The Mercenary's Bride

by TERRI BRISBIN

  She did not want to run. She wanted to stay and fight with her husband, but she knew he was right. She would be a distraction, and as he’d told her again and again, distraction meant death in war. So Gillian leaned against Ernaut and prayed as she never had for the safety of her people…and her husband.

  They passed by the field at the top of the rise just before the convent where Brice’s first camp had been. No sign other than impressions on the ground remained behind to mark the spot where she’d met him for the first time. Just when the convent should come into sight, she felt the horse slowing.

  ‘Nay, Ernaut,’ she cried out. ‘Brice said go to the convent. Do not stop.’

  Still, the boy pulled in the mighty warhorse under control and slowed him to a stop. ‘My lady,’ he said, breathing heavily from the exertion.

  Gillian peered around him to find a mass of mounted knights between them and the convent walls. And the first line of archers stood with bows aimed at them.

  ‘Lady Gillian, I presume,’ the knight in the centre called out.

  Though Ernaut tried to keep her on the horse, she slid off and walked towards the knight. Ernaut could not hold the destrier and her, so he dropped the reins of the horse and positioned himself between her and the archers. When the horse began to run off, a shrill whistle from the second knight calmed it. The horse followed the whistle to the knight who dismounted and took the reins.

  ‘Stay back, my lady,’ Ernaut pleaded, drawing his sword and brandishing it before them.

  ‘You and your lady are in no danger from us, boy,’ the taller knight called out.

  ‘I am Giles of Taerford, Lady Gillian,’ the first knight said as he approached, lifting his helmet so that Ernaut could identify him. ‘This is Soren, also friend to your lord husband.’

  Giles motioned to Soren to remove his helmet, but the warrior ignored him. Gillian doubted that Soren did anything anyone told him to do. Ernaut finally recognised Brice’s friends and put his sword away.

  ‘Here, boy,’ Soren said, bringing the horse back to them. ‘You must take her to the convent.’ Soren, taller almost than the huge warhorse, gave Ernaut a hand up and then lifted her in one smooth motion up behind him.

  Gillian had questions to ask Lord Giles, but was given no time. Within minutes, she was safe within the convent’s walls with close to one hundred mounted knights, archers and soldiers between her and her brother’s men.

  And her husband’s. If he yet survived.

  When Oremund and his cavalry chased off after Gillian, Lucais’s troop and the archers on the walls made quick work of the foot soldiers left behind. Stephen and Richier came out of the forest with their horses, kept out of sight of the attackers and readied for their use. Already fewer than half of Oremund’s force remained while Brice had suffered few loses. With the control of Thaxted clearly back in his hands, he called out orders to those remaining behind and took his knights towards the convent.

  They rode as though the devil followed them. For his plan to work, he must catch Oremund’s forces between Giles’s and his and squeeze them in between. He filled the miles with prayers—prayers for her safety—and soon they approached the fighting. Looking ahead, he could see Giles’s formation and Oremund’s men trapped now between.

  He smiled grimly and placed his helm back on. God help them all!

  Though Edmund tried to warn him from following his sister, Oremund would have none of it. The chest of gold at the keep had been a ruse, to draw them in, but his sister’s escape told him that the real treasure was at the convent.

  He realised as he rode that his father would have sent anything of value to be hidden on the convent grounds. The Reverend Mother was the late king’s half-sister and so the convent had always been well guarded. Now, though, he would find what his father left behind and it would be his.

  Gold enough to buy more soldiers to fight against the Norman invaders and their Breton lackeys. Gold enough to be taken seriously by the northern earls. Gold enough to sustain him and his titles.

  Gold enough for the respect he deserved.

  Following the road, with his men at his back, he came over the last hill before the convent and could not believe his eyes.

  A wall of men—nay, three different walls—stood between him and everything he fought for. A row of dozens of archers knelt in front. Another row, two deep, of foot soldiers with a row of mounted knights at their backs. All with weapons at the ready, arrows nocked, all waiting for the word.

  One knight rode forwards and asked for his surrender. The knight called out the demand first in French and then in heavily accented English. Oremund spat on the ground in reply.

  Edmund whispered furiously behind him, but Oremund did not hear his words. He could see the convent walls behind them and knew that was his true target. But he needed to survive to break through and for that he needed his men in front. Riding back, he ordered his men into lines, knowing that the first flight of arrows would get many of them. It did not matter—they were expendable, he was not.

  The cry to battle rang out and the arrows flew. Men and horses screamed as they hit their targets. Oremund circled back around his men, far enough to avoid the arrows, searching for a way through. As the Normans began to move forwards, a small opening occurred as several of the knights dropped back behind the others. Edmund called out orders for a retreat, which Oremund countermanded. Confusion reigned as the soldiers did not know who to follow or which way to go.

  Oremund used the chaos to get nearer to the road. When his horse was slain from under him, he man aged to untangle himself and rolled along the ground. Edmund was in command now and called out, directing the fight. Unfortunately, any advantage they might have had was gone.

  When another battle cry rang out behind them and they saw the Breton from Thaxted’s approach, their men panicked and ran in all directions. The knights ahead of them were loosed and the field became a slaughter.

  But, Oremund would not give up.

  Not now.

  Not this close.

  Brice saw Oremund’s forces being decimated before him. With no reinforcements possible, he watched as Giles first used his archers to thin the ranks. Though his friend had enough arrows and time to sit and pick off every one of those caught between them, Brice knew his friend was eager for battle. When Brice saw Edmund race off the field to escape, Giles gave the order that released his men and they covered the field, a killing force that could not be stopped.

  Giles, followed by another knight, rode after Edmund. Dear God, could it be Soren? Brice shielded his eyes from the sun, but they were into the forest before he could be certain. It was then he spied Oremund sneaking along the edge of the forest, making his way towards the convent.

  Brice spurred his horse on, racing across the field, through the fighting men, trying to get to Oremund before he found a horse on which to escape or, worse yet, to reach the convent. Then, just as Brice reached the road and thought he would get to Oremund to stop him, another man came out of the shadows of the forest between them.

  Without hesitation, Haefen swung the heavy mace, catching Oremund in the leg and knocking him to the ground. As he lay there writhing in anguish and unable to get away, the smith brought the mace down again, hitting Oremund in the chest and throat. Brice looked away when the third blow was struck, but understood Haefen’s need to do it. When Brice looked back, Haefen dropped the mace and spat on the dead man.

  Brice rode over now and climbed off his horse. Haefen nodded at him.

  ‘For my wife,’ he said sombrely.

  ‘And for mine,’ Brice added, holding out his hand to Gillian’s uncle.

  His man Stephen had discovered that Haefen was actually following Oremund and began collecting reports for Brice about Gillian’s brother’s plans. But Brice could not share that truth with Gillian. ‘She thinks you betrayed her. The truth of your actions will ease her heart, I think.’

  With their leader’s death, those still fighting scattered. Brice
gave orders to chase them down and kill any they caught, knowing that alive these men would simply find new leaders and come back to haunt him. He’d learned from Giles’s error in judgement in allowing Edmund to live and would not make the same mistake. Of course, his lady wanted Oremund dead, where Giles’s had not wanted Edmund to die.

  He waited as his men took control before going to her. Though he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms, there were tasks to see to before his personal desires. As he was speaking to Richier, Giles rode back onto the field. And indeed, it was Soren at his back. They approached and dismounted and he greeted them warmly.

  Giles tossed his helm to his squire and embraced Brice.

  ‘That Edmund must have magical skills, for he disappears better than any I know.’

  ‘If you had killed him as I suggested—’ Brice began, but Giles waved him off.

  ‘I know, I know.’ He laughed. ‘You were right.’

  Brice turned to their friend and waited for him to come closer. As Soren began to lift off his helm, Brice felt Giles squeeze his arm, as though in warning. Even so, Brice did gasp when Soren turned to face him.

  The left half of his face was the same as it had been, the appearance that got him called ‘the beautiful bastard’, but the right side… Dear God! Though healed, it was a mangled mess of skin and scars, and his right eye was gone. Brice tried not to stare, but such damage was horrifying. Finally, he reached out to Soren and took his hand, pulling him into a rough hug.

  ‘And what does the other knight look like?’ he asked, trying to ease the tension between the three of them.

  ‘He burns in hell, Brice.’

  ‘I am glad of it.’ And he was. ‘My thanks to you both for coming in my time of need,’ he said. ‘How is Lady Fayth?’

  Giles sighed dramatically. ‘Women are not very logical when they are carrying. She cries at everything.’

  ‘So this was no hardship for you, then? Coming now?’

  ‘Oh, non! You may have saved my life by calling me to your side,’ he said, laughing. ‘You will see what I mean.’

  ‘Did you meet her?’ he asked. ‘My wife, Gillian?’ Brice realised that the field was under control and he could go to her now. ‘Come with me?’

  They mounted and rode to the convent wall, where Ernaut greeted them with the news that Gillian was safely within. As they left their horses with him and walked inside, Brice felt the anticipation of seeing her again, of knowing that the threat to their happiness and their future was gone now. The other two laughed at him as he nearly ran to the heavy door and knocked on it.

  They laughed louder when he cursed the slowness of someone to answer it. And when he began to pace. Finally, several minutes later, an old woman, an old nun, tugged the door of the gates open and asked his business as though she did not know his wife was inside while a battle raged without! He tried to adapt his pace to hers as she meandered along the path that would take them to the Reverend Mother’s public chamber, but Brice found himself wanting to pick up the holy woman and carry her along faster.

  When they finally reached it and Brice was informed his wife awaited him within, he rushed past her and opened the door.

  The room was empty.

  There was no sign of Gillian.

  His shout shook the chamber and echoed through the corridors and rooms of the holy convent, scaring the pigeons on their roosts and the nuns at prayer who now believed they were under attack.

  Brice leaned his head back and called her name out as loudly as he could. Where the hell could she be?

  Chapter Twenty

  Ernaut handed her down when they reached the gate and waited for someone to escort her in. He assured her, in his earnest way that he would guard the entrance, and her, with his life if need be. She did not have the heart to tell him that four mounted knights sat in the shadows of the road for that purpose.

  It had been difficult to ignore the sounds behind her as she walked into the enclosure, for she knew men were dying because of her. When the Reverend Mother allowed her to use her own public chambers, Gillian began by praying. Kneeling on the floor, head bowed, she tried to erase the sounds of killing and dying that echoed over the wall and into her thoughts.

  Was Brice hurt? Had her brother followed as they’d expected? Was he dead? How many of their people had perished? Was Thaxted burned to the ground? Her worries grew, adding another question to her list as each moment passed.

  Gillian paced then, walking the length and width of the chamber and then again and again until she grew dizzy. When she could stand waiting no more, she pulled open the door and looked down the long corridor for anyone who could tell her where the Reverend Mother was.

  Creeping along, trying not to disturb anyone at prayer, Gillian peeked inside rooms until she reached the end of the hallway. Opening the last door, she discovered she now looked into the graveyard. She’d not been here in almost a year. Her mother’s grave sat in the far left corner, under an arch of flowers and growing vines that her father had built in her memory.

  Gillian walked to it and knelt down next to the grave. The stone read ‘Aeldra, Beloved of Eoforwic’ and it brought tears to her eyes when she realised that her mother rested here alone. Oremund said he’d been unable to claim Father’s body after the battle, so she had no idea where he rested now.

  Did the dead hear the living when they spoke at their graveside? Could her mother hear her words? So much had happened since her last visit; as Gillian knelt there, it all poured out of her.

  Father’s death. Oremund’s violence. Brice’s arrival. How they’d fallen in love. His plans to see her and their people safe. Gillian talked and talked, sharing her feelings with her mother as though she could hear her. She ended it with an official prayer in case that made a difference. Then she leaned back on her heels and waited for some sign that her mother had heard her.

  The bellowing sounded like a wounded animal…

  Or an angry husband!

  Gillian climbed to her feet and brushed the dirt from her cyrtel. She heard him shout out her name again and then he burst through the door, striding through the graveyard until he stood before her. His two friends, a growing group of nuns led by one angry Reverend Mother and a few of the lay women who lived and worked with the sisters surrounded them.

  ‘I thought…’ he whispered as he stopped before her. ‘I thought…’

  Then he said nothing but pulled her into his embrace and kissed the breath out of her. She allowed it because it felt so good to be in his arms, but then realised where they were and leaned back.

  As she looked at him, she noticed the cut above his eye, a bruise on his jaw and other small injuries. She touched his face gently and then began to cry as she realised he was alive.

  ‘Oremund?’ she asked through the tears.

  ‘Dead,’ he said, while his two friends spat on the ground.

  ‘Edmund?’

  ‘Escaped,’ Brice said.

  ‘Again,’ Lord Giles added.

  She could not bear to ask the next question, but he knew what she wanted to know.

  ‘Your uncle lives, Gillian. He awaits you outside.’

  ‘What?’ She was shocked by his calm announcement of such news.

  ‘He has been working with us against Oremund and did not betray you as you feared.’

  She cried harder then, not sure if she could believe such a happy ending to what could have been such a tragedy for all of them. She felt him hold her close and soothe her with soft, whispered words until she regained control. He released her and she stepped to his side. One last thing and they could go home.

  ‘Would you say a prayer with me at my mother’s grave, my lord?’ she asked quietly. It felt right to ask him, so his response was a surprise.

  ‘Gillian, your mother is not dead.’

  Had he lost his wits? Had he been injured and struck his head and was now confused? ‘My lord, she died here six years ago.’

  He turned her to face him, too
k her hands and shook his head. ‘Your mother is not dead.’

  ‘Brice, ’tis not something to jest about,’ she warned. Pointing to the grave at their feet, she said, ‘She lies right here.’

  He turned and looked at the group of nuns watching this absurd scene and met the eyes of one. Gillian followed his gaze and noticed the sister standing a bit farther away than the others. The good sister was crying, probably in shock at this situation. But then she raised her eyes to Gillian and she recognised those eyes in an instant.

  Dear God, her mother was alive. Her mother was alive!

  Brice had considered letting the lie remain in place, but Gillian deserved to understand why her parents had chosen the path they had. She had paid such a price for it; she deserved at least the truth. Thinking back on some of Gillian’s comments about her mother’s ties to the convent had sent him here searching for answers. So he watched the nuns around them as Gillian spoke and quickly noticed the one who stood alone, watching and listening to everything that happened, but never once raising her eyes. When something startled her and she did, he saw the same turquoise eyes as his wife’s and knew he was right. Lady Aeldra of Thaxted yet lived.

  Though tempted to expose her, Brice waited, hoping that she would approach her daughter with the truth.

  Exhausted from having nearly lost everything and everyone that mattered to him, he had paused for a moment before revealing the shocking fact and Gillian had recognised her mother with one look.

  Now, as she crumbled before him, he was not so certain he’d made the correct choice. He reached out and took hold of her before she fell, lifting her into his arms and carrying her to a bench nearby. Sitting down and holding her on his lap, he waited for her mother to approach. After the Reverend Mother spoke to her and then asked the others to leave, Lady Aeldra walked over to them.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked softly, reaching out to touch Gillian’s face and then stopping just before she did.