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

by Claire Delacroix

  There was something uncanny about the view through that window, and Elizabeth knew this to be a mark of the credence of Alexander’s tale.

  Finvarra sat before that middle window, his back to the night, the snow having drifted around his throne to swirl around his boots. His dark beard fairly flowed down his chest to his knees, and his garb was richly embroidered with silver and gold. A host of small Fae fluttered around him, a trio of them hovering in the air as they offered a golden chalice for his favor. His hands were braced on the arms of the regal dark chair, and his fingers were thick with jeweled rings. Those gemstones seemed to shimmer with the light of the stars, but their glitter could not compare with this king’s eyes. They were dark, so dark that they might have been wrought of that midnight sky beyond the window, and his gaze was fixed upon Elizabeth.

  “You have come,” the king said, his voice deep and melodic. That tracery of blue remained on his skin, and when he offered his hand to Elizabeth, his sleeve pulled back to reveal more of it.

  When Elizabeth stretched out her hand to take Finvarra’s, her sleeve tugged in the same way and she saw the similar marks on her own skin. The sight relieved her, as if this course had been their destiny all along. She walked toward the king like a woman in a dream, then put her hand in his.

  “Take me to Rafael,” she said, only then noting how coy the king’s smile became.

  “And so it is as I foretold,” Finvarra murmured with satisfaction. “And so it is that the first portal closes.” He pursed his lips and blew. The flame burning on Elizabeth’s torch was immediately extinguished, leaving the chamber illuminated only by starlight, moonlight, and their reflection on the snow.

  In distant Kinfairlie, a woman who looked precisely like Elizabeth but was not that maiden descended from Kinfairlie’s high tower. Outside of Elizabeth’s chamber, this creature smiled at Eleanor, even as the Lady of Kinfairlie studied her in confusion.

  “I thought to look out that window to the realm of the Fae,” this false Elizabeth said with a meekness the real Elizabeth had seldom exhibited. Eleanor frowned at both impulse and tone. “But the portal was locked.”

  “You should not venture there,” Eleanor chided softly, and a more keen observer would have noted her suspicion.

  The changeling that had replaced Elizabeth was not aware of nuance, though. She laughed, which did little to dispel Eleanor’s suspicion. “I will not do so again, to be sure. Good night!” Eleanor blinked, surprised by the change in the younger woman’s manner. Elizabeth had been so saddened these past years that many had thought her ill, but suddenly, she seemed to be restored to her former self.

  How could this be?

  The children came running up the stairs then, calling for their mother, and Eleanor could not help but notice that Elizabeth showed little interest in them.

  It was most strange. Usually, Elizabeth doted on the children, and Eleanor saw their disappointment that their aunt blithely passed them by.

  Eleanor considered the portal of the chamber where Elizabeth slept alone, the one that was now securely closed, then glanced up the stairs to that high chamber. Once the children were nestled abed, she took Alexander’s ring of keys and climbed the stairs. She unlocked that door and was relieved to find it as empty as ever.

  Perhaps Elizabeth was smitten with a boy from the village, and Eleanor would need to intervene to ensure that Alexander allowed his sister to be happy, regardless of the status of her beloved. Perhaps a small holding could be found for that man, to satisfy both siblings and to deny the earl’s increasing insistence.

  Eleanor would have to find out more in the days ahead.

  She locked the portal behind her, reassured that Elizabeth found some man to capture her heart and descended the stairs to the solar.

  Had she noticed the red, red rose on the sill of the middle window, Eleanor would not have been so content.

  Monday, November 1, 1428

  All Saints’ Day.

  Seventeen

  Rafael dreamed of the King of the Dead. He was certain he dreamed of that hellish court because it was his fate, and he looked for Franz in the ranks of courtiers.

  Instead he saw Elizabeth, her hand within that of the dark king.

  The sight sent terror through Rafael and he tried to shout a warning.

  But there was a loud sound, like something tearing in the core of the world. His view changed and he saw the last stall in Ravensmuir’s stables, the one with the hole in the back wall that led to the realm of the Fae. Brilliant golden light spilled from the hole, but a dark mirror slid across it with lightning speed. When it slammed home, there was no music and no light, and the wall was no more than a wall in a stable.

  A portal closed, just as the dark king had forecast.

  And his Elizabeth was on the wrong side of the barrier.

  Rafael awakened suddenly, uncertain where he was. He was on his back, his body aching, and stiffness in his bones. He could see sunlight coming through a tent overhead and smell the smoke of fires as well as the dampness of the ground.

  To his relief, the bracelet of Elizabeth’s braided hair was still around his wrist.

  He was not dead.

  Was Elizabeth lost?

  “He should be dead twice over,” a man whispered from close proximity, awe in his tone.

  “You know what they say of Rafael,” said another, his tone wry. “He would defy the very Devil to survive. The man might well be immortal.”

  The two men laughed quietly together. “Perhaps he has an angel watching over him,” suggested the first.

  An angel. His angel was lost in darkness.

  “We should all have such good fortune as that.”

  The men mumbled agreement, then the first called to a third. “Send word that he stirs. He might awaken soon.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Rafael heard the sound of running footsteps but he kept his eyes closed. Mi piqueño ángel. His first impression of Elizabeth had been the correct one. She had shown him truths he would never have faced without her and compelled him to change. But had it been too late? She was right that he had been afraid to claim her, for such a choice did make him vulnerable to loss.

  But the matter was not done. Her fate was not sealed so long as the portal at Kinfairlie remained open. Though his head throbbed and his body ached, he recognized how fortunate he had been this day. The angel who watched over him had given him another chance.

  Rafael was not fool enough to waste it. He would ride north as soon as he was able, ride with all haste for Kinfairlie, and win her hand, regardless of whether he had the right to do so or not.

  Elizabeth found herself in a Fae court adorned with silver. There was hoarfrost on the arches of the hall, on the table laden with refreshments, on the back of Finvarra’s throne. There was snow underfoot, light snow that flew into the air with every step she took, and more snowflakes falling even in the shelter of the court. The Fae themselves were dressed in silver and shades of grey and white, even the marks upon their skin faded to the hue of charcoal. It seemed their world had been leeched of its color, that only shadow and light remained where once there had been all the colors of the rainbow. They still danced and sang, they still savored their mead—though it was silver now instead of golden—and they still made merry amongst themselves.

  There was something amiss, something that made Elizabeth shiver even before she met the gaze of Finvarra.

  “The portals close,” he said softly, then beckoned to her. “The world grows dim, but we shall survive in starlight and shadow.” He smiled, though his gaze remained dark and ominous. “And you have chosen to come to me, just as I foretold, and so you, too, will spend all of eternity in our court.”

  Elizabeth looked down to find herself similarly adorned in shades of grey. Her chemise was as white as ever it had been, but her kirtle had changed from blue to silver, and her red slippers had turned black. The gold embroidery on her hems was now silver and she saw now the tracery of dark
whorls upon her pale flesh. She dared to glimpse into Finvarra’s enchanted mirror and started at the sight of her wan reflection.

  Her eyes, instead of being the clear green she knew them to be, were now as dark a grey as the soot on a hearth.

  She looked up in alarm and scanned the company, but still she could not see the dead within their ranks. “Where is Rafael?” she demanded, realizing as soon as she had uttered the words that she should not have done so.

  Finvarra laughed. “Alive, of course.”

  Elizabeth took a step back in horror. “But he said that he saw the dead in your court, and I saw him dead in the mirror...”

  “The mirror shows what I desire it to display,” Finvarra said, then put out his hand in obvious expectation. “It is a tool and one that has proven its usefulness.”

  Elizabeth was horrified. “He is only injured, then!”

  Finvarra nodded, then snapped his fingers and extended his hand again.

  “Then you deceived me!”

  “I told you naught. You made your own conclusions based upon what you saw.” Finvarra’s eyes glittered. “And what is of greater import—you made your choice.”

  Elizabeth found herself newly fearful of his intent, for there was a cruelty in his manner that she had not noticed before. She stepped forward and hastily put the mirror in his hand, shivering when her fingertips brushed the chill of his skin.

  He watched her, as a snake watches a mouse, his eyes glittering. “Mortals see their own truths in our court and in our company. The illusion shifts depending upon the viewer, as truth shifts depending upon the listener. This Rafael saw Hell when he stepped into my court, for in his heart, he fears his own judgment.” Finvarra shrugged. “I have little interest in his soul, not any more.”

  He stood then, towering over her, the mirror disappearing into the folds of his robe as surely as if it had never been. He touched her chin with his frigid fingertip and Elizabeth struggled to keep from shivering, for she did not wish to earn his disfavor.

  If she was trapped in his court forevermore, she would have need of his favor.

  Finvarra studied her and she could not help but note that his lashes were less thick than Rafael’s, his expression less sensual, his skin more pale, and the prospect of his kiss far less enticing. Indeed, she had been enticed by the peril both offered, but there was a world of difference between the two. Rafael would have always treated her with honor: Finvarra, however, would destroy her at a whim, if it would please him to do so.

  She had erred by putting herself under his control.

  And there was naught she could do to repair her mistake now. She had spoken aloud in the Fae circle, she had put herself in Finvarra’s debt, and she had willingly come to him on this day. She was lost.

  Unless some mortal saw fit to aid her.

  Elizabeth knew who she hoped it might be, though the chances seemed remote. If ever she had need of a champion, it was on this day, but she did not know how badly Rafael was injured.

  Finvarra shook his head slightly, as if seeing her dismay. “You chose,” he reminded her, then bent to claim her with a kiss.

  As soon as his mouth touched her own, Elizabeth felt a frisson of cold. It could have been a blizzard sweeping through her very veins, stealing the heat from her skin and slowing the beat of her heart. She could have sworn that she felt her innards turn to ice, even as her memories of Kinfairlie faded. Her family might have been ghosts, her recollections of them suddenly so ethereal that they might not have been even real.

  Or they might have been the memories of another person, distant and irrelevant. She might have kissed a statue, one left outside for a hundred winters, one wrought of stone so cold that it could never be warmed.

  Elizabeth gasped, certain that when he claimed her completely, she would be turned to stone. Finvarra lifted his head. His smile was menacing to her now.

  She closed her eyes and summoned the memory of Rafael, the fervor of his kiss, the passion of his argument, the heat of his fingers upon her breast. She felt Finvarra’s influence recede and her heart beat more stridently, driving back the frost that he had conjured within her.

  When she opened her eyes, Finvarra’s gaze was assessing. “You defy me,” he murmured, evidently both intrigued and displeased. “I have never seen the like.” A storm gathered upon his brow and a ripple passed through the court as the Fae sensed their regent’s pending wrath.

  Elizabeth knew she had to find an explanation, and one he would find pleasing.

  “It is because there is one thing I must do before I fully surrender to you,” she said.

  Finvarra’s eyes narrowed slightly and the court stilled around them, listening avidly. “One thing?”

  “I must tell you a story,” Elizabeth said, her words falling in haste. “I must tell you a story to earn your good will, before I put my hand in yours for all time. I would see you entertained, my lord king, no more than that.”

  Finvarra appeared to be amused by the suggestion. He released her and strolled back to his throne, sweeping out his robes before he took his seat. “A story?” He chuckled under his breath and regarded her with indulgence. “We have all eternity, my beauteous Elizabeth, and it is said that any morsel is sweeter when anticipated. If you wish to build my anticipation with a story, I see no harm in it.” He snapped his fingers and a stool was brought for Elizabeth, one upholstered in silver velvet with legs that seemed to be wrought of ice. It was set at his feet.

  Elizabeth followed his gesture, seating herself upon it and arranging her skirts with care. Small Fae landed upon her shoulders and her hands, more hovering in the air before her, still others sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her. The music halted and the company pressed close, listening intently.

  She cleared her throat and lifted her head, hoping that her ploy had some chance of success. Rafael had given her the tale she needed, and she would spin it for as long as she could, just as Scheherazade had done. “Once there was a king,” she began, “a king in distant Persia, a king who loved his wife most ardently...”

  Finvarra stifled a laugh and Elizabeth knew she had found the right tale.

  “What is your name?”

  The murmured Spanish question could have been from a dream. Rafael realized he had fallen into slumber again but the words awakened him. He had not heard that dialect of Spanish spoken in so many years, not since he had been a boy. It was the way they had spoken in Pamplona and he wondered if the dead greeted him again.

  He stirred and frowned, but did not open his eyes.

  “What is your name, my friend?” The querist persisted, and Rafael reasoned he would only fall silent when he had his reply.

  “Rafael Rodriguez.”

  But no, the man persisted. “And your father?”

  “Pedro Rodriguez.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Iniga.” Despite his inclination to sleep, Rafael felt himself being roused by this man’s incessant demands.

  “Have you siblings?”

  “Four older sisters.” Rafael continued impatiently, anticipating the question. “Constanza, Elvira, Domeca, Aldoncia. I have no other relations, so leave me be.”

  The man chuckled and there was something familiar about his voice.

  Rafael’s eyes flew open and he found himself supine in a tent, sunlight making the silk bright overhead. Rodrigo Villandrando himself sat beside him, his expression unusually benign.

  Indeed, the commander of the mercenary force smiled.

  Rafael was certain he had never seen L’Écorcheur smile so broadly before.

  “Do you know what happened to you?” Rodrigo asked.

  Rafael swallowed and found his throat to be sore. He raised a hand and touched his neck, wincing at how tender it was. “I was assaulted.” His voice sounded hoarse and it hurt to talk.

  “You kept the appointment in Eustache’s stead.”

  “I did not trust them.”

  Rodrigo arched a brow. “Yet you went for
Eustache.”

  Rafael shook his head. “He is too slow. I would give him the chance to learn better who is worthy of trust.”

  Rodrigo laughed. “Indeed. They nearly killed you—he would have been dead twice over.” He braced his hands on his knees to regard Rafael. “They stripped you naked and left you for dead. We are lucky that Eustache has learned some measure of your suspicion, for he sought you out when you did not return. He found you before you did die.”

  “I shall see him compensated.”

  “I already have.” Rodrigo studied Rafael, serious again. “But let me tell you a story, Rafael.”

  “A story, sir?”

  “Once upon a time, there was a young man who earned his way with his sword.”

  Rafael’s eyes drifted closed as the older man spoke. He could not imagine why the warrior would tell him a tale, but he strove to not be rude.

  “He traveled far and wide, reliant upon no one and savoring all that life had to offer. One day, he arrived in a town where he had lived as a child, and he saw again a woman he had once loved with all his heart. Let us call her Iniga.”

  Rafael started so that his eyes flew open. “It is not that common a name.”

  Rodrigo held his gaze. “Nay, it is not.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “She had been wed in his absence, though she recognized him as well. He thought the matter resolved between them and did not regret it, for he knew that he was no man to stay in one place with one woman and be happy. But one night, Iniga sought him out and begged for his help. It seemed that she had borne four daughters to her husband, and he was impatient for a son. She said she knew her husband’s seed would not make a son—indeed, with four daughters, she had evidence aplenty—and she entreated the young man to lie with her, one time, for all they had meant to each other. She asked him to assure her future.”