bones rolling in a grave, fighting to rise anew.

  It is cold, colder than Hell could ever be, as my father used to say. He had a vision of Hell not as fiery torment, but as relentless cold. He spoke of Hell’s denizens slowly turning blue, losing digits and then limbs. Immortal but doomed, they were condemned to suffer frostbite and cold for all eternity.

  His was a vision wrought of a lifetime in a northern clime, of gray winters, of empty larders and emptier bellies, of bloodless fingertips and lost toes, of falling asleep so cold that one half-wishes to never awaken.

  I hear his dire predictions once again as the chill permeates my bones, as I make my way to his grave. Surely my father never learned whether his vision was the truth?

  Or is Hell to be compelled to endure one’s own worst fear forever, each to his own as it were?

  A peregrine cries—inevitably, for this is Inverfyre—the shadow of her outstretched wings passing over me. I shiver and hasten on, nearly falling into the hole before my father’s stone.

  His grave is open. It is always open in my dreams, not as if freshly dug but as if my father forced his way out of his dark prison. I recoil as always I do, stepping back into some soft mire that nigh stops my heart. A scream sticks in my throat. Being struck mute in the face of disaster is my deepest terror and I taste it yet again.

  I spin, intending to flee, and halt at the specter come silently to stand behind me. I recognize it immediately.

  It is my father, or some rotted replica of my father. The fine garments in which he was buried hang from his flesh, nay, the flesh hangs from his very bones. The bones themselves glow in the moonlight, discernible through the gaping flesh. Clumps of dirt hang from his hands; soil is embedded beneath his uncommonly long nails.

  But despite
the similarities, it is not my father. The eye sockets of his skull are filled with yawning emptiness. There is not a spark of his soul here, in torment or otherwise. Bile rises in my throat as this half-rotted obscenity, this man dead but not dead, raises a hand toward me.

  I almost take a step back, then check myself, recalling the open grave in time.

  He laughs with my father’s laugh, and I shudder that the familiar merry sound should emanate from this monstrosity. His teeth rattle in accompaniment to his laughter, rotten flesh slides further from his temple.

  “No,” I whisper. “No.” I edge sideways, for this cannot be the fate of my beloved father.

  He pursues me, without appearing to move. “Wicked Evangeline, wicked child,” he whispers, his voice echoing from all sides. He grows impossibly larger, his voice increasing in volume. Condemnation resonates in every word that issues from the foul hole of his mouth. “I know what you have done!”

  I turn and run, stumbling over my feet, my hem, the stones, the tufts of winter-deadened grass. I feel the cold of his pursuit, feel his darkness embrace me, hear his words echo inside my very skull even as his dank chill engulfs me. I choke on the fetid air of rotted flesh and wet soil and grave. I seize the portal of the keep with desperate fingers.

  “I know what you have done, daughter mine!” he cries, the words rising to an unearthly howl. “And for this sin, you will pay!”

  I awakened abruptly in my own bed, heart pounding, sweat trickling down my back. The stone portal in my dreams proved to be no more than my linens, my knuckles white from the tightness of my grip upon salvation. The rasp of my uneven breathing filled my achingly familiar chamber and I realized with relief that I was alone.

  A pale sunbeam made its way through the window and gilded a square upon the cold floor. The hunting horn sounded again in the distance, awakening Fergus’ men, and I heard the falcons cry out in anticipation of fresh kill.