by Alyssa James
“I’m not ill, Ysabel,” Lisette corrected, her voice still raspy from her guardian’s attack. “Just purging Lord Blake from my system.”
“What’s ’appened, m’lady? I saw you running down from your guardian’s solar. Oh!” She raised one hand to an open mouth. “Lisette, ma fille, your neck...What’s ’e done to you?"
Automatically reaching to touch the area where Lord Blake’s fingers had pressed, Lisette felt tears prick like the points of dozens of fine tapestry needles. Her hands shook. Shock began to set in. She needed the freedom of the forest to calm her. Needed the reassurance that she was out of her guardian’s reach until she could marshal her strength. She must also devise a plan to thwart him if he tried to molest her again. First, however, she had to know that Genevieve was safe. ’Twas not improbable that the current Lord Blake would lash out at her young sister when he was finished with Ingrith.
“Where is Genevieve?” Lisette demanded.
“With cook in the kitchen.”
That much was a relief.
“I need to get to the stream, Ysabel.” She forged down the pathway through the dense woodland, desperate for the cool, clear water of the stream to rinse out her mouth and wash away her guardian’s touch. She would cleanse him from her skin, but it would be impossible to wipe the encounter from her mind.
Ysabel trailed close behind her, clucking like a mother hen, but refrained from speaking until Lisette had finished scrubbing at her face, neck, mouth and hands.
“Tell me what ’appened.”
“Before he mauled me,” she ignored Ysabel’s outraged cry and sat down on a tree stump, “he told me that I am to marry Lord Collins.”
“Saints in ’eaven.” The older woman made the sign of the cross on herself.
Despair clawed at Lisette’s stomach, twisted its talons deep into her abdomen and clasped her heart more fiercely than one of her guardian’s raptors. “Five young wives of Lord Collins dead in as many years,” Lisette stated slowly. “Am I to be the next bride to fall victim to the Collins’ curse?”
“Curse? There is no curse,” Ysabel told her forcefully. “Surely you ’ave realised that each death was suspicious?”
Lisette shook her head. “I’ve heard the servants talking about the Collins’ curse. They say that Lord Collins killed the husband of a witch when he was younger and proceeded to rape her. ’Tis said that she put a curse on all his brides.”
“Bah! ’Tis not a curse, I tell you, but the man ’imself taking lives.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Lord Collins is surely a murderer,” Ysabel whispered after her gaze darted about the forest and she moved closer. “We must never be ’eard to speak of this, but I ’ave my suspicions about Lord Collins. ’Is first wife died in ’er sleep of unknown causes. The next tripped down the stairs and broke ’er neck,” she recounted with disapproval.
“His next wife fell into the well and drowned,” Lisette said as she remembered how beautiful that young woman had been. Her brain raced in a riot of confusion, wondering whether there was some truth in Ysabel’s suspicions.
“Nobody falls down a well unless they ’ave ’ad too much ale—or ’ave been pushed!” Ysabel declared.
Lisette’s jaw dropped and she stared at her maid in open-mouthed horror. Ysabel was right. The series of tragedies defied belief. If not a curse, then surely the brides must have been victims of foul play. “What about the others?”
“Number four is said to ’ave gathered some poisonous berries and eaten them, mistaking them for a different variety,” Ysabel went on in a scornful tone. “As if any woman would be so foolish—unless she wanted to escape from Lord Collins and ate the berries knowing ’twas the only way out of the marriage.”
Fear clutched at Lisette’s heart. “How did his last wife die?”
“News of ’is last wife’s death reached us only days ago, m’lady. She is said to ’ave fallen from ’er horse and suffered internal bleeding—although there was nobody to witness the accident.” Ysabel nodded. “Oui, ’tis all very co-incidental, as is the timing of each death.”
“I know Lord Collins has a reputation for being a swine, but why are you so certain he killed his wives? Surely—?”
“M’lady, each accident ’as taken place almost a year after the marriages took place.”
“I don’t understand the significance of that.”
“Lord Collins is obsessed with producing an heir. ’E doesn’t want ’is nephew to in’erit the title or the estate.”
“And?”
“And all of the women ’ave failed to conceive an heir for Lord Collins in that time, even though the servants from ’is keep gossip that ’e coupled with ’is brides relentlessly. The lord also bedded many serving girls but none of the women’s bellies ’ave ripened with ’is fruit.”
Ysabel paced back and forth along the bank of the stream shaking her head vigorously as she continued, “I think ‘e only gives ’is brides a year to become with child. If they do not conceive by then, I think ’e murders them!”
“What you are saying...! Dear Lord, the man is evil—more evil than Lord Blake.” Lisette shuddered. “I’ve always known our guardian hated Genevieve and me, but for him to agree to give Lord Collins my hand in marriage if he suspects that...” She could not bring herself to continue. Hopelessness filled her. Actually suffering as the wife of Lord Collins was now the better of the evils she faced. If Ysabel was right, Lisette may have little more than a year to live. Then her little sister could meet a similar fate.
Ysabel stopped pacing and sat down next to Lisette. “Your guardian owes Lord Collins a gambling debt. I ’eard Ingrith telling one of ’er friends that Lord Blake gambled ’eavily with Lord Collins and lost.”
“Stupid man!” Lisette cried. “Lord Collins has the luck of the devil. Nobody ever wins against him in the game of dice!”
“That is also suspicious, non? But the lords still gamble against him. Lord Collins is trying to raise more money as ’e wants to gain favour in King ’enry’s court. ’E thinks that if ’e ’elps finance the king’s fight in France, ’e will put an end to the rumour that ’e was plotting against the king with Richard of Conisburgh to put the Earl of March on the throne.”
“Then surely Lord Collins can be convinced to claim his debt in gold coins rather than my hand in marriage?”
Ysabel shook her head. “There ’ave been plenty of others ’ave lost their gold to Lord Collins in gaming. Lord Blake must be the only one able to offer a young girl in marriage.”
Lisette felt her eyes widen as a thought struck her. “Ysabel, you said Lord Collins’ last wife has only just died?”
“Oui.”
“Then her death could not have been an accident, for Lord Blake said that he had promised me to Lord Collins at their last meeting—”
“And your guardian ’as not met with Lord Collins since ’is last dice game...over a month ago,” Ysabel finished hurriedly.
“So the death of Lady Collins was planned!” Lisette paused to take some deep breaths as her heart beat so fast she was dizzy. “My guardian told me that he would have taken my maidenhead himself ’twere it not so valuable for him.”
Ysabel jumped to her feet. Her features were tight with outrage. “’E is positively evil,” she vented. “’Tis no wonder your mother refused to marry ’im. Thank God your father returned ’ome from the tournaments in time to claim your mother as ’is bride and save ’er from marriage to this monster.”
Lisette silently agreed. Ysabel had told her on more than one occasion in the past how the current Lord Blake had coveted his cousin’s wife.
“That is, of course, why Lord Blake ’ates you and Genevieve so much,” Ysabel continued. ’E’s a man scorned and you two are living proof of your parents love—for theirs was a true affair of the ’eart. Their love was as romantic as any courtly love sung of by the troubadours in their ballads.”
“And because we resemble Mama, I suppose that each
time he sees us he is reminded of the way she rejected his suit,” Lisette mused.
Ysabel nodded. “You are right.”
Lisette pressed her lips together to stop them from wobbling with sadness. “My father was such a good man. What was he thinking leaving Genevieve and me in his cousin’s care?”
“Your father knew what ’is cousin was like. ’E would never ’ave left you under ’is cousin’s guardianship. I still believe Lord Blake forged those documents.”
This was another suspicion Ysabel had voiced to Lisette previously. Suspicion and proof were two very different things, however, and Lisette was unsure how to go about proving that Lord Blake should never have been appointed as guardian to Genevieve and her.
“I suspect you are right, but we have no proof to take before the king. Oh Ysabel,” Lisette cried, “I miss my parents so badly. I have missed them every day these past three years.” Her anguish was in every syllable. “They would never have allowed this to happen.” She took the hands Ysabel extended to her, and stood to receive the older woman’s embrace, but nothing could bring her comfort. “Lord Collins will surely kill me within a year of our marriage if I fail to become with child, and then Lord Blake has agreed that Genevieve shall be Lord Collins’ next bride.”
“Mon Dieu,” Ysabel said as she stiffened. Her arms dropped away from Lisette and she gesticulated madly as she poured out all her hatred for Lord Blake in a diatribe of vitriolic French. Lisette followed the rapid French easily as her mother had always spoken to her in her native tongue. Every invective Ysabel made against Lord Blake was deserved.
Hugging her arms around her in a gesture of self-comfort, Lisette said, “’Tis to be hoped that I conceive quickly.”
Ysabel groaned. “Oh Lisette, mon innocent, you do not understand. ’Ow can you be expected to conceive when the man’s seed is clearly at fault? That the man ’as taken five young and ’ealthy wives and impregnated none of them says all there is to say. ’Tis ’is seed that is no good. The problem is not that all of ’is wives ’ave come to the marriage bed barren.”
Once again there was logic in Ysabel’s reasoning. Lisette wrung her hands together and chewed at her lower lip as thoughts chased each other at a frantic pace through her mind. “If I am to survive and to save Genevieve...” She paused in complete helplessness, her lip quivered and her vision blurred through the tears that gathered as she regarded her maid. Gathering all her resolve she announced, “I will need to murder Lord Collins before the year is out.”
Non, non, non, ma petite belle fille, this you must not do. I do not believe you capable of such a deed even against this bad man. You could not do this even if ’twas the only way of saving yourself and your sister.”
“At this moment I feel capable of anything. I drew a dagger against my guardian this morning to save my life when he was choking me.” She ignored Ysabel’s shocked gasp. “If I have no choice I will find the strength to do what must be done. I will do all that I need to do to save Genevieve from Lord Collins.”
“If your crime is discovered, you will ’ang. And, whether or not you go unpunished in this lifetime, you will be cast into ’ell for such wickedness.”
“If I must marry Lord Collins I will have no choice.” Lisette placed the palms of her hands together in the gesture of prayer. A single tear spilt and ran down her cheek. Her heart cramped with heavy hopelessness. “I love the Lord, my God. I believe that He will understand and forgive me. And if He does not, at least I will take my place in Hell knowing that Genevieve can be with the angels in Heaven.”
“Oh ma fille,” Ysabel grasped at her hand. “Let us pray together for the Lord to provide us with an alternate solution.”
They knelt together on the damp forest floor. A lark sang in a tree. Lisette thought of how blissfully unaware the bird was of the full, unstoppable tide of despair that washed through her and threatened to carry her out of her depth to drown in stormy seas.
Fancifully her subconscious picked up on the babbling of the stream and decided it mocked their angst, laughing as it skipped over rocks and journeyed happily on its way. It had not a care in the world and no obstruction stopped it from its journey to the sea.
Lisette prayed for a miracle. For deliverance from the man to whom she was betrothed, or for God’s forgiveness should she need to resort to murder to save herself and her sister.
A blinding beam of sunlight broke through a small gap in the heavy canopy of cedar trees and penetrated the darkness of Lisette’s closed eyes. At the same moment, she jumped to her feet in the belief that her prayers had been answered. “Ysabel, I have it! I have the solution!”
“Lisette?” The older woman also stood, her expression excited. “Dites-moi. Tell me the solution you ’ave been given by God.”
Lisette’s happiness faded. Had God given her this solution? Surely not. She shook her head. “Although I believe it is the answer to my prayers, I know it cannot have come from God.” She chewed at her lower lip with her teeth. “I’m not sure you will approve, my friend, for ’tis not based on anything that is holy.”
The animation dimmed from the wise eyes that regarded Lisette. “Ma fille, dites-moi!”
“Understand that although what I propose is wrong, it will prevent my death at Lord Collins’ hands, save me from the hangman’s noose, and will also keep Genevieve safe.”
Ysabel tilted her head to one side. “I ’ope it does not involve murder and you are sure it will keep both you and Genevieve safe?”
Lisette nodded slowly, the concept of her plan still spinning around in her head. So bold. So wicked and unthinkably brazen, but as the only other choice she had was murder, this was the better solution. The only problem was that she couldn’t carry out the plan alone. Would Ysabel tell her what she needed to know, or would she be too shocked to condone such behaviour?
Her father’s two most faithful servants must also be approached to assist.
Doubt and guilt warred within her. ’Twas wrong of her to ask them for their help. Both were honest men. Good men. Did she have the right to involve them in her sinful scheme? Yet without them, she could not do what must be done to survive.
Again the determined voice in her head reminded her she had no choice. Her sister’s life and her own were at stake.“I must act quickly, Ysabel. I will need your guidance, and I will need Frederick and John to help me.”
A furrow appeared between Ysabel’s brows. “I am both relieved and appre’ensive, Lisette. Tell me about this plan.”
Chapter 2
Harfleur Fortress, France, 1416
The two heavy portcullises of Harfleur Fortress rose as Sir Rowan and Sir Leon approached and the guard identified their coats of arms. The two most respected of King Henry’s knights slowed their destriers from a canter to a trot.
“’Tis hard to believe ’tis only a year since we lay siege to this fort, Rowan,” Leon commented as he took in the formidable structure that lay ahead of them.
Sir Rowan nodded. He had been camped with the English army to the east of the town and the siege had lasted far longer than any had anticipated. “We all thought Henry’s attack on Leure Gate would reward us with a much easier victory.”
“Aye. Henry underestimated the enemy. If you had not suggested leading a force of artillery men forward with heavy cannons, we would still be here outside the walls.”
“The cannons were effective, but I much prefer to wield my sword on the battlefield knight against knight, Leon.”
“’Tis a fairer fight. ’Tis what we trained for.”
What they trained for...
Where was the chivalry and valour in standing behind a shield and firing a cannon at an unseen foe?
Rowan’s teeth clamped together at the memory of the English assault. As in all battles, the siege of Harfleur had resulted in heavy loss of life on both sides. While they had dug trenches the French had blocked them with counter-trenches. The only solution Rowan could devise was to move the cannons forward. But even
with the protection of large embrasured mobile screens, Sir Rowan’s men had been repelled initially by the burghers’ guns and crossbows. His men had fallen around him until only a few had been left to stand with him to push the heavy cannons into range. Then it had been the French who had suffered as the cannon balls were smeared with tar, set alight and sent flying toward the fortress.
“See the towers,” Leon said. “They have been rebuilt. They bear no scars from your cannon fire. There’s no evidence of how your fire power splintered away the bulwarks of the wooden barbicans.”
“If only the lives of men could be as easily constructed, my friend,” Rowan replied. He reflected upon Henry’s so-called victory at this place. It had been a costly one. A fifth of their forces were lost during the attack on the harbour fortress. Many of those who’d survived the fighting had then succumbed to the disease that spread through their camp.
Rowan had buried too many brothers-at-arms and lost too many friends since he’d gained his spurs. The so-called glory of battle victory meant little when men were starving, suffering from dysentery and had been so long from the shores of England. Yet, for all his battle weariness, there was only one compelling reason for him to return to his homeland.
Revenge.
He reined his mighty black destrier, Stormbringer, to a walk as they rode under the portcullis.
A page ran toward them. “Sir Rowan. Sir Leon,” he cried. “The king bids you both his welcome. He commands that Sir Rowan join him at once. Pray follow me, sir.”
“I will join you in the yard for training later, Leon.”
“Aye. I will await the king’s news.”
Rowan dismounted swiftly, handed the reins and a coin to a stable youth and hastened inside to answer the summons of his liege, King Henry. Had Henry decided to embark on another battle rather than return to England as planned? Rowan hoped not. The men needed to set foot on English soil again. This campaign had already been too long for most.
