Tristan would not pray for himself though. It was for Madeline that he hoped his pleas would be answered.
***
Madeline spent many hours with the sick and injured, holding their hands as they passed, soothing them through fevers, and stroking their heads as they had their injuries sealed. This was not how she envisioned battle – the whimpering cries of grown men haunting her thoughts. The savagery of their injuries sickened her at first, but she soon found herself becoming accustomed to the sights of gaping, festering flesh, and splintered bone.
Tristan came to her when he could, forcibly dragging her from onerous responsibilities, ensuring she had eaten. Thankfully the large stores meant they all ate well, in spite of the passing of time, and for that they were all grateful. Starving men could quickly turn into wild, savage beasts.
Generally the men treated her with respect; the knowledge that she was Tristan’s woman was now widely spread, although it didn’t stop some from taking liberties. It was quickly discovered that she would tolerate little lewd behaviour when one of the soldiers grabbed at her, pulling her onto his lap, as she served up some food. His malodourous breath washed over her and she recoiled as his hands attempted to grope at her legs.
With a flash of movement, she grabbed an eating knife and pressed it into his throat. His scrawny body writhed under her blade.
“Release me,” she hissed.
The other men watched on in astonishment, some ready to come to her aid and others just enjoying the spectacle.
His hands dropped to his side as he gaped at her.
“Be grateful, soldier, that you did not succeed today, for there is a man who would hurt you more than I.”
As if she had conjured him, a flicker of movement caught her eye and she found herself pushed to one side as Tristan hauled the small man to his feet. Grasping the neck of his surcoat and slamming him against the table, tableware was sent clattering to the floor.
Madeline watched in shock at the pure anger displayed by Tristan. His fair and composed nature was a far cry from that of the furious man stood in front of her. She clambered to her feet to grab at his arm as he spat at the soldier.
“I shall take great pleasure in seeing you beaten for laying your grubby paws on a lady.”
The soldier squirmed in his painful grip, his face reddening as Tristan pressed his weight upon him. “Forgive me, Sir,” he coughed out. “I meant no ‘arm.”
Placing a placatory hand on Tristan’s arm, she jumped back as his furious gaze turned on her.
Only just recognising her through the mist of anger, he took a breath. “‘Tis the lady you have harmed, so ‘tis she who will decide your fate. What say you, Lady Madeline? Shall you see him beaten for his sins?”
Madeline considered the sweating little man and the men-at-arms watching on with interest. “Nay, he has had punishment enough being bested by a woman.”
The men laughed at this but Tristan gave her a look of dissatisfaction. Grudgingly, he yanked the soldier to his feet and threw him towards the doorway. The man stumbled, causing more merriment amongst the men, and hastened out.
Tristan snarled after him. “Should I look upon you again, even the lady’s mercy will not save you!”
As quickly as it had appeared, his anger dissipated as he gazed upon her. Aware of the men watching, he stepped forwards but resisted touching her.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head with a smile. “Nay.”
“Forgive my anger; I could not bear to see you handled so.”
Tristan was not given to bouts of anger but, upon viewing that filthy oaf’s hands upon Madeline, he had been transported back to when the French soldier had assaulted her, and a blind fury had consumed him, much like the rage that kept him alive during numerous battles.
“Do not concern yourself, Tristan, you did not frighten me.”
He was surprised by her calm reaction. He had expected her to be cross with him for intervening, knowing well of her aversion to anyone fending for her. Mayhap she was slowly losing her grip on her stubborn fear of dependence and finally learning to trust him.
Madeline looked at him with bemusement as he released a sudden grin. He wished he could place a bold kiss upon her wry smile but the observers in the hall prevented him from doing so.
“I am to lead a raiding party tonight, ‘tis our intention to sabotage the war machines.”
A flash of distress wavered across her face which she struggled to conceal.
“Do not wait up for me. I will seek you out in the morrow.”
Madeline nodded slowly. Quickly she pressed a kiss to her fingers and placed them into his palm. “I will see you in the morrow,” she said assuredly.
Tristan wished he could share in her confidence as he strode away.
***
They came out of the south entrance as quietly as fully armoured men could. This would not be the first raiding party that had gone out and the French would likely be prepared for such a move. It took them some time to navigate around the walls in the cover of night, the uneven terrain making it a treacherous passage. Muffled curses rang out as they edged along the embankment and Tristan was grateful the ground was dry.
As they came around the wall, the flickers of the French torches grew brighter. This would be no surreptitious skirmish – they came ready with their own torches, hoping to set the wooden machines aflame.
A wooden perrier loomed in front of them, guarded by a number of dozing watchmen. They would pay dearly for their inattention. Several of Tristan’s men ran on ahead, quickly dousing the base of the large perrier with oil. The French roused at the sounds of footfalls and they sprang into action, the grate of swords on sheaths signalling their intentions.
Tristan and his men dashed forwards to protect the oil carriers. Clangs of swords sounded as they clashed with the watchmen and shouts of alarm rang out. With no intention of hanging around and awaiting more French, Tristan shouted out the order to set light to the wooden machine as a sword skimmed past his stomach. Repelling the attack, he swept his sword in a savage arch and it scraped across his foe’s chest, sending forth a spurt of blood.
A large Frenchman barrelled forward and swung at him before kicking out at Tristan’s stomach as he deflected the blow. The heavy boot winded him and his opponent brought his sword back around, swiping at his neck. Narrowly avoiding the swing, Tristan brought his own sword down upon his enemy’s blade with all his might. The blow forced the blade back and Tristan took the opportunity to lunge at the soldier, yanking his dagger from his belt and gouging into the man’s side. The heavy soldier lurched against him, the warm trickle of blood coating his hand, and Tristan jerked the blade loose before shoving the dying man back.
The flames licked rapidly up the base of the perrier, the heat crawling over his skin, and he called for a retreat. His men fought bravely and they backed away, beating down anyone foolish enough to follow them. As the French gathered to try and douse the flames, they made their escape, vanishing like wraiths into the dark night once more.
When they reached the safety of the inner wall, they grinned and praised each other for a job well done. Another small victory in a long battle had just been won. Before long Louis would tire of their machinations and hopefully pull his war machines back. They had just served another satisfying blow to the French morale.
As Tristan wearily pulled off his helm and swiped at the sweat on his brow, he became aware of a figure barrelling towards him. A small squeal and the figure was on top of him, gripping at his neck and plastering kisses across his face.
The thrill of victory dampened his need for propriety and he returned Madeline’s kisses with equal ferocity.
“I told you not to wait for me,” he scolded teasingly.
“I could not sleep.” She kissed him again before he could reproach her anymore.
Tristan gripped at her appreciatively and kissed her with force until they were breathless. As he lowered Madeline to the gro
und, he noticed the bloodied handprints he had placed upon her.
“Forgive me, Madeline. It appears I have marked you.”
She frowned in confusion and looked to where he was pointing. Her eyes flew wide. “Is this your blood?”
He shook his head vigorously. “Nay.”
“Thank the Lord.”
As they headed back into the keep, she murmured conspiratorially to him. “I was concerned you would not return. I feared you would leave me here alone.”
Tristan crooked his finger under her chin. “Never, my love. You will never be alone again.”
Chapter 11
“What is it, Tristan? What is wrong?”
He had approached her in one of the large sleeping chambers where she had been attending to a fevered knight. Pulling her to one side, his face was etched with grim tension, and fear danced behind his eyes. A fear directed at her, she had no doubt.
“Our miners intercepted a tunnel today. They fought the French back but ‘twas deep.”
“What does that mean?” She pushed a lock of hair out of her face, only to realise her fingers were still blood stained. Tristan leant over and pushed the offending lock behind her ear as she wiped her fingers across her surcoat.
“We’ve not intercepted any others and I doubt that was the only tunnel. By the depth of it, they will probably succeed in collapsing the wall in the morrow…maybe sooner.”
Apprehension leached through her but she attempted to look unconcerned. The sounds of stones cracking against walls, the twang of crossbows and the shouts of men had become commonplace to her ears but now they seemed magnified. The French had obviously made good progress and if they breached the first stone wall, it would only be a matter of time before they penetrated the second. Their numbers were at least ten times theirs and she knew not how they would repel such a force.
“When they break through, we will have to drive them back or they will surely take the keep.”
Madeline nodded her understanding, a strange sense of detachment coming over her as she looked around at the injured soldiers and finally back to her lover.
“Madeline, should aught happen -”
His words brought her starkly back to reality and she emitted a slight cry as she clutched at his arm.
“-do everything you can to escape, you understand? Do not stay to fight.”
“Nay, I will not leave you.”
“If all hope is lost, then you will have naught to stay for. Madeline,” he gripped her chin in his hand, forcing her to view the dread in his expression, “there will be no mercy should the castle fall. Do not allow yourself to meet such an end.”
Madeline swallowed, her mind besieged by unwelcome thoughts of what might await her. “I will not,” she assured him.
Tristan dropped his hand with a sigh of relief.
“But I will not leave your side. I will fight with you.”
His face darkened and he seized her arms this time, squeezing them with a strength borne of fear and frustration. “Do not be a fool, love. You may have skill but a battle is no place for you. You know not the horrors of war as I do and I will not see you tainted so.”
As she twisted in his powerful grip, he relented, realising he was hurting her, but his hold remained.
“I have more skill than half the men here, as you well know, and I have been privy to my share of horrors. You said I could stay and fight, yet you have kept me cloistered in this stone prison!” Her feelings of impotence spurred on her anger.
“You gave me little choice!” Tristan hissed, aware of their audience.
Leading her out of the chambers, he dragged her through the hall and into the chapel before pressing her into a deep embrasure. The unlit room cast them in shadow, the only light seeping through the small window highlighting the lines of fatigue and worry on his face.
“You knew full well I could not eject you from the castle once the siege was underway. I had hoped we would not see battle, but it appears that we will and I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself in some rash display of bravery.”
His impassioned speech surprised her, so rare was his anger. Madeline knew he only behaved so when deeply vexed and she did not want to be the cause of such anguish. But while she was remorseful for worrying him, she was rankled by his brash command; she could not stand idly by while the French took away everything she loved.
She wrenched her arm from his. “Allow? ‘Tis not for you to decide my fate. I will not be ordered by any man, not even you Tristan Dumont.”
Tristan ran a hand through his increasing beard, eyeing the fiery woman in front of him. Covered in blood and dirt, she looked so vulnerable. He knew he had deliberately assigned her tasks to keep her out of harm’s way and she had fulfilled them uncomplainingly, becoming much valued amongst the occupants of the keep.
But she did not understand the horrors of war and his mind could barely apprehend the terror he felt when he thought of her in such a situation. He was being high-handed but the thought of her coming to harm filled him with such anguish, it near crushed him.
His voice shook. “Will you not even listen to someone that loves you so? Are you so selfish that you would put me through the pain of losing you once more?!”
Tristan registered the hurt and resentment and he knew he had pushed too far. Yet, he did not regret his words - only the upset they had caused - for her stubbornness irked him. He relied on her to keep him strong, to become fearless in the face of danger, because he knew he had something to fight for. Why was she so insistent on tearing herself away from him?
Madeline jabbed a finger in his chest. “Are you not selfish for trying to prevent me from fighting for what I love? You fear you will lose me, yet you cannot understand that I fear the same. How are my fears of any less import than yours?” Her eyes glimmered with tears of frustration and she pushed at his chest, forcing her way past him.
Taken aback, he reached for her but she knocked his hand away with a gentle swipe.
“Madeline, I -”
“By your leave, I will return to my station. There are men here who are in want of my help.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned up her nose and stormed away from him, her vibrant hair swinging as she went.
***
Tristan did not see Madeline until supper, his duties having kept him occupied for the rest of the day and, in truth, feeling like an oaf for his heavy-handed behaviour. He had hoped she would have calmed down but she ignored him pointedly as she helped serve the food. She looked exhausted with her hair curling with damp around her face, having tended to the sick since dawn, but she continued on nonetheless, showing more stamina than most of the men. Mayhap she was right, mayhap she could fight better than half the men here, but it still did not prevent the fear that churned in his gut.
He would have to make amends though. Whatever she chose to do, he could not let the anger linger between them, for not having her close was surely more painful than the apprehension he felt.
Madeline made her way towards him with a trencher and studiously avoided his gaze as she handed it to him.
As he took it from her, he grasped her wrist causing her to meet his eyes in surprise.
“You have my heart,” he told her.
A smile flickered across her mouth, her eyes softening. “And you mine.”
Relief washed over him, her simple words soothing the empty ache their heated exchange had created.
“Will you take some food? You are exhausted.”
“Aye, in a moment. The men on the wall still need to be fed.”
Tristan nodded, knowing he would not persuade her to eat until she had finished her duties. He laughed inwardly. And she complained he was too bound by duty.
“Come to me after - I will be on the battlements.”
“I will.” She brushed her hand briefly over his face and continued on with her chores, smiling and laughing with the men.
He noted the admiring stares she garnered with a grin,
knowing that while she endowed them with kind words and looks, he held the most valuable part of her and there were looks and words that she would share with him alone. His heart swelled with pride as he watched his love. With each smile, it appeared to him that a little of that hopeful young girl returned, and yet she exhibited such strength and courage, skills learnt from her time away. The combination moulded a creature so beguiling that he knew that, in spite of the pain it had caused him, he would not change the years apart.
Tristan recognised why she had thought he would not want her anymore. Certainly, she would never be the obedient wife that most men wanted, but as much as she frustrated him with her wilful ways, he would not have her any other way. And he realised if he prevented her from going to battle, if he expected her to submit to his wishes, then he would be active in damaging that which he loved most about her.
***
The night was dark, in spite of the full moon, which was shrouded with eerie grey wisps of cloud, stealing its silvery illumination. Torches sputtered sparingly along the walls and yellow flickers of flame reminded of the ever present threat of the French, dotted along the blackened bank of grass. The rancid smell of the overused garderobes wafted through the air though Madeline had found she was quickly becoming accustomed to it.
Tristan was easily found - his shadowy silhouette made distinct by his height and the breadth of his shoulders. She conceded mayhap it was only distinctive to her for she knew every ridge of him now.
Coming up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his broad back, barely spanning the width of him. Leaning against the cool fabric of his surcoat, she inhaled the musky scent of him. Somehow, in spite only indulging in the simplest of washes since inhabiting the keep, his fragrance never failed to stir her.
Turning with a grin, he returned her embrace, cupping his hands around her waist and kissing the top of her head, nuzzling into her tangled waves.
“Will you forgive my anger?” he mumbled into her hair.
“Aye, if you will forgive mine.” She drew back slightly to meet his gaze.
Tristan moved his hands to cradle her face, dipping to give her a tender kiss. “Aye, I will,” he whispered against her lips.
A Summer Siege (Medieval Romance) Page 12
