At the Warrior's Mercy

by Denise Lynn

  Mistress Almedha, one of her mother’s personal lady’s maids, bustled into the chamber. ‘Come, Lady Beatrice, let’s get you ready.’

  Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Almedha. I could use some help.’

  The woman reached around her and laid her hands on a brilliant green gown, then pulled it from the bottom of the chest. ‘This one.’

  Beatrice only owned a few, but she had forgotten about that particular gown. After Charles had claimed he hated it, she’d packed it away and hadn’t worn it since.

  Almedha shook out the garment, letting the matching slippers hit the floor. She then hung it on a peg and turned to Beatrice. ‘There’s little time to waste.’ She drew her gaze from Beatrice’s toes to the top of her head. ‘And much work to be done.’

  A young serving lad entered the chamber carrying a bucket of steaming water. His twin sister followed, her arms laden with towels, soap and a small bottle of oil.

  Bewildered, Beatrice said, ‘There’s no time for a bath.’

  While shooing the children from the room and closing the door behind them, Almedha agreed, ‘No, there isn’t. But there is time to clean what’s seen.’

  She set a large bowl on the table in the alcove, filled it with the water, poured in a small amount of oil, which filled the air with the scent of roses, and waved Beatrice over. ‘Come on, child, let’s be at it.’

  Beatrice stripped off her clothes and while Almedha scrubbed, she unbraided her hair. Once dried and dressed, the maid pushed her down on to a stool and made quick work of untangling the snarls in Beatrice’s hair before fashioning two braids which she then coiled about her head. ‘I know you are unwed, but I don’t think it would be wise to make that too easy for your enemy to guess.’

  That was something Beatrice never would have considered. She’d have run a comb through her hair and left it to hang free to save time.

  Almedha ordered, ‘Up with you.’

  Once she rose, the maid reached up and pinched her cheeks, claiming, ‘A little colour cannot hurt.’

  Beatrice’s eyes teared at the stinging pinch. But she said nothing. Her mind was too busy trying to sort out what to say once she reached the wall. Since she wasn’t yet certain what they were up against, stalling to find words was useless.

  She looked towards the door. The urge to go hide behind the heavy curtains of the alcove grew strong, her stomach churned, twisting with cold dread. Before she could whip herself up into a ball of quivering fear, Beatrice placed her hands over her stomach, straightened her spine and strode out of the chamber. Perhaps a display of courage, no matter how false, would serve her well.

  Instead of going down to the Great Hall, she climbed the steep spiral stairs leading up to the tower. Four armed men stood guard inside. They opened the door that led outside to the narrow drawbridge connecting the tower to the inner curtain wall.

  She joined the two guards waiting there and walked quickly along the walkway of the battlement to the inner bailey’s gate tower. The wind picked up, whipping the fullness of her gown about her legs, threatening to trip her.

  Sir Robert met her at the wall. ‘We lost three at the warehouses.’

  She stared at him in confusion. ‘What do you mean we lost three?’

  ‘Men. Warehaven lost three men to these invaders.’

  ‘And how do we know that?’

  Sir Robert’s lips thinned and his jaw clenched for a long moment before he said, ‘They dumped the bodies outside the wall.’

  Beatrice shivered beneath the icy chill settling in her belly, swallowing back a sourness that made her thankful she’d not broken her fast this morning.

  ‘Do we know who they are yet?’

  ‘No. But according to the dockmaster five ships entered the harbour just before the break of day.’

  Five ships? Five? She did a quick calculation and felt the walkway sway beneath her feet. There could be anywhere from a hundred to nearly two hundred men marching on Warehaven.

  Whoever thought to invade was as strong and wealthy as her father. Unfortunately, Warehaven’s forces were only at half-capacity—the other half was with their lord and lady.

  Since no sound of pitched battle reached her ears, this first meeting would be nothing more than a chance to discuss terms...terms of her surrender.

  Since she would not hand over her father’s keep, she could only hope and pray he’d arrive soon.

  To be certain, she asked, ‘Have they made any demands yet?’

  ‘Only to converse with the Lord or Lady of Warehaven.’

  Relieved that she’d assumed correctly, she nodded towards the main gate tower. ‘Let’s see who it is.’

  Together they crossed the movable walkway suspended over the outer bailey to the main tower. Even if the attackers fought their way through the main gates, they would have no access to the keep and would have to battle their way through yet another fortified wall. Her father had taken his own attack of Warehaven into consideration when he’d rebuilt this keep.

  Beatrice leaned her forehead against the cold stone of a merlon and took a deep breath to calm her shaking body. It was imperative that she control the fear seeking to overwhelm her. She didn’t want her voice to tremble, or break. More importantly, she didn’t want the force outside to sense her fear—or as Gregor would say—smell her fear.

  Certain she had a tight hold on her composure, Beatrice moved to look over the embrasure.

  No. She stumbled against the battlements. Her breath caught. This wasn’t possible. The sight before her swam, wavering as if she was seeing it through wave-whipped seas.

  Beatrice gripped the stone edge of the crenel, silently praying for strength and the power to remain upright without fainting.

  ‘My lady?’ Sir Robert’s concerned voice broke through the thick fog shroud covering her, making it hard to breathe and even harder to think.

  She waved him off, then leaned over the embrasure to stare down at the solitary man on horseback, before shouting, ‘What do you want, Gregor?’

  ‘Warehaven.’

  His single-word answer made her want to scream. Had this been his plan the entire time? Was this the task King David had given him?

  She was such a fool. Why had she not believed what her gut had tried to tell her when she’d first discovered his identity? How had she once again let a man sway her into believing her instincts were wrong?

  She’d believed his lies. Had trusted that his promise to protect her, his gentle touches and his kisses were real. She’d let herself imagine a life at his side, in his bed, birthing his children.

  What was wrong with her that fate played her such cruel tricks by handing her useless dreams?

  The need to bury herself in her chamber and cry was strong enough to nearly overwhelm her. She felt the hotness of tears building in her eyes and silently cursed the weakness, clenching her jaw until the hatred burning in her belly and chest dried the heated moisture.

  She would see him dead before handing him this keep. Beatrice stood upright and took the readied bow from the shocked guard next to her.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Sir Robert reached for the weapon, but she was quicker and leaned back into the opening.

  She knew Gregor saw the arrow aimed at him, yet he didn’t move. As still as a boulder, he silently stared up at her as if daring her to try something so brash.

  Beatrice lowered the bow slightly and let the arrow fly. It soared true, piercing the ground in front of the horse.

  Gregor’s only reaction was to ask, ‘Are you finished?’

  She held back her smile of triumph at the flat, emotionless tone of his voice. He was angry and that made her glad. He deserved to be angry. He deserved to be dead.

  ‘No, I will not be finished until you leave this islan
d.’

  ‘If your father has not yet returned, then you and I need to talk.’

  ‘We have nothing to talk about.’

  Gregor raised his arm and Beatrice heard the sound of horses and armoured men seconds before she saw them crest the hill leading up to the keep. At least fifty men formed a solid wall along the edge of the mound.

  Sir Robert groaned. ‘And I wager there are at least that many more behind them.’

  ‘You are probably right, but we still have the advantage. We are in control of the keep. They are out in the open.’ Her heart ached enough for her to add, ‘Making easy targets.’

  ‘Regardless, you must go and confer with him.’

  ‘Confer? Do you know who he is?’

  ‘No. But it is obvious you do.’

  ‘That man is King David’s Wolf, Gregor of Roul.’ She didn’t waste time explaining the details of the Roul family of wolves. At this moment any wolf at the gate was trouble.

  Sir Robert cursed as he tore the bow out of her hand. ‘I know this is not an ideal situation, but if you don’t go to talk to him, I must.’

  ‘He will kill you.’

  The captain laughed. ‘What matter if it is now or later? He is going to kill us all eventually.’

  No, he wasn’t. She knew with a certainty that wasn’t his mission. ‘Had he been tasked to wipe out the people of this isle there would be far more than three bodies below.’ She glanced down at Gregor, then turned back to Sir Robert. ‘For whatever reason, King David wants this keep. I need to discover why.’

  She then shouted down at Gregor, ‘Meet me at the gate’, before moving out of the embrasure only to lean back over the wall to add, ‘Unarmed.’

  Foolish about men she might be, but she wasn’t quite as foolish about her own life, and certainly wasn’t going to risk having an angry warrior slide a blade into her through an opening between the iron bars.

  Sir Robert ordered the men to open the large iron-studded timber gate, leaving the portcullis lowered. ‘You can confer through the bars.’

  Beatrice knew her father wouldn’t have done such a thing, but she wasn’t her father. While she could handle a bow and arrow, a sword was another matter entirely.

  She looked at the ladder leading down to the bailey. No. With the way she currently shook from rage it was likely she’d end up on her bottom and she wasn’t about to let that happen. It would in no way gain her any confidence or trust from what was now her army.

  Instead, she returned the same way she’d arrived, going back into the keep and re-exiting through the Great Hall. Not only did it save her from embarrassing herself in front of the enemy and her men, it gave her time to find a small measure of calm.

  As she crossed from the inner yard to the outer one, she held Gregor’s stare. His sword was not hanging from his side and he’d removed his nasal helm, holding it in the crook of his arm. It made it easier for her to see his anger, which was probably his intention. She didn’t care. He didn’t scare her. He hadn’t frightened her before and now she was too angry and hurt to consider fear.

  Although that might have been a mistake. He’d lied about everything else, so perhaps he’d lied about not harming her, too.

  And again, she didn’t care.

  She couldn’t care. Doing so would only make the searing pain of heartbreak worse.

  To her horror, the first thing that wisped across her mind was how magnificent he looked. Dressed all in black—even his chainmail had a fresh wash of black—leaving only the silver in his hair and his shimmering blue-grey eyes to lend a splash of colour.

  His shimmering eyes. She nearly tripped, catching herself quickly as she looked harder. He wasn’t as outraged as he’d like others to believe. Not with that flash of colour in his eyes.

  She stopped at the gate and waited for him to speak.

  He reached through the iron bars, grasped her wrist, dropped something into her palm and then released her. ‘This is yours.’

  Beatrice looked down at the ring in her hand. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Your wedding ring.’

  She dropped the circle of gold to the ground. ‘I have no need of a ring.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Before this is over you will become my wife.’

  ‘Like hell I will.’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  ‘Go to hell, Roul. I will die before I wed you.’

  His jaw clenched. The colour in his eyes faded. She knew that now he was truly angered.

  ‘This island is mine, Beatrice. The harbour, the wharf, the warehouses, the village are all mine. If you wish to save the lives of the people inside this keep, you will become my wife.’

  Her stomach felt as if someone had punched her with a mailed fist. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘You heard me. If you kill yourself, every person inside these walls will join you immediately.’

  He thought his show of strength and power had turned her into someone like his first wife? ‘You fool. I am not so weak of will that I would take my own life. I would fight you to the death before marrying you.’

  ‘More blood will be spilled if you kill yourself, because I will then take Warehaven by force.’

  She gasped in horror. ‘You wouldn’t do such a thing.’

  ‘I would. And I will. Now pick up your ring.’

  Without thinking she leaned down and retrieved the ring. Holding it in her fisted hand, she warned, ‘My father will kill you.’

  ‘He will try. And when he does, he will die.’

  There was no inflection in his voice. He spoke the words like an oath, something that he would do whether he wanted to or not. She leaned closer, pressing her body against the bars. ‘Gregor, no.’

  ‘I have my orders. I will not forsake them.’

  ‘So instead you will forsake me.’ She despised the tremor in her voice.

  ‘I give you your life and your home by giving you my name.’

  ‘That is not a gift.’

  ‘It is all I can offer.’

  She didn’t want to know the answer, but she had to ask, ‘Did you know from the beginning that this was going to happen?’

  He nodded.

  Beatrice clung to the bars, sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly. ‘You should have left me with Charles, it would have been kinder.’

  He ignored her comment to order, ‘You have until sunset tomorrow to ready yourself and your people for this marriage. You, along with all of Warehaven, will meet me out here, in the clearing where we will be wedded by your priest and mine. There will be no question of the validity of this union.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Your people will return to the keep under Simon’s guard.’

  ‘While I will...what?’

  ‘Become my wife.’

  Once again the ground beneath her feet rippled, threatening to drop her to her knees. Dear Lord, how was she to do this? How was she to marry and then let the man who had so betrayed her, broken her trust along with her heart, take her to his bed? How was she supposed to let the hands that would kill her father stroke her body?

  She looked up at him, not caring that every ounce of her pain, hatred and fear most likely showed through the tears swimming in her eyes. ‘Gregor, please, it doesn’t have to be this way.’

  The cold, feral glare of the Wolf froze the blood in her veins. ‘Make your choice, Beatrice. It is this way, or the people of Warehaven cease to exist.’

  Her tears fell hot down her cheeks. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘I know you do and I accept that hatred. I have earned it.’ He reached through the bars to wipe the tears from her face. ‘But I have not broken my vow to you, Beatrice. I have not, nor will I ever physically harm you.’

  The softening of his tone when he’
d touched her made her try to blink away the tears so she could see his face, but he lowered his hand, donned his helmet, then turned and walked back to his horse without another word.

  * * *

  Gregor rode across the clearing back to his men. Never before had he done anything that difficult. Breaking the heart of the woman he’d come to care for was harder than he’d imagined.

  He’d seen the pain in her eyes, in the drooping of her lips and the rigidness of her body. Knowing that he’d caused it beset him with a guilt that nearly tore his own heart asunder.

  Worse than witnessing her pain had been seeing the glimmer of honest fear. It was bad enough that she was heartbroken, hurt by what was to come, and scared for her father, but for her to be afraid of sharing a marriage bed was more than he could bear.

  Was he fated to once again lose a wife from fear of him? And would he once again be unable to stop her before it was too late?

  The guilt for what he’d caused Sarah to do haunted him night and day. How would he live with himself if the same thing happened to Beatrice? He would not only lose what little remained of his soul, he would also lose his mind.

  She’d no reason to fear his touch. He had never caused her physical harm, nor would he ever do so.

  Her hatred he understood—it was expected. But to fear him in such a manner was not expected. It left him unsettled and oddly angry.

  When he reached the line of his men, he dismounted and handed the reins to his waiting squire.

  Simon approached, asking, ‘Well?’

  Had he not needed the man’s assistance he’d have told him to mind his own business. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. ‘The marriage takes place in the clearing at sunset tomorrow.’

  ‘She agreed?’ The man’s voice was filled with surprise.

  ‘Only after I threatened to kill every last one of her people.’

  He wanted to flinch at Simon’s outraged glare. ‘You aren’t serious?’

  ‘Very. Once she claimed that she’d rather fight me to the death than wed me, lying seemed a more-than-fair tactic.’

  ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Make sure than anyone left in the wharf area and village are brought here for the ceremony.’