by Tamara Leigh
“What would you have me do, Juliana? Run? I will not. I will fight Bernart and, God willing, arise the victor.”
“I do not ask that you run, only that you not allow guilt for a past not of your making to affect your judgment when Bernart arrives.”
“I shall do my duty, Juliana—to you, Gabrien, and my people.”
She moved her hand to his jaw. “When it is done, will you let yourself love me without Bernart’s shadow ever upon us?”
Her softly spoken words encased his heart. “I do love you, Juliana, but I can make no promises yet.”
“Mayhap if King Richard could be called upon to intervene, all would be sooner resolved. And without bloodshed.”
He had considered it, but this was a battle between Bernart and him. To bring the king into it would reveal Juliana’s humiliation and Bernart’s shame.
“I will not call upon him. Bernart and I shall settle this.”
“I knew it was what you would do.”
He sat up. “I shall leave you to your rest.”
“I wish you would not.” She smoothed a hand over Gabrien’s head. “You belong with your family.”
Family. The war he waged was no war at all.
As he lowered back to the mattress, Juliana said, “Pray, never again go missing from the ones who love you.”
Her words silk across jagged emotions, he relaxed more deeply into the mattress. And for the first time in a long time, his sleep was restful. For the first time in what seemed forever, he had hope of belonging. Of home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
March 1196
War had come to Mergot. No words were exchanged between besieged and besieger. There was only the silence of waiting. But once the weather warmed, warring would commence. Soon.
Gabriel pulled his mantle close, stared beyond his clouded breath to the bordering wood before which Bernart and his army of knights, men-at-arms, and mercenaries had put down camp two days past. And more men were coming as told by the woman Gabriel had sent into their camp.
She had returned before dawn, pretty head filled with all she gleaned from her flirtations with Bernart’s men. So it was told that Baron Faison, more an enemy than before, would send reinforcements to aid Bernart’s siege.
It was the opportunity Faison longed for, and Bernart had never been short of cunning. That his injury had not altered. But Mergot was prepared. Placed around the wall walks were buckets of caltrops—many-pointed iron spikes that, scattered before men and charging horses, caused appalling confusion. Set at intervals between the battlements were great cauldrons to pour boiling water and hot sand upon the attackers. And newly forged swords and pikes were in abundance, as were arrows and slings.
Though quicklime and Greek fire were not as abundant, Gabriel knew when and where to use them so they would have the effect of thrice as much. When the mining began—if it began—jars of water would be set about to detect underground movement. As for his people, those of the villages nearest Mergot had been brought into the castle, along with their food supplies and livestock. Though it made for crowded living, it would not only force Bernart to forage for his own supplies in the aftermath of winter, but he could not use the threat of harm to the men and women under Gabriel’s protection.
All was provided for. Or so he prayed. No man could erect a defense another could not pull down. Which was true for Bernart as well. This night, Gabriel would lead a sortie through the dusting of snow to destroy the siege weapons Bernart built, the ultimate goal being to reverse roles so the besiegers found no respite from attack.
Gabriel strode to the steps, descended quickly, and slowed to weave a path among the villagers who huddled against the cold. He stopped often to reassure those whose eyes sought his and thank them for their forbearance.
The conditions were much the same in the inner bailey. As for the great hall, a mass of bodies fouled the air so much that no amount of herbs strewn upon the rushes could disguise the stench. And it would get worse. Henceforth, water was as gold, not to be wasted on bathing.
He had begun his ascent of the stairs when a hand closed around his arm. He knew her touch.
Though Juliana’s smile was tentative, it warmed away the chill of his unease. “All is well?” she asked.
“All is quiet.” He could report no better.
“The weather?”
“Clearing.”
Regret turned down her mouth.
“For a woman who gave birth not three weeks past,” Gabriel said, wiping a smudge from her jaw, “you work too hard.”
She glanced behind. “They must be fed.”
“Aye, though not by your hand.”
She mounted the step beside him, the added inches permitting her to drop her chin from its strained tilt. “Gabrien is asleep and Lissant watches over him. I ought to be here.”
He would not argue with her as he had on the day past when she insisted on going among the people to see to their needs. She was too determined and too in need of diversion from what waited outside their walls.
“At least they are warm,” he said and swept his gaze around the hall. Some good would come of the press of bodies, but on the morrow these people would know cold again when they exchanged places with those in the outer bailey.
Juliana pushed a tress off her brow. “I suppose there is that.”
He stared at her, drank her in. “I must make ready for the sortie.”
Silence followed him to the top of the stairs, then her footsteps that quickened when she ran the length of corridor to overtake him before the solar. “Must you, Gabriel?”
Her fear made him long to pull her into his arms. “Better a battle beyond the walls than at the walls—worse, inside the walls.”
“But if you are captured—”
“I will not be. We will put fire to the siege engines Bernart raises and return forthwith.”
She stepped nearer, set a hand on his jaw. “There is naught I can say to change your mind?”
He nearly closed his eyes to savor the feel of her hand upon him. Three weeks since he had been this near her, three weeks of longing, three weeks of denying himself more than fleeting contact when she passed Gabrien to him. But it was better this way. After the threat of Bernart was past—were it ever, a dissenting voice reminded him of his tenuous hold on Juliana and their child—they could look to a future together.
“There is naught you can say, Juliana.” He drew her hand from him and opened the door to the warmth of the fire the chambermaid kept stoked. Had the heat of the hall not chased the chill from him, it would have been welcome.
Pushing his mantle off his shoulders, he entered. And she followed.
“Juliana, you should not—”
“I will aid in readying you for the sortie.” She crossed to the chest, knelt before it, and lifted the lid.
He knew he ought to send her away, that it was not good to be in a place that held both bed and her.
“What shall you wear?” she asked.
He closed the door. “White, so I shall not be seen against the snow.” As Mergot was built on raised ground, the snow would be at their backs. And all would be lit by a half-moon.
While she searched the chest, he strode to the bed and freed the brooch securing his mantle.
“Gabriel?”
Her choked voice brought him around.
Juliana stared at the white cascading from her hand, sank back on her heels. Memories rolled across the months, returning her to the morn she had been unable to remove her chemise from beneath Gabriel and later gone to retrieve it. In spite of what he had believed of her, he had brought it with him to Mergot.
She met his gaze. “Was it more than the babe that returned you to Tremoral?”
“It was.”
Her heart fluttered as if to fly away. “What would you have done had you not heard Bernart meant to set me aside did I not provide an heir?”
“Though you denied he abused you, I was certain he did. My only error was hi
s form of abuse, hmm?” At her hesitation, he said gruffly, “Do not say what he forced you to do is not abuse, Juliana. Indeed, methinks it worse than what I feared. Not only did he make you break your marriage vows but turned you into a—” He closed his mouth.
“A harlot,” she named herself what he no longer could.
His shoulders broadened with a deep breath. “I was searching you out to offer to see you safely away from Tremoral when Nesta caught me aside and told Bernart’s lie.”
Then Gabriel had felt for her even then—not merely lust, perhaps the beginning of love. A moment later, she frowned over words that nearly slipped past her. “Safely away? To Mergot?”
“Nay, though do not think I was not tempted. But as you are another man’s wife, I thought to deliver you to a convent—would have paid whatever was asked to ensure he could not lay hands on you again.”
“But Alaiz—”
“Her as well. I spoke true when I told I would have brought her out of Tremoral had it been possible.”
She lowered the chemise and closed her eyes. Where was her sister? Did she live? Had she been found and dragged before the sheriff? Sentenced?
“Juliana?” Gabriel dropped to his haunches beside her.
“I fear for my sister,” she whispered.
“You shall see her again.”
“How can you be certain?”
He brushed his fingers down her cheek. “You are right. I cannot be certain. But I am doing—and will do—all I can to reunite you. But for now, it is Bernart we must attend to that we ensure he remains outside our walls.”
“Our walls,” she said, and wished it were so—that they were as much hers as his. That she could be his lady in truth and need never fear their parting.
Dear Lord, she silently appealed, send King Richard. Not a sennight hence, not a day. This hour, this minute.
“When all is decided,” Gabriel said, “I have hope you shall be at my side.”
Aching to know without question they would attain the age of the old together, she moved nearer, but as she slid her hands up his chest, he drew back.
“Why?” she blurted and was ashamed that after all the time spent praying for forgiveness of her sins, she asked such. Though she but wished to hold him here with her, to keep him from going outside the walls and ensure he did not fall beneath Bernart’s army, it could prove too much temptation.
Gabriel reached into the chest. When he turned back, he held her wedding ring taken with her girdle after her escape attempt en route to Mergot.
She hurt over what it represented of the years since Bernart’s return from the Holy Land.
“Because of this we cannot, Juliana. This ring is between us.”
She nodded.
He rose, and she looked to the hand he reached to her that had touched her as she had never been touched. Would she know that touch again?
Determinedly, she set aside such pondering and placed her hand in his.
“If we are to be one again,” he said, raising her before him, “it shall be as husband and wife.”
“There is nothing I want more than that.” She took the ring. “And for this to be returned to Bernart.”
Shortly, clothed in white, he kissed her hand and said, “I am with you always.”
“And I with you. Godspeed, my love.”
As she listened to his retreating footsteps, she closed her eyes and prayed for his safe return.
Gabriel looked back.
Standing before the postern gate, he watched flames coat the night sky in smoke and soot. By the light of those flames, Bernart’s men shouted orders and rushed to douse fires.
The trebuchet would not soon find itself at Mergot’s walls. Just as heartening was that its destruction and the release of a score of destriers had been accomplished without death on either side. Good for the conscience if naught else. None should die for Bernart’s rapacious quest, though many would if successive sorties proved unsuccessful. Tomorrow eve Gabriel would lead another, and again the following night, each becoming more dangerous than the last.
Giving silent thanks for the gift of this night, he stepped through the gate that was quickly closed and secured by a man-at-arms.
Gabriel considered those who had accompanied him beyond the walls. Also clothed in white, they were as ghosts in the dark of the bailey, but he caught their pale smiles in their shadowed faces.
“Fine work,” he said. “Now find your rest.” As they turned away, he stretched his gaze to the donjon beyond the inner wall.
Juliana would be at her window. Watching. Waiting. Wanting him at her side. As he wanted her.
Whatever the price.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Now came Faison. One hundred strong.
Gabriel put a hand to the embrasure and leaned forward to better see beyond the battlement to the morning mist before the wood.
Amid the birthing of spring, Faison brought siege engines—mangonels, trebuchets, ballistas, a battering ram—all of which the dark lord must have had ready for such an occasion. Here his revenge for his brother’s loss, his own, and cessation of betrothal negotiations.
Gabriel pushed a hand through his hair and clawed at his aching scalp. For nearly a sennight, he and his men had struck at Bernart’s camp during the night. Siege engines were destroyed, horses loosed, food supplies seized, tents brought down on sleeping occupants.
Then there were the injuries done Bernart’s men who placed themselves between Gabriel and his targets. Necessary, but not without cost. Fortunately, it was not yet so high it had taken the lives of Gabriel’s men. Injuries only, and there could be no more sorties. Now Bernart had the advantage. Ere the sun penetrated the clouds overhead, the siege would be at Mergot’s walls.
“Is this the day?” a voice came to him out of the din.
He turned to where Juliana stood on the first step down from the wall walk. “What do you here?”
She ascended the last step. “The folk in the hall are frantic at hearing siege engines have arrived. They are of Baron Faison?”
“They are.”
The fear in her eyes leapt, and he settled hands on her shoulders. “Return to the donjon and remain with our son.”
She searched his face, glanced between the battlements. “At least he makes no pretense of bearing gifts.”
Though her attempt at levity made him ache, he smiled. “For that I am grateful, my sweet Helen of Troy. Now go.”
Her hesitation palpable, he was not surprised when she dove into his arms and pressed herself to him as if it might be the last time.
Not caring who saw, he embraced her, making a memory of her body against his.
“My lord!” a man-at-arms called. “They move!”
The announcement stirring the villagers in the outer bailey to frenzied speech, Gabriel set Juliana back and returned to the embrasure.
The mist about their heads and shoulders, Bernart’s army tramped the ground—numerous on foot, many astride, some on siege engines pulled by horses and pushed by men. At the fore was Bernart’s thick figure. Neither was there any mistaking the man at his side, he whose sword arm had been lost during the Crusade. This day, the bitterly angry Dominic Faison meant to smile again.
Silently vowing the man would not, Gabriel turned from the embrasure and looked beyond Juliana to his men on the walls and those in the bailey. “To arms!” he shouted.
As if a great hand set them in motion, they dispersed, rushing to their posts amid terrified villagers.
According to plans laid a fortnight past, Gabriel’s people were ushered toward the drawbridge that would shelter them in the relative safety of the inner bailey, men hastened to light fires beneath cauldrons, archers took up bows, and pikes were hefted. Soon bones would crack, blood would spill, and flesh would burn.
The approach of Bernart’s army adding to the clamor rising inside the walls, Gabriel looked to Juliana whose gaze was fixed on her hands at her waist. “Go to our son,” he said.
> The still of Gabriel’s voice tempting Juliana’s hand to her heart, she met his gaze.
Forget not the tournament, she told herself. None can best him.
But an army… And how many might die? It was the way of things, that by blood men held what they laid claim to, but it did not make it right. What of the king? Though he had not answered her summons, might he answer his vassal’s?
“Gabriel, still you could send word to King—”
“This is how it is done,” he said sharply.
She raised her chin. “Nay, this is how stubborn and prideful men do it.”
Irritation grooved his face, but then he sighed. “It is the only way I know.”
She started to turn aside but stopped. If this was to be his course, it was hers. “God be with you, my love,” she said.
Eyes softening, he inclined his head and strode opposite.
She stared after him, then lifted her skirts to descend to the bailey.
“Gabriel de Vere!” a sickly familiar voice breached the wall. “Show yourself, you son of a sow!”
Juliana’s innards pitched. Had she never again heard that voice, she would have been grateful to eternity. As the bailey quieted, she looked around and met Gabriel’s gaze where he now stood atop the gatehouse. Face expressionless, he jutted his chin, once more commanding her to return to the donjon.
“Come out, old friend,” Bernart taunted, voice strained from the volume required to carry it over the wall. “Surely you fear not this man with whom you were once as a brother.”
Juliana saw Gabriel’s hand close over his sword hilt.
“I want naught that is not mine,” Bernart called.
Despite the distance between Juliana and Gabriel, she knew there was fire in his eyes, though more because of Bernart’s mockery—his lie—than that she had yet to leave the wall.
He stepped between the battlements and stood there some moments looking down upon the besieger. Then he shouted, “Lower the drawbridge!” and descended the gatehouse steps.
