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

by Claire Delacroix

  “He pulled the jar into the boat with some effort, seeing that the cork was sealed into the top with wax. He noted the mark of Solomon cast into the copper and pressed into the wax, and was heartened that he could sell the copper jar. That ancient king had been known for his wisdom and his riches, and so the fisherman hoped there might be something additional inside the jar that he could sell, as well. He broke the wax seal with his knife and removed the cork. Smoke erupted from the jar in such volume that he was momentarily blinded. The smoke gathered itself and he was confronted by a massive djinn.”

  The men chuckled and nodded in anticipation, while Elizabeth lifted one hand to her lips, rapt.

  “The djinn was black and red, larger than a house, wrought of smoke and fury. The fisherman was terrified by the sight of this being and cowered in the bottom of his boat. The djinn seized the fisherman, telling him to choose how he would die. It proved that the djinn believed he had been released only for Solomon to kill him, so he assumed the fisherman was a minion of that great king. The fisherman told the djinn that Solomon had been dead for many centuries, hoping this would spare his life, but the djinn still told him to choose the method of his own execution. The fisherman, intent upon surviving as long as possible, asked why the djinn demanded this of someone who had never done him any harm.”

  Rafael smiled. “Scheherazade paused her tale at that point because the sky was lightening in the east outside the window’s of the king’s palace. She pointed this out to her new husband, reminding him that the day was beginning. The king wished to linger to hear the end of the tale, but his servants were at the portal. His morning meal and his bath were prepared, the Grand Vizier awaited him, there was a court of justice to be held on his day. And so the king reluctantly left his new wife, burning with curiosity as to why the djinn would so punish one who had done him a favor. He decided before he had finished his bath that he would permit Scheherazade to live another day, that she might complete her tale.”

  The men laughed uproariously at this, and Elizabeth smiled with satisfaction.

  “And so it was that in the evening, king and wife feasted again, and retired to the king’s chamber again, and coupled with enthusiasm again. When he was sated, the king put his head in Scheherazade’s lap and commanded her to finish her tale.

  “Scheherazade reminded the king that the fisherman has asked the djinn why he must die. The djinn confided that he had been confined for many centuries. The king, it must be said, asked why the djinn still believed that Solomon lived, if he knew it had been so long, and Scheherazade gently reminded him that Solomon had been said to live for centuries and that many of his fellows had thought the great king might be immortal. The king nodded, much enamored of this notion of kings and their longevity.”

  “So he would be,” Gunter muttered.

  “No man of wealth and power imagines he will die,” agreed Bertrand.

  Rafael cleared his throat for silence. “Scheherazade continued with her tale and the djinn’s explanation for his demand. For the first century of his confinement, the djinn confessed that he had been determined to reward whosoever might release him by granting that individual great wealth. When he was not freed, his anger grew, so in the second century of his confinement, the djinn decided that he would grant his liberator wealth beyond belief, riches beyond expectation, yet still no one freed him. In the third century of his confinement, the djinn decided he would grant three wishes to whosoever set him free, giving that person his heart’s desire. He reasoned that there were those who did not find allure in riches. Still he was not freed. In the fourth century of his confinement, the djinn became bitter. He resolved that he would kill whoever set him free, and that his gift would be allowing the liberator to choose the method of his death. Again, he asked the fisherman for his choice of how he would die.

  “The fisherman did not wish to die, but fortunately, he was a man of some wit. He distracted the djinn by indicating the copper jar. He said he could not truly believe that the djinn had been trapped in a container so very small, and insisted that he was being deceived by the djinn. This suggestion infuriated the djinn, who immediately dived back into the jar, showing that he did indeed fit inside. The fisherman was quick to put the stopper back in place, imprisoning the djinn once again.”

  “He was quick-witted indeed!” Tristan said with approval and the men applauded the fisherman’s cleverness.

  “The djinn begged for release, but the fisherman vowed to throw the jar back into the sea instead. When the djinn entreated the fisherman to show him mercy, the fisherman scolded him, for he did not think it fitting that the djinn asked a favor only to reward the fisherman with death. To prove his point, he began to tell the djinn the story of the Wise Man Named Duban.”

  Ranulf began to chuckle, the other men joining in his merriment. Rafael spared a glance to Elizabeth, seeing that she was mystified by their laughter.

  “But the sky was brightening in the east by this time, and Scheherazade brought the hour to the attention of her husband, the king. She had had less time to tell him tales that night, for he had loved her more slowly and thoroughly. The king did not regret the duration of their lovemaking, but still he was vexed to not hear the end of the tale. And so it was that again the king let Scheherazade survive the day, because he so wished to know the tale of the Wise Man Named Duban.”

  Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands at this, her eyes sparkling in a way that reminded Rafael all too well of how sweetly she could kiss.

  Aye, there was a lesson in this tale, for a woman with her wits about her could beguile a man and distract him from his true objective.

  “I will wager she did not finish that tale on the next night either,” Elizabeth said.

  “She did not, nor on the next or the next. Each tale led to another, each new tale tucked inside the previous, and each morning, the king could not bear to see his wife executed lest he not hear the end of the tale. And so it was that a thousand and one nights passed before Scheherazade’s tale of the fisherman and the djinn came to its ending.”

  “Did it end well?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It ended with the fisherman’s son made treasurer of the king of the realm, and his daughters married to the princes of the realm. The king applauded his wife’s tale with enthusiasm, for he was well pleased.” Elizabeth might have said something, but Rafael lifted a finger. “But the tale was done.”

  Elizabeth raised her hands to her lips, fearing the king’s decision on this day.

  “It seemed to all that the end of Scheherazade’s life must come, for her tale was finished and the sun was rising yet again. But the king looked upon his bride, and he thought of the three sons she had borne him in the years of telling her tale, and he could not imagine coming to his bed the following night and not finding her there. He could not think of what he would tell his sons about their mother, and he could not believe that there would be any good lesson for them in his doing such a deed. And so it was that he chose to let Scheherazade live.”

  “Because he loved her,” Elizabeth said with undisguised satisfaction.

  “Because she entertained him and bore him sons,” Rafael insisted.

  “He had his sons by the time the tale was ended,” Elizabeth countered. “And he could have paid anyone to tell him tales, had he wished merely to be entertained.” Rafael was dismayed to find her argument made sense. “He loved her, and in her faithfulness, she changed his view of women and earned his trust.” She eyed him and lifted her chin. “I will wager that the tale ends by declaring that they lived happily ever after.”

  “‘And if I am not mistaken, they live happily still,’” Ranulf contributed, which was the customary ending to the tale.

  “It is but a tale,” Rafael said with heat. “Such whimsy does not occur in the life we know so well.”

  “But it can,” Elizabeth replied, conviction in her tone. She folded her arms across her chest, daring him yet again. “A person has only to believe it is poss
ible for it to be so.”

  “And therein lies the key,” Rafael replied. “For I do not believe it, and so it will not be true for me.” He bowed to her with elaborate formality. “I hope that your conviction will similarly grant you the result you desire, my lady.”

  Rafael was more stubborn and infuriating than Elizabeth could believe.

  How could he not see that his own tale buttressed her argument?

  How could he refuse to pursue happiness with her?

  There was some detail in his past, she would wager, some incident that had shaped his expectations. If she could find the root, she could undermine his conviction in its truth.

  “Do not attribute more kindness to Rafael than he deserves,” Catriona advised quietly as they two walked to Ravensmuir together. Vera bustled ahead with Avery and Father Malachy. Ruari trailed behind the pair of them, and Malcolm had lingered behind to chat with his former comrades.

  “You saw him choose to aid Malcolm,” Elizabeth said.

  “I did,” Catriona admitted. “But there is a hardness in him and his kind that is beyond your experience.”

  “But not yours?”

  Catriona averted her gaze just as Malcolm joined them. His gaze brightened as he noted his wife’s mood and he cast a glance at Elizabeth that was almost accusatory as he took Catriona’s elbow. “What have I missed?”

  “Elizabeth’s defense of Rafael,” Catriona said with a smile for her husband.

  “You cannot blame him for being wary of baring his soul or speaking intimately to another,” Elizabeth said, feeling defensive of the absent man. “Not given his childhood.”

  “His childhood?” Malcolm echoed. “What do you know of Rafael’s childhood?”

  “That his mother and and all of his sisters died when he was an infant.” Elizabeth shook her head in sympathy. “Anyone who lost their family so young would be challenged to trust in any other person, never mind that he was sold into slavery to a Moor as a child.”

  Malcolm choked, his shocked reaction drawing Elizabeth’s gaze. “He told you this?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Is it true?” Catriona asked her husband.

  “I have no idea,” Malcolm admitted, granting Elizabeth a wary glance himself. “But if he has told you more in a matter of days than he has admitted to me in six years, I cannot blame him for being leery of your company.”

  Catriona eyed Elizabeth, a smile curving her lips. “Perhaps you have enchanted him.”

  Elizabeth smiled herself, seeing evidence to support her beliefs in this. She knew she had to speak to Rafael again before she left Ravensmuir this day.

  She looked back and saw Rafael glance up, as if he sensed her scrutiny. He folded his arms across his chest as he returned her stare. He looked aloof and indifferent, but Elizabeth was not fooled.

  Afraid. Aye, Rafael was afraid and she thought she knew why.

  Twelve

  Malcolm escorted the women back toward the keep, but still the men lingered near the fresh grave on the point. Rafael doubted he was the sole one thinking that it could have been any of them fallen in that fight. He cast a glance over the company, two dozen mercenaries and yet more squires to service them, and noted the consideration in their expressions.

  There was, perhaps, only one foe they could not defeat.

  The wind was relentless and cold in this place, more than sufficient to make Rafael shiver, even on a summer’s day. Ranulf had stood for the mass, appearing to be as robust as ever, but he sat down on a stone now and ran a hand over his eyes. He looked pale and strained, and his vigor had deserted him again. Rafael checked his skin, but was relieved to find that it remained cool.

  It was the loss of blood that had weakened him, but given that there was no fire beneath his flesh, he would be hale again in time.

  “Will I die, sorcerer?” Ranulf asked, his tone teasing.

  “Of course,” Rafael replied. “But not of this injury.”

  They chuckled together, the other men sitting or leaning nearby.

  Rafael looked back at the new keep and narrowed his eyes as he found Lady Elizabeth openly watching him. His heart skipped but he kept his expression impassive. “I suppose it is time to leave,” he said with apparent idleness. “To seek new battles and patrons.”

  He expected a chorus of assent, for they were all inclined to move frequently, but Ranulf shook his head. “Not me.”

  “What do you mean?” Tristan asked, though Rafael was not surprised by this choice.

  “I mean to remain,” Ranulf continued. “I asked Malcolm last night and he agreed that I could stay. I will serve as a man-at-arms when he has need of one, but build myself a little cottage over there. He intends to have a village and my abode will be the first within it.”

  Rafael shook his head. Though he understood the reason for this choice, he doubted that such a life would satisfy his comrade for long. “You cannot mean to completely abandon the life we have led.”

  “I can and do. I had thought of it before.” Ranulf lifted his bandaged hand. “But this only increases my conviction.”

  “Then who will fight with Greek fire?” Bertrand asked.

  Ranulf shrugged. “My days with such explosives are done. One of you will have to learn of it before you depart.”

  Rafael surveyed his fellows, again expecting to hear of impatience to be gone.

  Tristan spared a glance to the new grave. “It could have been any of us,” he murmured.

  “Or all of us,” Amaury agreed. “Reynaud simply ran out of luck. He did not err, and his competence was never in doubt.”

  “It is a timely warning,” Tristan agreed. He looked at Rafael. “I mean to remain, as well. I grow no younger, after all.”

  “And I will remain here as well,” Amaury agreed, before Rafael could protest. “The hunting is good. It reminds me of home in that, but I am not welcome there. I will train Malcolm’s hounds, if he will have me, and also serve as man-at-arms as necessary.”

  “His uncle at Inverfyre breeds falcons,” Tristan supplied to Amaury’s obvious delight. “To train falcons again is my greatest dream. I remember hunting days with my father’s court and would ride forth thus again.”

  “I thought you bastard-born,” Amaury said to Tristan.

  “And so I am, but my father kept me in his household.”

  “If he had acknowledged you, you would not be here.”

  “Indeed, if he had acknowledged me, he might not have lost all he held dear.” Tristan shrugged. “He had a son by his young wife in his dotage, so cast me out then. He fell ill, she claimed the regency, but knew naught of war. His neighbors attacked, killing man, wife and child before claiming his keep.” Tristan’s gaze was cool. “I could have defended him and his holding, and I would have done so, but he deemed my lineage insufficient to suffer my presence in his hall once I grew to manhood. In the end, the loss was his.”

  Rafael would guess that the old lord had feared his bastard son, for Tristan was a ruthless opponent. His heart was loyal but well hidden from casual view. His father might have been the first to underestimate his determination to defend those he cared about, but he had not been the last.

  Still, these tidings defied belief. “All three of you mean to stay?” Rafael asked, only to have Ranulf, Amaury and Tristan nod.

  “You will not see me lingering in these lands,” Giorgio said and Rafael was momentarily relieved. “Guilia is with child,” that mercenary admitted then and the woman in question blushed. Rafael blinked, for he had never imagined anything could make Guilia blush. “She would return home, or as near to it as we can manage.” Giorgio spoke gruffly, then grimaced comically. “She would be wedded.”

  The men hooted and laughed, teasing Giorgio, whose color rose.

  He raised a hand finally to silence them, his good nature restored. “And so it shall be done. It is my son she bears,” he said as the other men teased him. “And truly, my taste for other women has dimmed since I took Guilia to bed.”
He smiled at Guilia and she blushed crimson, blinking back tears as she took his large hand in her smaller one.

  “I thank you, Giorgio,” she said, her voice even more husky than usual.

  That mercenary nodded and spoke gently. “A woman needs familiarity in her time. We will travel south with you, Rafael, but I will not return to fighting, at least not as yet.”

  “Ever,” Guilia insisted, but Giorgio’s gaze slid to meet Rafael’s in silent warning.

  Rafael understood. Giorgio did not know how else he would feed his new family. This companion would join him in battle, once he was wedded and saw his new wife safely settled in some abode in territories more familiar to her.

  It was a timely reminder of how few choices men of his ilk truly had. It was rare for one to make the leap to both security and respectability as Malcolm had, but that man had rare advantages in both his family and the holding that had come to his name.

  Rafael reviewed the company, calculating their power. Even if Ranulf, Amaury and Tristan remained at Kinfairlie, they would still offer a formidable force. He had no doubt they could find employ on the Continent. Most warlords would not even notice that there were four fewer in their company than previously, and the repute of the Sable League was impressive.

  Then Bertrand shrugged. “I, too, find I have little taste for our former life. Malcolm could do with a few blades pledged to his service, and I think mine will be another of them.”

  “As will be mine,” Gunter agreed. “I like it here.”

  “What is this?” Rafael asked in dismay.

  “I like seeing that one of us has gained a reward,” Gunter said gruffly. “It does a heart good after so many years of battle to witness peace and prosperity, especially come to one of our own.”

  The others nodded agreement, and for a moment, Rafael feared he would ride out alone. “Surely this cannot be so. Surely you have not all become soft and complacent.”

  “Peace is the trouble,” Gunter said. “The Continent is thick with it, my friend. There is little labor to be had for a fighting man in these times.”