“Be ready, man,” he said. “The Welsh have abandoned their horses just beyond the tree line to the south and they are bringing in ladders. Many, many ladders. I think we need to move some of our men into Four Crosses so if we are unable to deter them and the ladders go up, there will be enough men inside to fend them off.”
Jamison gazed at his fellow knight and friend; Becket de Lohr was the eldest son of Chris de Lohr, the Earl of Worcester. He had the de Lohr blonde hair and blue eyes, the same toothy smile, and the same military acumen. He was, in a word, brilliant, and Jamison had known the man for many years. They’d virtually grown up together because, unlike the rest of the de Lohr sons, Chris had kept his eldest close to him, training the boy personally, instilling that sense of de Lohr loyalty and honor that was so important to the family.
Having come from a very long line of de Lohr males – from Myles back at the time of the Anarchy, to Christopher the Defender and the right-hand of Richard Coeur d ’Lion, to Curtis the Wise who had been a powerful lord in his own right, and now to Christopher the Second, or Deux as the family called him. Becket was a tribute to all of these great men and had that regal bearing that his bloodlines had given him.
Therefore, Jamison respected him more than most and when Becket told him to be ready, he was immediately on his guard. Those weren’t words to be taken lightly in battle.
“Aye,” Jamison finally said, glancing back at the castle and the gatehouse that secured double portcullises. “I can take me men and we can reinforce the walls.”
Becket nodded, pushing his hauberk back on his fair forehead and leaving rust streaks on his skin. “Be quick about it,” he said. “I do not want the Welsh to be upon us with the portcullises open.”
Jamison was already moving for the gatehouse. “Have ye spoken to Roald, then?”
Becket shook his head. “I’ve not seen him since we arrived,” he called after him. “Demand him, Jamie – ’tis odd that the man has not been present at his own battle. Tell him what we suspect and demand he open the portcullis to you.”
Jamison gave him a wave of his hand, signifying that he understood. At a light jog, no easy feat in heavy mail and pieces of plate, he made his way to the gatehouse and found himself peering through the great iron fangs of the portcullises, straight into the bailey on the other side where dozens of men were gathered, staring back at him with suspicion. Not that he could blame them.
“I’m Munro,” he boomed, his voice echoing off the stone underbelly of the gatehouse. “I’m with de Lohr. The Welsh are bringing ladders. I’ve been ordered tae bring me men inside tae help defend the keep should they mount the walls.”
No one answered right away. They shifted about like nervous cattle until one man suddenly appeared at the forefront. A tall soldier, older, in a full coat of dirty mail, his unshaven face peered at Jamison between the slats in the grate.
“Where is de Lohr?” he demanded.
Jamison didn’t think the man sounded particularly eager to lift the portcullis. “The Earl of Worcester did not come,” he said. “Ye were told that when we arrived. Becket de Lohr is in command. My orders come through him.”
The soldier wasn’t having any of it. “I would hear the words from de Lohr’s mouth, Gael.”
Gael was not a particularly pleasant word for a Scotsman. It was considered an insult by many, at least in Jamison’s world. He was fairly certain that the soldier had meant it in a derogatory fashion so it was a bit of a struggle for him not to react. Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite make good of it.
“He is occupied,” he said, his manner cold. “It matters not tae me if the Welsh slit the throats of ye and yer cowardly men, but I’ve been given an order tae protect ye, so open the damnable portcullis and let me in or I’ll scale the walls meself and throttle ye.”
“You would not dare.”
It wasn’t the knight who spoke but a decidedly female voice. Someone was shoving through the crowd of nervous soldiers on the others side of the portcullises. Jamison could see men being pushed around, moved aside, until, finally, the person doing the pushing appeared.
A woman dressed in heavy mail was standing where the weary Four Crosses knight had once stood. She wasn’t particularly short, or even tall, but somewhere in between. She had dark hair, dark like a raven’s wing, pulled into a sloppy braid that draped over one shoulder and tangled with her mail coat. Dressed as a warrior, she was heavily armed with weapons that had seen some use, but her face….
Frankly, Jamison wasn’t quite over staring at that part of her. Through the grime and rain and frowning expression, the woman’s face could only be described as exquisite. Angelic. In fact, it was quite surprising and Jamison struggled not to come across looking too confused or too besotted with a woman who was looking at him angrily. He shook off whatever spell that lovely face had cast over him, bracing himself against the iron portcullis.
“I was having a conversation with the knight,” he told her. “Does the man need a woman tae do his talking for him?”
The soldiers standing around the woman, including the knight, grumbled and shifted, unhappy with the insult. The woman, however, simply lifted her chin at him, cocking a well-shaped eyebrow.
“You will speak to me,” she said. “This is my castle. You heard St. Clare – we will only open these portcullises if de Lohr tells us to. We take no orders from a Gael.”
There was that word again. Jamison didn’t like it at all. What he did like, however, was the way the woman’s mouth worked and the deep, honeyed voice that poured forth with her lush lips opened. But he didn’t like those attributes enough to tolerate her insult. In fact, he had little tolerance for women who did not know their place in the world.
“Then ye’re a truly stupid lot and ye deserve tae have the Welsh overrun ye,” he said, giving the woman a rather condescending look before turning his head. “I will tell me men tae returned tae Lioncross. Ye dunna deserve our protection.”
He turned away completely but didn’t move away from the portcullis he was leaning against. He wanted them to see the orders as he gave them to his men, bellowing to them to take their weapons and retreat to the base camp to the east. His men heard the orders and, confused, began to move away from the gatehouse as he had instructed. Clearly, however, they were puzzled and their movements reflected that.
When Jamison was sure his men were heading away, glaring at them when they didn’t move fast enough, he turned back to the woman and her soldiers hovering on the other side of the second portcullis. The expressions facing him were considerably less hostile at the thought of the de Lohr army actually leaving. Now, the mood was shifting.
“I wish ye good fortune against the Welsh who, even now, are bringing ladders tae mount the walls,” Jamison said rather casually. “They’ve brought in reinforcements since yesterday so very soon ye’ll have a fresh horde of hungry Welshmen climbing the walls and killing everything that moves. If they dunna kill ye, then ye’ll wish they had. They’ve got a man among them that has battle tactics and skill, and that means they’ll take their pleasure making ye suffer. So if ye wunna let me and me men in tae help ye fend them off, then ye can face them alone.”
The woman was listening to every word he said, her features flushing angrily the more he spoke. By the time he was finished, she grabbed on to the iron portcullis and shoved her face between the bars.
“I would rather take my chances against them than let a barbarian like you into my fortress,” she snarled. “You sound like an animal in your foolish manner of speaking. How do I know that you were even sent by de Lohr? How do I know you are not working with the Welsh? They are barbarians just like you are!”
Jamison smiled thinly. “I hope yer fire holds out the first time a Welshman runs his hand up yer shift.”
She spoke through clenched teeth. “I will cut his hand off if he tries.”
“There may be many hands running up yer shift. Best of luck when that happens, General.”
“
You do not know me very well.”
“And I dunna care tae,” he snapped softly. “Ye’d do yer men a favor if ye went inside and scrubbed a floor or two. Leave the fighting tae those who will actually do some good. Clearly, ye dunna have a head for battle because yer decision-making is flawed.”
Her lovely face flushed a dull, nasty shade of red. Jamison stood there, waiting for the next volley of insults, when she suddenly began yelling at the men in the gatehouse to raise the portcullises. It was a surprising move and Jamison was rather pleased that his insults had beaten her down to the point where she had obeyed her wishes. Feeling rather superior, he smirked at the woman as if to punctuate his victory.
She glared in return.
The portcullises began to grind open, chains groaning under the substantial weight. Jamison was in the process of calling his men back to the walls when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. By the time he turned around, he caught the glint of a blade and something moving very quickly down near the ground. It took him a moment to realize the woman had slid underneath the lifting portcullises and was very close to him with a sword in her hand. He barely had a chance to jump back as she took a very swift strike at his head.
Jamison couldn’t believe it. She’d actually come quite close to his face with the swing of that blade and he instantly unsheathed his broadsword, a weapon that was far bigger than hers. But she was fast, this one, and she was angry, which made her both determined and slightly reckless. As the de Lohr troops watched with some amusement and, truthfully, some horror, the woman charged Jamison with her small but well-made sword. When he lifted his weapon to fend off her attack, she fell to her knees, sliding in the mud with her momentum, and brought her sword up underneath him. Only Jamison’s lightning-fast reflexes prevented her from making contact with his ankles.
It was actually an impressive tactic; she had been aiming for his Achilles’ heel. When Jamison realized that she was genuinely trying to hurt him, he took the offensive. He had little choice unless he was prepared to willingly submit to her aggression. The woman was just regaining her feet as he came down upon her, hard, in a broadsword stroke that would have been difficult for a strong man to handle much less a woman. She lifted her sword, preventing he blow from cutting through her midsection, but the power behind the strike was much more forceful than anything she had ever experienced. The blow sent her onto her back and she had to roll out of the way, quick as a flash, to prevent him from seriously injuring her when he brought down a second strike.
Unfortunately for the woman, Jamison didn’t give her time to recover. If she was going to try to hurt him, then he was going to disable her before she had the chance. So he went after her in full battle mode, preventing her from gaining her footing, watching her as she rolled and crawled through the mud, now struggling to avoid his blade.
But avoid she did, at least for a few minutes as he clearly tried to kill her, but that grace period soon ended. At one point, the woman’s hair became untangled from her mail and as she tried to get away from Jamison, her braid dragged in the mud. Jamison seized on the opportunity and stepped on her hair, bringing her to an instant halt as she screamed in pain. Reaching down a massive hand, he grabbed her by the hair on her scalp, yanking her head back as he brought the sword down, aiming it right for her neck. He stopped short of cutting her head off, however, as the blade rested on her pale, dirty skin.
The fight was over as swiftly as it had begun. Jamison stared down into her face, seeing that her eyes were a deep shade of green, with long dark lashes all around. Her beauty was without compare but he refused to think such thoughts of this woman who had tried to hurt him. He glared at her, his jaw flexing furiously.
“Now,” he growled, “ye attacked me and failed. Tell me why I shouldna end yer life right now.”
The woman was breathing heavily but, to her credit, there was no fear in her eyes. She gazed back at him with defiance. “I cannot give you a reason,” she said, her voice hoarse because he had her head pulled back so far and there was a strain on her neck. “Do as you must.”
Jamison didn’t want to kill her; he really didn’t. He was just trying to scare her because she had been bold and reckless. But he was coming to think that she couldn’t be scared. He could see it in her expression, in everything about her. She was brave, this one. A seedling of respect grew.
“Do ye want tae die, then?” he asked.
Something in her eyes flickered, a whisper of fear, perhaps. “Of course not,” she said. “But I lost the fight. It is your right to do to me as you will.”
His red eyebrows drew together; he couldn’t help it. “How would ye know about the rules of engagement?” he asked. “Moreover, why do ye dress as a warrior? Does yer husband allow such things?”
She swallowed, hard. “I am not married.”
“Then yer father allows this?”
She didn’t respond right away, trying to lower her gaze but unable to for the way he was holding her. “My father has no say in what I do,” she said. “This is my home. I defend it as necessary, any way I deem necessary.”
Jamison was feeling some exasperation. “I told ye I am with de Lohr,” he said. “I am here tae help ye. Do ye not understand that, lass?”
Something in her eyes flared as she looked at him. “Do not call me a lass!”
“I would call ye by yer name but I dunna know it.”
“And I’ll not tell you.”
He cocked his head. “Ye have an unruly mouth in the face of a man holding a sword tae yer neck,” he said. “Are ye truly so foolish? For certain, that is all I have seen from ye since the beginning.”
She sighed, the frown returning to her features. “If you are going to kill me, then get on with it.”
Jamison stared at her a moment longer. Then, he swiftly removed his sword and dropped it to the earth. Before the woman could utter a word of protest, he went down on one knee and, still holding on to her hair, put her straight across his thigh. Letting go of her hair, he held her down with that arm across her back as the other arm extended and, without hesitation, proceeded to spank her. His big hand against her backside resounded off of the stone walls. The woman began to howl.
“Beast!” she screamed, fighting and twisting. “How dare you take a hand to me! You will be punished for this – ouch!”
Jamison whaled on her buttocks, through the mail coat and through the breeches she was wearing. It probably hurt his hand more than it hurt her backside, but that wasn’t the point. She was terribly mannered and it was clear no one had ever disciplined her. He was, therefore, pleased to be the first. It gave him a fiendish satisfaction to do so. He whacked her a few more times before pushing her off his knee, straight into the mud.
“Ye need tae be spanked and spanked often,” he scolded as he picked up his sword and her smaller blade where it had fallen. “I dunna know where ye got it intae yer silly head that it ’tis acceptable for a women tae behave as ye did, but ye’re a disgrace tae yer sex. Now, get yerself intae the castle and I dunna want tae see yer face again. If I do, I will spank ye as I just did, only harder the next time. Is this in any way unclear?”
The woman pushed herself up out of the mud, staggering to her feet and glaring daggers at Jamison. “I will fight with my men and you cannot stop me,” she seethed. “You do not command me.”
Jamison wasn’t going to argue with her. He took a step in her direction, threateningly, and watched her as she scrambled to get away from him. He did it twice more, herding her back in the direction of the castle. She would jump, keeping away from him, but she wouldn’t run. She stood her ground as much as she could, unwilling to let him push her around. They glared at each other, each one testing the mettle of the other – he wouldn’t chase after her and she wouldn’t run. But she would, wisely, stay out of arm’s length.
It was quite a standoff.
With both portcullises open, Jamison’s men were starting to filter into the castle as the men from Four Cross
es lingered by the gate, watching their lady warrior get a beating from the big Highlander. In fact, Jamison was just taking another step in the lady’s direction, hopefully to scare her right back into the castle, when he heard a voice call his name.
“Munro? What in the hell are you doing?”
Jamison turned to see another de Lohr brother ride up. Tobias de Lohr, Becket’s younger brother, sat on a wet, foaming charger, gazing down at Jamison as if the man had lost his mind. Jamison could quickly see why – caught, as he was, harassing a woman who was supposed to be their ally. It looked very bad for him and he knew it.
Quickly, he tried to think of a believable excuse but nothing he could come up with sounded plausible. He could have gone for a full confession but, somehow, he thought that might make them all look quite foolish. The lady attacked me so I spanked her. No, that wouldn’t do. In any case, the truth probably wasn’t advisable. Therefore, he simply forced a smile at the younger de Lohr brother.
“The lady and I had a misunderstanding,” he said. “All is well now.”
Tobias, another blonde and well-built de Lohr son, looked between Jamison and the lady in confusion. His attention finally settled on the woman. “Lady Havilland?” he said. “Are you… well?”
Havilland. So her name had been spoken for the Highlander to hear and she hadn’t intended for him to know it, ever. With a sigh of displeasure, Lady Havilland de Llion fixed on Tobias.
“I am very well,” she said snappishly. She pointed at Jamison. “Did you tell this… this brute to defend Four Crosses from inside the bailey?”
Tobias nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “Those were his orders. What… what are you doing out here? Why are you and your men not inside the castle?”
He was looking at Jamison as he said it. Jamison, realizing he couldn’t explain away what had just happened any better than he already had, shook his head in frustration and tossed Havilland her sword, hilt first. He didn’t even care that he now knew her name, as beautiful as it was. All he knew was that she had made him look like a fool. He began to walk away.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 63
