“Mayhap that is true, but I will not do anything foolish to put us all in danger,” Havilland countered. “That is the problem with you, Madeline – you have let control of an army consume you. You would step out and do something utterly foolish without thought for the consequences. Well, I will not behave that way. What I do, I do to keep all of us safe. If you do not like the way I run things around here, then you are more than welcome to leave. I will not stop you.”
Madeline’s dark eyes glittered with rage. “That is an attractive invitation.”
“Then I wish you would take it.”
“If it would take me far away from you, I might do that.”
Havilland stepped back from her sister, glaring daggers at the woman. She had two choices at that moment; continue the argument, which would not end well, or give her sister a command to follow. She chose the latter because Madeline needed to be reminded of who was in command. Havilland found herself having to remind the girl more and more when they had circular arguments like this. Madeline wanted to be the aggressor against the Welsh. Havilland knew they could never sustain such a thing.
It was a bitter argument that was starting to drive them apart.
“You will not leave at the moment,” Havilland finally muttered. “You are needed here. Now, you will go to the kitchens and take stock of our provisions to see what we have to feed these additional men. That is our priority. While you do that, Ammie and I will see to the wounded. We had several last I saw. Once you have finished seeing to the provisions, come and find me in the great hall.”
Madeline wasn’t pleased by the command in the least. “We have servants to tend the provisions.”
“And we have servants to steal from us,” Havilland snapped. “You must ensure they do not. Go now and do as I say. Food stores are precious and we must make sure to keep track of ours.”
Madeline didn’t agree with the command in the least, a directive she felt was beneath her. If Madeline wasn’t in control of something, then she was unhappy. Inventorying food rations was menial work. It was clear that she wanted to argue more about it but, for some reason, she didn’t. She simply turned on her heel and marched from the keep.
Havilland felt some relief that Madeline didn’t fight with her about it, but she also felt some wariness about the woman. The truth was that she didn’t trust Madeline. The girl had seen seventeen summers upon this earth and thought she knew it all. Madeline believed that she was right and everyone else was wrong. Havilland had, at times, even heard of Madeline trying to summon the support of the men against Havilland’s decisions. It was subversion from her own sister.
In fact, had Madeline been a man, Havilland would have thrown her in the vault long ago, or worse. But Madeline was her flesh and blood, born almost two years after Havilland had been born. The sisters had always been close, and very similar, but their father’s illness had brought out something in Madeline that Havilland didn’t like. There was insurrection in the woman’s heart.
If Havilland didn’t know better, she would have thought her sister was out to usurp her.
Times like this made her believe that implicitly.
*
Becket was trying very hard to keep from laughing. “You’re sure of this?”
Jamison, pale-faced and with an open gash on the back of his skull, tried to nod his head but it hurt too much. The surgeon that traveled with the de Lohr army had him on a three-legged stool in Becket’s dark tent, inspecting the oozing wound as his assistant held up a lit taper so he could better see the mess.
“Aye,” Jamison said, his jaw ticking. “That… that bean olc tried tae fight me. I took her weapon from her and spanked her. She’s fortunate I dinna beat the daylights out o’ her. For me mercy, she sent her two sisters tae try and cut me head off.”
Becket put a hand over his mouth so Jamison wouldn’t see his grin; evil woman he’d said in his native tongue. It was indicative of his fury and, more than likely, some embarrassment. Jamison Munro wasn’t a man to fall victim to anyone and most especially not to women, so there was damage to the male pride.
Turning back to the small collapsible table in his tent that held his writing implements and maps, Becket was sincerely trying not to laugh at the situation as he picked up the tallow taper on the table and used it to light a second taper, bringing more light into the cold, moist tent. The rain had started up again, the soft patter beating against the roof of the structure.
“So you tied the sisters up when they tried to attack you and then someone hit you over the head and freed them,” he said. “I suppose it does not take any great intellect to assume that it was Lady Havilland. But you must understand that the de Llion sisters have been fighting as men for as long as I can remember, Jamie. These aren’t women who simply decided yesterday to masquerade as men. They truly do fight as men and Lady Havilland has a good deal of skill. You probably should not have spanked her, which she obviously saw as a great insult.”
“Then she shouldna have attacked me.”
Becket conceded the point. “I cannot argue with you on that,” he said, lifting up a piece of vellum from the table. “That being the case, however, I am afraid we have a bit of a problem. I have been sending missives to my father about the Welsh and their tactics and I have just received a reply from him that involves you. As we noted over the past three days, the Welsh are using Scots tactics. I am afraid it is as we have feared, Jamie – Madog or Madog’s sons must have Scots mercenaries among the Welsh near this region of the Marches, teaching them Scots tactics. That brings an entirely new light to these wars. They’ve brought Scots rebellion to the Welsh Marches and that will complicate things.”
Jamison’s gaze lingered on the vellum in Becket’s hand, holding still as the surgeon began to sew the gash in his scalp. He ignored the pinpricks of pain as he thought on what Becket was referring to – Madog ap Llywelyn, the last prince of Wales to rebel against the English. Madog had picked up where his cousin, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, had left off a few years before and although Madog hadn’t formally announced himself the next Prince of Wales, the Welsh were still rebelling in the south and even more strongly in the north. It was suspected by many English landholders that Madog, the last son of that powerful Welsh royal family, was behind their increasing unrest.
Like now. Even though Jamison had been sent back to England by his father to get him away from a price on his head, his arrival could not have been more welcome. De Lohr had long since suspected that somehow, rebellious Scots had made it into the Welsh ranks and Jamison, with his in-depth knowledge of Scots tactics, had been able to assess that possibility better than most. He sighed slowly, a belated response to Becket’s statement.
“Aye,” he said as the subject veered away from the three de Llion sisters. “From what I have seen, ’tis a certainty that there are Scots among the Welsh. They used porcupine pike formations on the first day of battle. That is a classic Scots tactic. If I’d seen nothing else during the past three days, that one formation would have told me all I needed tae know.”
Becket nodded slowly. “I told my father that very thing after the first day,” he said. “Therefore, given that we know there are Scots among the Welsh, he wants you to remain here at Four Crosses in case they are harassed again. I will leave five hundred de Lohr troops with you, but my father wants you to train the Four Crosses men on how to fight back against these Scots tactics. He wants you to train them as you’ve trained our men over the past few months. If we are facing Scots rebels on the Marches, then my father wants his men prepared.”
Jamison grimaced; not because of the surgeon putting black catgut stitches into his scalp but because remaining at Four Crosses Castle was not something he wanted to do. He hated Wales and he hated the Welsh. He particularly hated the three women this castle housed. This was no place for him.
“Are ye serious, Beck?” he asked. “Ye want me tae remain in this castle where those three wild chickens will hound me every move? Ye canna mean it.�
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Becket was back to fighting off a grin. “I will leave Tobias with you,” he said. “I will even leave my cousins Brend and Thad. That is a trio of de Lohr men who can ensure the de Llion sisters do not move against you while you are training their men. But, Jamie… it is my earnest suggestion that you have a meeting with those three and settle whatever differences you may have with them. You need their cooperation and they need yours. This is a very serious matter and they must understand that.”
Jamison was growing increasingly frustrated. “Ye’re the commander of the de Lohr army,” he pointed out. “’Tis ye who must call the meeting with those three and establish the law. I doubt they’ll listen tae me, given our introduction, so that order must come from ye.”
Becket pondered that suggestion for a moment. “I suppose you are correct,” he sighed. “But I must see Roald first and explain what has happened, if I can even get a meeting with the man. He is more elusive than a wraith these days. My father hasn’t seen him in almost two years and although his daughters say he is still in command of Four Crosses, something tells me otherwise. The entire situation seems very odd.”
Jamison didn’t care about Roald de Llion. He most especially didn’t care about the man’s three wild daughters. He grunted unhappily as the surgeon finished off the next stitch.
“Then what would ye have me do in the meantime?” he asked.
Becket set the vellum in his hand back to the table. “See to moving the de Lohr wounded out of the great hall and get them secured for the return home,” he said. “Then you will hand-select your army from the troops returning to Lioncross. We have less than two hundred wounded out of fifteen hundred men, and considering the brutality of the fighting, that is a fairly good ratio. While you are doing that, I will see what I can do about securing a meeting with Roald. And Jamie?”
“Aye?”
“Try to stay clear of those women.”
Jamison gave him such a look that Becket couldn’t help but laugh at him. There was utter hatred in the blue Scottish depths.
“And just how am I supposed tae do that if ye give me command of Four Crosses?” he wanted to know. “I swear tae ye, Beck, that I will round those women up and throw the lot of them in the vault. I’ll not be looking over me shoulder at every turn, waiting for one tae jump from the shadows and slit me throat.”
Becket continued to grin. “You are bigger and stronger than they are,” he said. “I have faith that you will survive.”
“And if I dunna?”
“Then I shall send my condolences to your parents.”
That didn’t give Jamison any comfort at all. Becket didn’t seem to take the threat of those three women seriously but Jamison surely did. He knew how they could fight and he had to admit that he was impressed. But that admission only made him more defensive.
He wasn’t going to make an easy victim.
Jamison remained in the tent while the surgeon finished stitching his scalp, brooding, as Becket went to find Roald de Llion’s daughters and presumably arrange a meeting with them. Jamison wasn’t looking forward to it in the least but he knew it was necessary if there was to be any chance of peace for the duration of his stay at Four Crosses. He had enough to worry about in the threat of the Welsh without the added burden of danger from within. As he had on the third day of the mighty battle for the castle, he found himself wondering the same thing over and over again –
Sweet Jesú, what am I even doing here?
He just wanted to go home.
But that was not to be, at least not now. The surgeon finished stitching his scalp and swabbed it with alcohol, making it sting like crazy but Jamison didn’t flinch. He knew, as did many men, that something in the distilled liquor called aqua vitae, also known as spirit water, had a quality in it that would kill poison in a wound. There was a good deal of aqua vitae distilled up in Scotland where Jamison came from, a traditional medicinal spirit that was also used non-medicinally and made men quite drunk. His brother, Robert, was one of those who liked to steal it from the local physic.
Robert, he thought unhappily as the memory of his brother came into his head. This entire situation is all his fault!
Once the surgeon was finished, Jamison stood up, a bit unsteadily, his hand to the back of his sore head as he made his way from the tent. The rain outside was steady, falling in cold sheets. Jamison was thinking about finding some spirit water of his own to ease his aching head and perhaps even ease the fury in his heart towards those vicious women. Women he would now be forced to work with.
Fleeing back to Scotland and going home was looking better and better to him as he made his way towards the big gatehouse of Four Crosses. At this point, he’d almost rather face the MacKenzie’s fury than deal with three spoiled wenches. What was it he’d told Becket? That he’d throw the lot of them in the vault if given the chance? He still might. He’d do it and de Lohr would never be the wiser. Well, at least not for a while, anyway. The mere thought of those three little witches in the vault brought a smile to his lips.
He’d have the last laugh.
Men were moving in and out of the great hall, seeking shelter from the storm. The light from the open hall door drew him like a beacon in the night. He was tired of being wet and cold, now with a throbbing head to make everything far more unpleasant. His mind began to drift to the possibility of even taking a hot bath, anything to wash away the cold and mud that had become part of his very fabric. He may have been Scots and had spent his fair share of time in snow and cold, but the fact was that he didn’t like it. He hated the cold. The glow of the hall drew him in and he entered the belly of the great hall happily, out of the rain and into the stale, smoky warmth.
It was packed with men and servants in the hall, all of them trying to stay out of the rain and cold just as Jamison was. Men were sitting on the floor, near the hearth, on and at the table, and in every corner he could see. They had bread in their hands and in their mouth, famished after days of battle.
Jamison walked among them, pushing aside his irritation with the de Llion women at the sight of his men. He couldn’t give them the snappish mood he was feeling. He moved through them, offering a smile or a reassuring word. Such was Jamison’s method. Men looked up to him, congratulating him on a battle well fought, but he would turn it around and make it seem like he was simply a lesser part of a bigger strategy. Odd for a man with the arrogance that Jamison had, but he felt, at times, that it was more important to praise his men than seek praise for himself.
There was some laughter and some relief among the men as he moved and he made sure to speak a few words to everyone he recognized. He was making his way over to the wounded, back against the west side of the hall where he’d left them, only now there were far more of them than there had been before. Servants and what physics there were, including the surgeon who had tended him, had their hands full.
Jamison entered the area of the wounded, once again speaking soft words of encouragement to them as he went. There was a particular soldier he wanted to see, a senior sergeant who had taken a tumble from the wall walk in the early part of the siege. Jamison liked the man and had known him for years, a man with eight daughters and one son. After the fall from the wall walk, the soldier couldn’t feel his legs and Jamison wanted to see how he was faring. He was nearly to the man, who had been positioned away from the others, when he caught sight of someone beside him, helping to feed him.
Surprise rippled through him when he realized it was Havilland.
CHAPTER FIVE
*
“I have seen ye fight….”
*
Jamison was standing in front of her.
The man was so big that he filled up her entire field of vision and when Havilland looked up to see the big Scotsman standing there, all she could see was dark bulk. The fire from the hearth was behind him, giving him a surreal silhouette and, to be truthful, Havilland’s heart jumped when she realized who it was. Given the size and shape, it co
uld be no one else. A man that size wasn’t easy to miss and there was no one else at Four Crosses with that kind of mass. Certainly no one else who radiated such intimidation.
She could feel her palms beginning to sweat.
Sitting on the ground helping feed an injured man because the surgeon had asked her to help, Havilland was in a rather awkward position. It wasn’t as if she could run from him or, worse, defend herself if he decided to spank her again. So she simply sat there and looked up at the man, unsure of what to say, wondering if he knew that she had been the one to hit him over the head in the stables. Because the light was behind him, she couldn’t even see his features or his expression. Therefore, she did the only safe thing; she simply lowered her gaze and went back to her task without uttering a word.
The soldier she was helping was a de Lohr man, older, and he’d lost the use of his legs after a fall from the battlements. Havilland was spooning beef broth with barley into his mouth when she heard Jamison clear his throat softly behind her.
“I’ve come tae see how Watcyn is faring,” he said quietly. When the soldier looked over at him, the man’s face lit up and Jamison came to stand next to him. “Aye, so ye heard me, did ye? Stop being lazy and rise tae yer feet, man. I’ve need of ye.”
Havilland was about to spoon more broth into the man’s mouth but he ignored her completely, now focused on Jamison. There was adoration in his expression. It was clear how much he admired the big Scotsman.
“I shall be better in the morning, my lord,” he assured Jamison. “A bit of rest is all I need.”
Jamison knelt down, his big and bulky presence causing Havilland to pull away. Heat radiated off of his body. His knee, as he took it beside her, came too close, so much so that she visibly recoiled. She didn’t want to be that close to him. Or did she? God, she couldn’t think with the man so near her.
Why was her heart beating so?
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 66
