Fearsome Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Across a winter-frozen landscape that had once been lush with vegetation, the army of the High Sheriff of Yorkshire had laid waste to everything in its path. Entire villages had been burned. Those who fled had been upended at best, and those who resisted had been slaughtered like sheep. The army of England’s great Lord of Winter, an informal title bestowed upon the High Sheriff by the Count of Poitiers, Richard hic leo noster (“this our lion”), had torn through everything like a deadly winter storm.

  A storm of England’s greatest warriors.

  No one dared challenge the High Sheriff for to do so would be to incur the man’s wrath, a fearsome and mighty thing. Even now, as the army of Juston de Royans ripped up and digested a goodly portion of Northumberland and County Durham, the Bishop of Durham (a powerful man in his own right), remained far to the north, unwilling and unable to defend his subjects from the fire of de Royans’ army. Judgement Day had come for those unfortunate enough to be in the High Sheriff’s path, particularly disturbing for the occupants of Bowes Castle.

  Set along a major road through the mighty and misty Pennine mountains, Bowes guarded the road like a dutiful sentry. Like so many castles in the long and turbulent history between the king of England and his rebellious sons, this castle belonged to Henry. But Richard wanted it, and what Richard wanted, Juston was oath-bound to secure for him. It had always been that way, for many years. Therefore, Juston had gathered his massive army from Netherghyll Castle and marched northward into Durham to lay siege to Bowes and purge Henry’s army from it.

  It was just as simple as that.

  Or so he thought. But Henry’s garrison commander had proved strong, something that had infuriated Juston. A student of Roman military tactics, de Royans fought dirtier than most – and also smarter. He brought with him things that most armies couldn’t even conceive of, battle engines and tactics and formations that often worked in a matter of days, if not hours. But Bowes and her army had proven quite resistant to what Juston considered to be his genius.

  A siege that had started three weeks ago still lingered, a grievous insult to de Royans. He’d hurled burning clay pots of oil over Bowes’ outer walls, quite literally exploding bombs when they hit any kind of surface. Oil sprayed and so did the flames. For weeks, they’d seen smoke spilling from inside Bowes’ outer bailey but never badly enough to chase the occupants out. De Royans also had his men slaughter innumerable pigs in order to collect their fat to feed his incendiary devices; three weeks later, forty fat pigs had been slaughtered and his men were feasting on pork morning, noon, and evening while the fat from those animals burned through Bowes.

  But not fast enough.

  De Royans even had archers whose sole purpose was to shoot flaming arrows over the walls and the bombardment was constant. It hadn’t let up since nearly the moment de Royans and his army had arrived on the rise overlooking Bowes Castle. Flaming arrows, flaming projectiles, and then when the rains came, siege engines hurling massive boulders at the walls, pummeling them and breaking them down.

  It was still raining, which meant Battle by Flame had to be put on hold. But it was of no consequence. The western outer wall had proven the weakest and Juston’s army had put such major holes in it that nineteen days after their arrival, nearly half of the wall collapsed. Juston would have been happy but for the fact the garrison commander had most of his men take up bows. The same arrows that Juston had hurled into Bowes’ bailey were now the ones coming back out at anyone who tried to breach the western wall. It was quite clever, actually.

  But Juston wasn’t interested in cleverness. He just wanted that damn castle secured.

  Therefore, twenty-one days after his arrival to Bowes Castle, Juston was suffering from one of his many intense headaches after what had been an explosion of temper earlier in the day. While he sulked in his tent, moodily, with salt-soaked rags against his forehead to try and draw out the pain, his men continued with the bombardment of Bowes.

  But all of that was soon to change.

  A group of dirty, grimy, bloodied knights headed towards de Royans’ tent. They’d just come from the front lines of the siege. The weather had shifted from freezing rain to snow and back again. Now, they were being pummeled by rain that was so cold it felt like bee stings to the bare skin. Although the knights were covered with protection, from leather gloves on their hands to the latest design of helms upon their heads, their faces were exposed, leaving all of them red-cheeked from the weather. Exhaustion was playing a heavy role in their manner, as well, trudging through the ankle-deep mud as they headed to de Royans’ tent.

  “He is not going to be pleased with this offer.”

  The ominous statement came from one of the group, a young knight with a square jaw and tufts of blonde hair peeking out from beneath his helm. He was bringing up the rear of the group, trailing six other knights as they headed to de Royans’ tent. At his quietly uttered words, the man in the lead turned to glance at him.

  “He may surprise you, little brother,” Sir Christopher de Lohr replied steadily. “This offer will assure our victory.”

  Sir David de Lohr wasn’t entirely sure. His brother was closer to de Royans than any of them, as he had been de Royans’ squire many years ago. He’d essentially grown up with him and, therefore, knew his moods and thoughts better than most.

  David glanced around to the other men in the group; Marcus Burton, his brother’s best friend, as well as Maxton of Loxbeare, Kress de Rhydian, Achilles de Dere, and Gillem d’Evereux. All of them were knights of the highest order, born and bred for battle, with his brother at the head of them. These were all men to be feared, for a variety of reasons.

  “Mayhap.” David shook his head, gleaning both reluctance and assurance from the expressions of the others. “Do you think he will agree to it?”

  “There is but one way to find out.”

  They had reached de Royans’ tent. The canvas was weathered and beaten, the oil used to treat the fabric rubbing off in places and showing mold. But it was the tent of a man who had spent a good deal of time sheltered by it, well-used, with the de Royans crest upon the door flap. Christopher and the others paused near the closed door, not wanting to disturb de Royans in the midst of one of his headaches, but finding it necessary all the same. Christopher cleared his throat softly.

  “My lord?” he said, raising his voice to call to the man inside. “We have come bearing a proposal from the garrison commander of Bowes. Would you hear it now?”

  The tent flap suddenly snapped back and a young man, eighteen years of age, appeared. Tall and well-built, with a crown of cropped dark blonde hair, Gart Forbes was de Royans’ squire, a young man who had been trained by the best and had fought as a knight for the past two years. He had not yet been awarded his spurs, however, considering his young age, but everyone knew that would come very soon. There was no man finer on the battlefield than Gart Forbes. More than that, he was mightily protective of de Royans.

  “Chris,” he greeted de Lohr informally because of their familiarity and respect for one another. When he spoke, it was quietly. “De Royans is trying to rest. Can this wait?”

  “Gart!”

  It was de Royans, from inside the tent. As Gart tossed back the flap again, de Royans spoke.

  “Admit them.”

  Reluctantly, Gart motioned the group into the rather large tent. It was surprisingly warm inside considering the cold weather, with two braziers filled with peat giving off a good deal of heat. As the men crowded into the tent, all but d’Evereux who didn’t like crowded places, Gart went to light an oil lamp so there was some light. Just as the flame took hold of the wick, de Royans removed the cloth over his eyes and wearily sat up.

  “What proposal?” he asked, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. “Explain.”

  Christopher removed his helm because even the slight heat of the tent mixed with the heavy clothing he was wearing was making his head sweat. A full head of damp blonde hair glistened in the weak light and he raked his
fingers through it, slicking it back on his skull.

  “The garrison commander of Bowes, Brey de la Roarke, flew a flag of truce about an hour ago,” he said. “He asked if I would hear a proposal for an end to this conflict and I agreed, on your behalf. He proposes that we match our finest warrior against his finest warrior and settle this dispute once and for all, two men and one hand-to-hand fight. He swears he will surrender the fortress if his man loses but also says that we must leave them in peace if our man loses.”

  De Royans stared at Christopher with bloodshot eyes. “A single fight between two men will determine the outcome of a three-week siege?”

  It was a rather incredulous question. “Aye, my lord,” Christopher said. He grunted, perhaps with frustration. “Truthfully, my lord, I believe he must be in a dire situation to propose such a thing because only a desperate man would make such an offer. We must have damaged Bowes far more than we realized with our bombardment.”

  By this time, the entire group was looking at their commander for his response. It was true that a proposal such as this was not an unusual one because they’d encountered such things before. But usually, these proposals were always directed at de Royans personally. While he was a man of great physical beauty, he was also a man of great strength, talent, and cunning. He was as agile as a cat and as fast as lightning, and personal challenges had been issued to the man for as long as anyone could remember.

  Men would challenge Juston de Royans only to realize, very quickly, that they were in a battle they could not win. As of late, few men wanted to fight de Royans in hand-to-hand combat because it was naturally assumed that he would emerge the victor. In all his thirty-nine years, he’d not lost in combat yet. It was a reputation that de Royans had built upon for many years, something that had grown and taken on dimension until no one knew where the legend ended and the truth began.

  Still, some men wanted to test that legend but Juston wasn’t particularly eager to prove himself these days. There was no joy in such things any longer and challenges like this only bored him. He’d proved himself enough over the years and was, therefore, disinclined to take on men he considered unworthy, which was, in his estimation, every man with a blade.

  No one was a match for the Lord of Winter.

  Therefore, after a lingering glance at Christopher, Juston simply closed his eyes and lay back down on the traveling cot.

  “Let me guess,” he said, throwing the cold rag over his eyes again. “He wants me to meet his challenger.”

  Christopher shrugged. “He did not say that in so many words, but he knows you lead this army. Your reputation precedes you.”

  Juston snorted. “Unfortunately, not enough. Had he been impressed by it, he would have merely turned the castle over to me without all of this fuss.”

  Christopher remained stoic. “I am sure he has heard of your valor during the revolt several years ago,” he said. “Every man in England and France has, you know. Your reputation is cemented, my lord.”

  “By now, I would expect so.”

  “There was Castillion-sur-Agen, for example. You helped Richard pound that fortress into submission.”

  “That was a bloody nasty bit of chaos.”

  “And there was Falaise. You led a raid over the walls….”

  “No one could have done that but me.”

  “And there was that smaller castle in the Vexin that you captured with only fifty men.”

  “Fifty men against several hundred. We captured the gatehouse and slaughtered the men who tried to reclaim it. A damn fine victory, I must say.”

  Christopher was used to feeding de Royans’ ego. The man was great and he knew it. He made sure everyone else knew it, too.

  “Do I really need to go on, my lord?” Christopher asked. “It would take the lifetimes of many chroniclers to document the heroic deeds you have accomplished for Richard, and for the crown before him. Clearly, de la Roarke means to challenge you but there are six men in this tent who would gladly accept the challenge in your stead if you do not wish to accept it personally.”

  Juston ripped the cloth from his eyes. “You would take my glory from me, you savages,” he said, half-serious, half-not. He sat up, a hand going to his head as the ache throbbed. “If it will end this damnable siege, then tell de la Roarke that I will meet whatever warrior he selects. But you tell him that he must be prepared to vacate Bowes immediately, for when I defeat his man, I shall not wait to claim it. I will charge in with my weaponry and eviscerate the castle as one eviscerates a slaughtered cow. Is that clear?”

  “It is, my lord.”

  “Who is this fool about to lose his life to me?”

  Christopher shook his head. “I do not know, my lord,” he said. “But I would not be surprised if it was de la Roarke himself. Do you know of him?”

  Juston stood up from his cot, weaving unsteadily. “I have heard of him,” he said. “You must remember that Bowes is not too terribly far from my holdings, Chris. I have heard tales from others on his behavior, which is why I did not hesitate to come to Bowes when Richard asked it of me. I have heard of the Bloody Knight of Bowes, a man who treats the road he has been tasked to hold for Henry as if it is his own private revenue source. I’ve heard how he robs men and kills them. There is an entire section of the churchyard dedicated to his victims. Aye, I’ve heard of him, so I hope that, in fact, he is the one sent to meet me. I will happily dispense justice for the souls he has sinned against.”

  Christopher stood back as Gart rushed forward to Juston with his mail and protection. But the truth was that all he really did was help the man with his forearm protection, heavy leather pieces that were tied in place, and little else. When in battle, de Royans would wear some protection but not as much as what the other men wore. He liked to be able to move quickly and found the encumbrance of armor too restricting. When fighting hand-to-hand, de Royans had been known to strip down to nearly nothing, allowing him to move far more quickly than his opponents.

  And he’d survived every one of them.

  Therefore, no one commented when he didn’t put on the full regalia of mail and protection. It was simply his way. As they stood and watched, Christopher sent his brother back to de la Roarke to inform the man that his terms, and his challenge, had been accepted.

  “Maxton,” Juston said as he strategically placed daggers on his body, tucked into his leather vest or into his boots. “While I am dealing with de la Roarke, you will focus on the weakened western wall. You and Kress and Achilles will form a party that will enter from that weakened side even as I face de la Roarke’s challenge. My fear is that his men may not abide by the terms of his bargain when I kill him and we will have wasted the effort entirely. I want to ensure no efforts are wasted. You will get inside and you will lift the portcullis and secure the gatehouse. Is that understood?”

  Maxton of Loxbeare nodded; a big man with dark hair and dark eyes, he had served Juston for a few years but by all rights, according to Juston, there was something unsettling about him. There was an edgy gleam in those nearly-black eyes, a darkness in the soul of a man who could easily kill without remorse. Juston liked that about him because Maxton was never a man to question an order, no matter how unsavory it was.

  “Aye, my lord,” Maxton said. “We will make sure the castle is ours no matter what the outcome.”

  Juston glanced up at Maxton and his two companions. Kress de Rhydian was an enormous blonde knight who was, at times, even more frightening than Maxton was and Achilles de Dere was simply the muscle of the group. The man had the strength and size of Samson. Even though these three were part of Juston’s Praetorian command group, they still tended to keep to themselves sometimes. They were a moody and unsociable collective. The Unholy Trinity, Christopher had once joked about them, but the truth was that it was a fitting moniker for the group. If anything questionable needed to be done, those three would do it.

  Satisfied that Maxton, de Rhydian, and de Dere would infiltrate the castle while
everyone was distracted by the challenge, Juston motioned the three knights to get about their task and turned to Christopher and Marcus Burton, standing as a pair near him. These two were his generals, his closest and most trusted advisors. These were the men he relied the most on, in both friendship and wisdom. He finished shoving a small dagger into a secret place in his leather forearm bands and turned to them.

  “I want the men ready to charge the gatehouse the moment I dispatch de la Roarke,” he told them. “There is to be no hesitation, Chris – with Maxton and Kress and Achilles inside the compound, look for them to lift the portcullis so my army can enter. Do not wait for me, in any case – your job is to charge that gatehouse and secure the castle. I’m three weeks into this madness and I am eager to be done with it.”

  Christopher and Marcus nodded. “Aye, my lord,” Marcus replied. “I will organize the men. They shall be ready.”

  “Where is Gillem?”

  “Outside,” Marcus replied. “You know he does not like crowded spaces.”

  “Take him with you to secure the gatehouse.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Juston bent over and collected one of the many swords that were neatly in a rack near his cot. His exceptional broadsword was available but he went for a short sword in a gilt leather sheath, a smaller and lighter version of his big broadsword. It was still very deadly, and very sharp, but it quickly became clear that was the only piece of major weaponry he was going to use.

  “Now,” he muttered, sword in hand, “let us commence with this foolery and be done with it. Chris, did you see de la Roarke?”

  Christopher frowned when he realized that Juston was only going to use his short sword. “I did,” he said, “My lord, I think the bigger sword might be of more use to you.”

  Juston ignored him. “How tall is the man?”

  “Enormous. Are you sure you do not want your broadsword?”

  Juston pushed his way from the tent with Christopher and Marcus in tow. Gart was trailing after him, as well, helping him secure the leather belt around his hips.