Windsong

by Allison Knight

  Champagne Books Presents

  Windsong

  By

  Allison Knight

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Champagne Books

  www.champagnebooks.com

  Copyright 2011 by Martha Krieger

  ISBN 9781926996653

  November 2011

  Cover Art by Delle Jacobs

  Produced in Canada

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Champagnebooks.com (or a retailer of your choice) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Other Books By Allison Knight

  A Treasure For Sara

  Battlesong

  Heal My Hurting Heart

  Heartsong

  Roses For My Lady

  Dedication

  To Hank because...

  The gray dawn of winter’s wind carried a wail of pain

  that tore through the hills of Wales.

  A roar of revenge rose through the rough stone holding

  as he lay her battered, lifeless body on a bed of rushes.

  A bitter blizzard brought guilt and grief that forced him to his knees.

  ‘Twas his fault she died.

  And the Norman would pay!

  But a gentler wind brought a softening to the Prince.

  A warm breeze blew some of the bitterness from his heart

  and melted the malice in his soul.

  Waves of hope flowed forth in the arms of another woman,

  and revenge died a dreary death.

  Wicked squalls brought storms of hurt and for a time all seemed lost.

  But with forgiveness sought, a softer wind blew, bringing peace and promise.

  It sang of love, a future and forever.

  High above their home it became their Windsong for all eternity.

  ONE

  November 1286

  They were going to kill her.

  Milisent Mortimore Chelse chided herself as chills raced through her. What did it matter? Mayhap a quick death by the sword now would be better than a slow death at the hand of the man her brother had chosen to husband her.

  Screams rang from the great hall of Fenton Castle, the clang of metal against metal. Milisent sank to her knees. The enemy, whoever they were, had breached the walls of the castle and were laying waste below. Had she brought this to these people because she refused to give her consent to wed? Anything to block the noise. She sank to the floor. She should have agreed to the union. But, nay she could not, even though she knew she acted as a coward.

  When the heavy oak door to her chamber creaked open, her breath caught and she waited to smell the scent of death. Before she gathered the strength to rise from the floor, Ella Seymour, her companion, slipped into the room.

  “Oh, m-m’Lady, ‘tis—terrible,” Ella wailed, her breath jagged with fear. “I have come to warn you.”

  “How many have been killed?” Milisent’s voice broke and she brushed at her skirt.

  “Only a few of m’Lord’s soldiers have been wounded tasting the sword. Several of the cowards have run leaving his servants to fend for themselves.” Ella shivered at her own words and paused. “They did not ask after Gilbert Mortimore, Baron Chelse. The enemy wants you, m’Lady, not your brother. They ask for you.” Ella whispered the last.

  “Me? How do they know of me? I have not left this place for nine summers. Gilbert said none know of my presence. Except de Bain,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “They know of you. They ask for the one called Milisent.”

  “What could they want with me?” The cries from below rang

  through the chamber, unsettling her again.

  “Ella, how did you escape?”

  “‘Twas not hard in the chaos.”

  “Who are they?” Milisent put her hand to her head, almost faint with the thought that struck. “‘Tis not de Bain who sent his soldiers to get me, is it? It is not a scheme to make me wed?” The fear filled her and she fought to regain enough control to hear the answer.

  “Nay, I think not. I have never seen any of these men before. These have never accompanied de Bain to this house. Nor are any of these men part of your brother’s army. These are fierce to behold.” She stepped closer and murmured, “I think they are Welsh.”

  A sigh of relief passed Milisent’s lips until another thought struck. “But Edward claimed Wales as his own.”

  “Aye, so they say, but these are savages, none the less, and they speak a strange tongue.” Ella glanced at the door. “But they want you. They ask the servants where you are. They know you are here.”

  Milisent stepped forward. “But how?” This had to be a plan of de Bain’s to wrest her from Gilbert’s protection.

  She straightened and glanced at the door, forcing herself to be courageous. “Whoever has come cannot have me.” If only she believed that. “Gilbert will slay any who aid in my taking.” She shuddered as she remembered her first and only attempt to escape into the wood near the castle. He made her watch him punish the guard who had missed her when she slipped through the postern gate. That poor man had been beaten so severely she pleaded for his life.

  Nay, she could not condemn the servants who named her presence but they had to know they had sealed what would surely be their deaths. Still, she could not marry Gilbert’s depraved friend.

  As if reading her mind, Ella touched her arm. “Know you will have to wed soon.”

  Again a lump of fear blocked her throat and she whispered, “Nay. Not the man chosen by Gilbert. I cannot.” Nor could she understand why Gilbert insisted she wed that man. She shuddered. “I would sooner seal myself away in a convent.”

  “You know Chelse will not dower you if you insist on the religious life. Aye, we must find a way to secret you from this place before they come upon you. We must seek refuge—”

  No sooner had the words slipped from her lips than the door to the chamber crashed against the wall.

  “Oh, nay.” Ella’s plump frame shook with fright as she jumped in front of Milisent.

  “I have found her,” the man in the doorway shouted to someone behind him.

  Milisent’s breath caught as she stared at the sight before her. A chill shot through her. She gazed at the most magnificent warrior she had ever seen. The deep melodic voice carried a twinge of a strange tongue, but the most arresting thing was not his voice. Nay, it was him. This man radiated strength and power, and although his face was grim his countenance was most pleasant.

  He had a blade of a nose, a square face bare of hair, and a firm jaw. When a smile of satisfaction graced his face she shivered. If she were not so terrified, she would have called him a handsome man. He was big, aye, but his soft brown eyes softened the sternness of his face. His jaw, clenched in anger, spoke of the ability to command. Shoulder length hair, the color of new sawn wood, waved around his face and curled under his chin. She noticed a touch of silver at his temples. Heavy, straight eyebrows accentuated those eyes. He stared at her as if he could see within her soul.

  Something about him demanded t
o be obeyed, and with a control that would spell her doom if she allowed him to take her from Fenton Castle.

  Her heart pounded and a strange sensation gathered in her arms, her legs, her stomach. The blood in her veins surged with an unknown heat and tremors raced through her. Fear—it had to be fear—coursing through her.

  The sound from the hall below faded as this new feeling took its place. One thought surfaced. Where had Baldwin Stanton de Bain found such a man? Or had he come from de Bain? Surely this warrior took orders from no one. A sudden thought struck. What of Gilbert’s acquaintances? Who among them had conspired to help de Bain, by seeking this man to take her from here?

  “Mistress, you will come with me.” He directed his words toward Ella.

  “Nay, I cannot. I will not leave her,” Ella shouted, shaking so badly Milisent wondered if her companion would remain on her feet.

  The man looked surprised for a moment and brought his gaze to her. “Your name?”

  Milisent glared at him and sealed her lips. She would tell this man nothing.

  “Then, you both will come.” He picked Ella up and thrust her into the arms of another who entered the chamber behind this leader.

  Milisent stepped forward to rescue Ella while her companion pounded her fists against her captor and screamed for him to let her go.

  “Nay, do not hurt her,” Milisent whispered. “She only meant to protect me.” She grabbed the arm of the soldier holding Ella. “Do not hurt her.” He ignored her objections and marched through the door with Ella in his arms.

  The leader gave her a stunned look, then lifted his shoulders as if to shrug. “We do not harm helpless servants as some do.”

  She scoffed at his words, for the sounds below belied that

  declaration. However, she had no time to comment further because he threw her over his shoulder. Stunned, she didn’t resist.

  Instead she took a deep breath, prepared to scream. The sound never passed her lips for the scent assailing her was not of battle and old sweat. Nay, she was greeted with a crisp fragrance of a man who kept himself clean. A warrior who apparently knew the importance of a bath. His scent was fresh, that of a man, despite the struggles in which he must have engaged as he fought the soldiers below.

  His intent finally slammed into her. He was going to carry her away.

  He could not. All here would die if she allowed him to take her from this place.

  She gathered her courage, what little she had. “You must stop. I cannot leave. I must stay.”

  “Nay, you come with me.”

  “My servants, my loyal people. What of them? I must stay. I must tend to them. If I go they will surely die.”

  He gave a ringing shout of laughter. “What servants? Loyal people? I think not. How do you think I found you? Some of those were only too willing to give you up. They are not loyal.”

  “And you killed them!” It was not a question, because she had heard the screams.

  This time he chuckled. “I am not like Chelse. Those who bore no guilt have not suffered. You will see for yourself.”

  They bounded down the stairs with Milisent’s stomach pounding against the sharp bone of his shoulder. She shrieked with each jarring step. When they reached the hall, she saw what he said was true. The servants were lined against the wall.

  Several of Gilbert’s men lay on the rushes, their wounds giving truth to his statement. How many had died? She did not want to know. She turned her head away from the scene.

  Cold air hit her in the face. They were leaving the building.

  “Who do you serve?” she blurted against the jarring. She had to know.

  “The king of England and myself,” he snarled and stalked through the door still bouncing her against his shoulder.

  “I care not what man paid you coin to take me away, but I will not marry. I will not!” She smashed her fist against his metal coat, pain shooting through her hand.

  He laughed again. “I took no gold for my actions.” He snarled then, set her on her feet before a huge gray warhorse and grabbed the reins of his steed. “My knowledge says you have great value to Chelse, more important than you know.”

  Now it was Milisent’s turn to laugh. She almost winced at the bitterness in her own voice. “Nay, You do not understand. I am worth

  nothing to him, less than nothing. I only serve one purpose for him—”

  He did not give her a chance to say more. With little effort he grabbed her and tossed her on the huge horse. “I know what purpose you serve. Now, we must be gone from this place.”

  “Nay! My companion.” Milisent struggled to dismount, but already he was behind her, holding her in place.

  “Your companion? Aye, the other woman. She is with my man. She is safe.”

  “And my servants?”

  “Your servants? You presume much m’Lady.” He yanked her close and clasped a gloved hand around her waist. Those strange chills raced through her at the touch of his hand. Her skin seemed to be on fire, just with his contact.

  “Chelse’s men? What of them?” she asked, gritting her teeth to cease their chatter. He scared her to death.

  “Those who did not run away?” He chuckled. “The wounded will be cared for; they and the others who remained to fight will be held hostage until the ransom I demand is paid.”

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?” she whispered, trying to shield herself from the biting chill of the wind. But the horse was already moving from her hated prison, a place in which she had been trapped for almost nine years. A sudden burst of fear swept through her at the thought of leaving this place for she knew nothing of this man or his motives.

  She wanted to smile thinking of the shock Gilbert would receive at the news she had been dragged from his hand. This man, on whose horse she rode, might even claim a bit of her gratitude if she but knew her fate.

  ~*~

  Alwyn ap Brynn Ffrydd leaned away from the woman mounted in front of him. He never expected Chelse’s whore to be so young, nor so beautiful, nor to carry such a fragrant scent, like a spring garden just warming in the morning sun. She dressed so simply at first he thought she was the companion, not the woman he sought.

  Those blue eyes, bright like the sky of a perfect summer day, had snapped at his commands. Her concern for her companion had been a bigger surprise. In his experience, a woman who was held only to satisfy her master’s desires did not hold much concern for another woman.

  Usually these women carried a hard, used expression, not the innocent stare of this one. Mayhap that was part of her appeal for Chelse, her naive look. Alwyn was angry with the knowledge he too felt desire and held a groan of frustration behind his teeth. She should not have an effect on him for he knew what she was.

  Oh how Chelse must have enjoyed her. His man told him she had been in the castle for at least eight summers. He glanced at her profile and gritted his teeth as warmth invaded him. Nay, she should not—could not—arouse him. She had belonged to his enemy.

  Think of Sybil, the woman who waits for you at Throsle. He tensed for the woman who waited for him was also just a bedmate, and she was there because he had not the courage to send her away. She shared his bed for a year, and was hinting she wanted a better position. Much as she might desire the title of wife he would never consider her for that position. He already had a wife. Her broken body carrying his unborn child lay under the cold rocky soil of Wales. And Chelse was the cause.

  While the thought of Essylt chilled him, it strengthened his resolve. He had not loved her but he liked her; she made his life comfortable.

  His hold on the woman in front of him tightened. He wanted to challenge Chelse and kill him if he could, but Edward did not approve of his knights fighting to the death. The king would not like to have a favorite of his die by another’s hand.

  Although Chelse deserved death, this woman would have to be Alwyn’s revenge. It would be through her that Chelse would know pain, mayhap not the kind of pain Alwyn had suffered but
a sense of loss all the same.

  He banished the thoughts racing through his mind. Maintaining his control now that he had almost achieved the first part of his revenge was foremost. One moment of inattention could destroy his plans. Already his plan had suffered, for Chelse’s mistress was not what he expected.

  Her perfect oval face was framed with curls of silken hair the color of a fawn. Despite the lack of sun, what he could see of the delicate brown was highlighted with streaks of gold.

  He leaned away from her trying to dismiss that part of her allure. Aye, those eyes! They were bright, without guile, with an intelligence he had not anticipated. Of course, she would have to be smart to keep Chelse at her side for the sum of more than eight years and also keep him from wedding another.

  He would not hurt her, however, for now she could not know that. His task was to make certain Chelse knew who held her but not what was happening to her. Chelse had to know also he would never have her again.

  After he had his revenge, he would find her a husband, someone who would not mind that she had once been the bed partner of Chelse, someone who would keep her from him. It was only fortunate for him his enemy had not married her, for then Edward would not overlook these actions.

  Alwyn ignored the woman before him and reminded himself of his hatred. Chelse killed Essylt but also won favor with Edward battling the Welsh.

  Nay, these thoughts could not affect his plan for he had pledged his allegiance to Edward. As much as he wanted blood, he could not dishonor his word. He would have to be satisfied with taking Chelse’s whore away from him. Edward would only frown a bit at that. After all, even Edward understood the natural lust of men.

  Alwyn shrugged and readjusted his seat. This day, like so many this fall, was gray, windy and wet. Storms had pounded England this season, turning his forest into a place of gloom, making his tasks much more difficult. He would have taken the woman earlier this season, but he could not leave the forest and his responsibilities until the rutting season had passed.