Lasses, Lords, and Lovers: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Now,” he lifted his eyebrows at her. “Are you sure you are well? Does your head still hurt?”

  She smiled weakly at him. “It does, but I believe your potion is making it feel a little better,” she replied. “What was that powder, anyway?”

  He wriggled his eyebrows and went to her. “Mysterious stuff. Magic.”

  She cast him a dubious expression, knowing he was teasing her. “It is not magic,” she said flatly. “What is it?”

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “It is made from willow bark. It cures all manner of aches and pains. Do you not trust me?”

  She snuggled against him. “Of course I trust you,” she toyed with his tunic. “I just wanted to know what it was, ’tis all.”

  “You are a nosey woman.”

  “I know.”

  He bent over and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss that very quickly turned into something very powerful. It seemed that with each successive touch, each new moment of discovery, the flames of passion between them roared hotter and hotter. There was clearly something very special between them, something that Stephen was increasingly eager to explore. Joselyn’s arms snaked up around his neck and she clung to him as his mouth ravaged her. When he straightened, he pulled her with him and her feet dangled almost two feet off the floor.

  “A pity your head aches,” he murmured against her cheek.

  “Why?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Because I cannot have my way with you. Certainly your aching head would prevent an over amount of enjoyment for you.”

  “I would not be so sure.”

  He looked at her, grinning. “Are you positive? You just had a tremendous fright. I would feel like a cad for taking advantage of a weakened woman.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Being in your arms gives me the strength of Samson. You are the best cure for my weakness.”

  His smile broadened, his gaze moving to her full lips as if contemplating their sweetness. “You are learning the art of sweet words quickly.”

  “I have a good teacher.”

  His mouth captured hers fiercely, suckling her sweet lips before plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. He was such a big man, so strong, and she was no match for his strength physically and could not match the power of his onslaught. She had one weapon over him, however, that she was not yet aware of; her sweet little hands to his head, his face, somehow undid him. He could feel them in his hair, on the sides of his face, and he realized there was not anything he would not do for her touch. It was such a small gesture yet a tremendously fulfilling one. He kissed the palms of her hands as they came near his mouth, returning to her lips once more and suckling her breathless.

  Laying her on the bed, he stretched his big body over her, his hand moving down her neck to her arm and then to her breast. He kissed the swell of her bosom as he gently fondled her, thinking very seriously of removing her from her surcoat. But a loud bang on the chamber door stopped him.

  It was loud enough to startle him right off the bed. Throwing open the door, he was fully prepared to ream whoever had interrupted his passion but bit the words off before they could come flying out of his mouth. Lane stood in the doorway, his fair face tense.

  “Trouble, my lord,” he said shortly. “You had better come.”

  Stephen didn’t ask questions. He whirled to his wife. “Stay in this chamber and bolt the door. Do not open it for anyone but me or de Lara.”

  Joselyn didn’t have a chance to reply before he slammed the door. She rushed to it, throwing the bolt, wondering what the trouble was and feeling fear in her heart. Oddly enough, though, the fear was not for her.

  It was for her English-bred husband.

  *

  The Scots had returned.

  About five hundred Scots had poured in through the main gate of the city of Berwick, killing several English soldiers as they launched their sneak attack. They plowed their way through the city straight to the castle and began to lay an unorganized, if not aggressive, siege.

  De Lara had been caught outside of the city walls with the vast majority of his men and very shortly found himself in a bloody battle with a few hundred angry Scots. He had cursed himself for being stupid enough to be caught unaware. It was apparent that the Scots had waited until de Lara, the last of the great English earls still at Berwick, was separated from the garrison inside the castle. When the Earl of Carlisle went outside the city walls to muster his troops for the return home, the Scots had attacked. The old adage of divide and conquer was their war cry.

  The Scots were indeed a furious bunch. Smoke rose from fires near the city walls as groups of Scots began to burn the city. They were raging like children, aimless, simply attempting to do as much damage as possible without thought to those they damaged. As Stephen stood atop the battlements of Berwick Castle and watched, he began to understand the pattern. Surrounded by Lane, Sir Ian and Sir Alan, they made a somber, calculating group.

  “I would hazard to guess that they are planning on burning the city,” he said to Lane, standing alongside him. “They would rather burn it than see it fall into English hands.”

  “It is already in English hands, my lord,” Lane said frankly.

  Stephen smiled ironically. “They are so blinded by their bitterness that they will cut off their nose to spite their face and call it victory.”

  Lane and the two young knights snorted in agreement, watching the smoke grow heavier near the main city gates. Dusk was approaching and a battle by night was not something Stephen relished. He wondered how de Lara was faring. They could hear sounds of battle in the distance but were too far away to catch sight of what was happening. Ian was reading his mind.

  “Shall we take a contingent of soldiers to de Lara, my lord?” he asked. “There is no knowing how many Scots he is facing.”

  Stephen shook his head. “We cannot risk a breach of the castle. We must stay locked up tight. De Lara will have to fend for himself until such time as we can gain the upper hand and send help.”

  Ian nodded, the sunset reflecting in his dark eyes. He was a very tall, very slender man with large facial features. His counterpart, Sir Alan, was average in height but powerful. He had a rather wide-eyed appearance as he watched the city in smoke. Stephen passed a glance at him, suspecting the battles for Berwick were his first battles as a knight and he had not yet learned the art of viewing the blood and fear as part of the vocation. He was still young and anxious.

  They began to see a flow of men moving towards them from the interior of the city. Hundreds of Scots were advancing towards them, howling like a barbarian tide and carrying several ladders they meant to put against the walls of Berwick to gain access. The castle itself sat upon a hill with a massive curtain wall that stretched down to the river. Stephen could see a group of Scots moving for the river, knowing they were going to immerse themselves in the water in an attempt to get around the wall in order to gain access. The siege was growing more critical.

  Calmly, he turned to Ian and Alan.

  “And so it comes,” he said evenly. “Disburse your men along the walls and ensure that the postern gate is heavily guarded. We will have a contingent of men coming from the river side, so make sure you concentrate your men on that side of the castle. Ian, you have command of the river side of the fortress. Alan, you have the rest of the wall. Make sure it is properly covered. I will take the gatehouse.

  The knights disbanded, going about their duties. Stephen remained on the wall of the gatehouse, watching the Scots as they charged the wall and began to put up their ladders. His helm, having been held in one hand, was placed atop his head and the chin strap secured. He was a knight in full battle armor, as deadly as any man who had ever walked the earth.

  “Weapons!” he bellowed to the soldiers on the wall.

  The troops sheathed broadswords and produced the smaller, shorter blades meant for close quarters combat. He had about five hundred men in the entire castle. Gazing at the group below, he
hoped it would be enough.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The siege of Berwick waged well into the night and continued into the next morning. It was apparent that the attack on the city and castle had been planned since the defeat of the Scots at Halidon Hill, for the men from the north came well prepared with ladders and siege engines. Arrows, some of them Welsh in origin with their long, spiny shafts and serrated heads, had come flying over the wall and struck down several soldiers in a series of barrages. As daylight dawned, lovely and bright, Berwick Castle was in yet another horrific battle in a history that had been full of them.

  Stephen and his men had spent all night upon the walls shoving back ladders of Scots attempting to breach the castle. Stephen had received a gash to his face when an enemy sword tip inadvertently struck him, barely missing his eye, but was otherwise unharmed. He had spent nearly all his time at the gatehouse fighting off ladders since the gatehouse was the flattest portion of land on which to brace a ladder. It was the Scots’ rallying point.

  The Scots were apparently calling in reinforcements because the swarm around the castle was becoming heavier. It made Stephen wonder what had happened to de Lara. He hoped the man had somehow survived. The alternative distressed him tremendously but he could not dwell on it. He was in the midst of his own mortal fight. He would fight off men from one ladder, shove it away from the wall only to see that two more had been put against the old stone walls of Berwick Castle. It was becoming apparent that they would have to do something drastic or the castle would eventually be breached and his mind began to work furiously for a solution.

  Near him, a few of his soldiers were having trouble fighting off a group of Scots who were beginning to climb off their ladder and onto the wall. Stephen went to their aid, striking down two of the men and throwing one of them back over the wall. He didn’t see the second ladder that came up behind him nor an angry Scot heading for him with a sword drawn. Someone yelled at him to beware and he turned in time to see a Scotsman upon him. He didn’t have time to raise his sword; all he could do was try to duck the blow. But as he rolled to the deck, positive he was about to receive a nasty wound, an English soldier was suddenly behind the Scot and gored the man through the back. The enemy did nothing more than fall harmlessly on Stephen, who swiped the man off him and tossed him to the bailey below.

  Stephen leapt to his feet, nodding his head at the English soldier to acknowledge his help.

  “My thanks,” he said. “I thought my living days were over.”

  The English soldier was older, with a worn and leathery face. But he smiled with the few green teeth he had and tipped his helm back, wiping at his sweaty brow. When his hand came away, Stephen noticed the thick, faded half-moon scar near his scalp line.

  “A pleasure, m’lord,” the man replied.

  Stephen’s blood ran cold as he envisioned the scar. Like a half-moon, it was an obvious feature like a nose or an eye. A wave of nausea swept Stephen as he held the man in his steady gaze, studying him, flashes of the horror that Joselyn had described rolling through his brain. The rape of a young girl, the pain and terror she felt, the subsequent child that resulted. All of it flashed before his eyes until all he could feel was fury.

  “What is your name?” his voice sounded oddly strangled.

  “Bowen, m’lord,” the soldier replied.

  “Whom do you serve?”

  “Carlisle, m’lord,” he said, his dark gaze moving in the direction of de Lara’s distant troops. “There are about fifty of us in the castle. We were separated from Lord de Lara when the siege began. Do you suppose we will have a chance to aid the earl?”

  Stephen didn’t reply. He couldn’t. When he should have been focused on a nasty battle, he found that all he could do was stare at the man before him. The nausea grew.

  “You will answer a question, Bowen,” he realized he was quivering. “Did you serve Andrew Harclay?”

  “Aye, m’lord, I did.”

  “And eleven years ago in the city of Carlisle, did you rape a young girl?”

  Bowen looked struck. When he didn’t answer, Stephen produced the broadsword and put it at the man’s throat.

  “Answer me,” he growled.

  Bowen suddenly looked terrified. He tried to back away from Stephen but had nowhere to go. The parapet was behind him and a thirty foot drop to the bailey.

  “I… I don’t…,” he stammered.

  Stephen cut him off. “Tell me or I kill you where you stand.”

  Bowen’s terror was turning into panic. “I don’t remember!”

  “You are lying. I will give you one more opportunity to answer me or I drive this sword through your neck.”

  Bowen was backed up against the parapet. The only place to go was down and he put up his hands in a pleading gesture. “I didn’t rape her!” he warbled. “Her father owed me!”

  Stephen paused, an expression of supreme confusion on his face. “What do you mean by that?”

  Bowen was breathing rapidly with fear; his chest heaved laboriously. “The man had a gambling debt to me,” he told him, his voice shaking. “He came into Carlisle often, to the barracks, and would engage in gambling with the soldiers. We all knew him. But he lost to me one time too many and when I tried to collect the debt, he couldn’t pay. So I took his daughter instead.”

  “What do you mean you took her? You raped her?”

  “I took what he had of value. It was my right to collect the debt any way I saw fit.”

  Stephen’s nausea intensified. He just stared at the man, unable to fathom that manner of human being. It was the vilest thing he had ever heard. “She was eleven years old,” his voice was a sickened rumble. “You stole the innocence of an eleven year old in payment for a gambling debt?”

  The sword had backed off somewhat and Bowen regained a measure of his courage. He feared Pembury; they all did. But that fear did not prevent him from speaking his mind. Like most of the foot soldiers, he did not know that Pembury had taken a Scots wife. Had Bowen known that, he might have shown more restraint. Instead, his ignorance would cost him.

  “I did not take her innocence,” he grumbled. “It was not the first time her father had sold her off. She was a whore.”

  The sword went through his neck before he could draw another breath.

  *

  Joselyn had spent an entire night listening to the sounds of battle all around her. Closed up in her bower with Mereld, Tilda and the fawn, they had huddled in fear as the sounds of hell filled the air. She felt as she had not a week earlier while she sat with her mother and father in the great hall of Berwick as the English closed in; they knew they were facing their demise. Little did she know at the time that it did not signify her death but her rebirth.

  She hadn’t slept the entire night, worrying about Stephen. She knew that if the Scots managed to take the castle, they would not hurt her. But she was terribly concerned for her husband. Not knowing if he was safe or dead ate at her like a cancer, odd since only the day before the man had been her enemy. But no longer.

  As dawn broke, the smell of smoke was heavy in the chamber. A breeze was blowing to the east, carrying upon it smoke from the fires in the city. She dared to peer from the lancet window facing the bailey and part of the great hall and could see the wounded being carried into the great hall. It occurred to her that, as Lady Pembury, she should tend the wounded. Although life at Jedburgh had not prepared her for that, she knew her duty all the same. Stephen had told her not to leave the chamber but she could not shirk her duties. The wounded needed help and she was intent to provide it.

  Moving away from the window, she roused Mereld and Tilda.

  “We must go and help the wounded,” she told them, pointing to Stephen’s bags against the wall. “Gather my husband’s things. He had all manner of medicine in his bags and we will take it down to the great hall where the wounded are.”

  The old women moved to do her bidding, struggling under the heavy bags. “Do ye know what to do, Jo-Jo?
” Old Mereld asked. “Ye have never tended a wounded man before.”

  Joselyn shrugged. “If he is bleeding, we stop it. If he has a hole, we sew it up.” She lifted her hands. “What more is there to know?”

  The old woman scowled. “There is more to it than that. What if his bones are sticking out? What then?”

  Joselyn opened her mouth to reply but a sharp bang on the door cut her off. Startled, she rushed to the bolted door.

  “Who comes?” she demanded fearfully.

  “Open the door.” It was Stephen’s muffled voice.

  Thrilled, she threw open the panel and prepared to throw her arms around him. But Stephen charged in, grabbing her by both arms and lifting her off the ground. He continued to charge until he was clear across the chamber and had her cornered against the wall, trapped by his massive presence. She went from thrilled to terrified in the wink of an eye.

  “Stephen,” she gasped. He was not hurting her but the pressure from his grip was intense. “What is…?”

  “Enough,” he snapped, his blue eyes blazing into her. “No more half-truths or lies, Joselyn, else you will not like my reaction. You will tell me the absolute truth.”

  She was shaken. “Truth? What truth?”

  “Your father,” he demanded before she finished her sentence. “Did he use you to pay off his gambling debts? Is that why the soldier raped you?”

  Joselyn’s face turned white. They could all see it. Her trembling worsened. “Who told you such things?”

  Stephen was so enraged, so sickened, that it was all he could focus on. He was in battle mode but now confronting perhaps the most important thing he had ever faced. In battle, he at least had the ability to protect himself with armor and shield. But with Joselyn, his heart was naked, his soul vulnerable, and he was having a difficult time. There was no defense. After what Bowen had told him, he could think of nothing else.