“Nay,” he said flatly. “I will be done with de la Roarke in short order. I will take the man down and you will storm the castle and secure it. Those are your orders.”
Christopher and Marcus looked at each other, concern in their expressions, but they said nothing. As the freezing rain pounded, Christopher plopped his helm back on his head and headed off with Marcus and Gillem, all of them heading to the bulk of the army that was still laying methodical siege to the walls of Bowes. Now, the army would be called off so de la Roarke’s challenge could be met. It would be a good time for the de Royans army to regroup and take a few minutes to breathe while their commander dispatched de la Roarke’s chosen warrior.
At least, that was the hope.
As Juston moved off through the freezing rain, heading towards the castle entry and, presumably, the waiting challenge, Christopher lifted a hand to Gart, who was still walking behind Juston and heading in the opposite direction. But Gart saw Christopher’s signal and he quickly made his way to the man, freezing rain dripping from his face.
“Aye, Chris?” he asked.
Christopher’s focus lingered on Juston in the distance. “He is only taking that short sword.”
“I know.”
Christopher met Gart’s gaze. “Go get the broadsword,” he said. “If he loses the short sword somehow, or if it isn’t adequate, he will need the big sword.”
A gleam came to Gart’s eye. “You sound worried.”
“Not worried. Cautious.”
“He will not like that caution.”
“I know.”
“He will take it as a lack of faith in his abilities.”
“So keep it out of sight unless he needs it.”
Gart didn’t reply. There was, in truth, nothing more to say. Something in Christopher’s tone suggested more prudence than de Royans was showing. Without another word, he raced back to de Royans’ tent to retrieve the broadsword as he’d been instructed.
Juston wasn’t oblivious to the fact that his men thought he was daft for going into single combat with only a short sword and a few sharp daggers. He tried not to let their doubts bother him. But the truth was that he was sensitive to those doubts and now, if for no other reason, he was determined to win de la Roarke’s challenge simply to show his knights that their doubts were unfounded. He’d served with his generals long enough that their doubts rather infuriated him.
If they thought he was growing soft in his old age, he was about to prove otherwise.
The freezing rain continued to pound him as he approached the battered structure of Bowes Castle. There was an inner and an outer bailey, both seemingly quite vast, and the western wall that had been so damaged was part of the wall that enclosed the outer bailey. Inside, there was still a moat that protected the enormous keep that King Henry had built not too long ago. He’d fortified the place, perhaps anticipating that this son in the midst of rebellion against him would want the strategic fortress.
Juston’s family had come over with the Duke of Normandy and it was his ancestor who had been appointed the first High Sheriff of Yorkshire. So, in a sense, Juston was going against generations of his family’s loyalties by turning against Henry. But he had his own reasons for what he was doing, and who his loyalties were to, so he had no conscience about defeating Henry’s garrison commander and commandeering Bowes for Richard.
In fact, it was time to end this.
So he marched towards the outer wall of Bowes, seeing that the half-burned drawbridge from the gatehouse was down and men were upon it. He could see David de Lohr speaking with some men he didn’t recognize, presuming they were de la Roarke’s men. But it didn’t matter. Juston wasn’t willing to wait for the challenge; he bellowed at David, who in turn said something to the men on the crumbling drawbridge. Those men then disappeared back inside of Bowes.
At that point, Juston came to a halt several dozen feet from the entry to Bowes, coiled and ready to do battle. Gart eventually joined him, as did David. The three of them stood there, watching the activity in the gatehouse, knowing that the de Royans army was priming itself to breach both the walls and the entry.
“Where is my opponent, David?” Juston asked.
David was watching the activity at the gatehouse, men shuffling about. “He is coming,” he said. “It will be de la Roarke. Evidently, he has been boasting on how he will defeat you.”
Juston’s expression didn’t change. “He is in for a disappointment.”
David glanced at Juston, noting that he wasn’t carrying a broadsword, only the short sword. He had much the same reaction as his brother and the other knights had.
“De la Roarke is a very big man, my lord,” he said. “He will undoubtedly come bearing an arsenal of weapons.”
“Hopefully.”
“But… you only have a short sword, my lord.”
“I know.”
David hesitated to say anything more, finally catching Gart’s attention. The squire was shaking his head faintly, flicking his eyes in the direction of his hands. It was then that David saw that Gard had Juston’s broadsword. David wasn’t quite sure what was happening but he kept his mouth shut. Either de Royans was having a serious lapse in judgement in regards to facing another man in armed combat or he was crazy like a fox. David would be willing to bet it was the latter.
There was a commotion on the burned-out bridge and the three of them looked over to see several soldiers emerging, followed by a knight in heavy protection. More than that, the knight was as tall as a tree. The knight crossed the drawbridge to the cheering of his men and he raised his hands as if to encourage their adoration. The weary, beaten men of Bowes cheered on their commanding officer as the man made his way completely across the drawbridge and into the mud on the other side.
De la Roarke was loaded down with enough weapons and protection to take on an army all by himself. He was, quite literally, prepared for battle. But the moment he saw de Royans, who was literally wearing no armor at all, with only a short sword in his hand, he began to bellow with rage.
And that was the moment de Royans had planned for.
A faint smile crossed his lips. It had been very calculated on his part. Juston had been willing to wager that showing up to armed combat lightly dressed would have insulted his opponent grievously and he was very pleased to see that was exactly what happened. He was hoping to convey, purely by his manner of dress, that he thought nothing of de la Roarke’s abilities as a knight, delivering a serious insult without uttering a word.
His men hadn’t understood what he was doing and he wouldn’t take the time to explain it. Knowing the pride of a warrior as he did, Juston was fairly certain his plan would work. It had; de la Roarke began ripping off his protection, raging angrily as he did so.
De la Roarke’s men tried to stop him. Several were pleading with him, but de la Roarke was so furious that he shoved men away, even cuffing one of them on the side of the head. His helm came off, as did his heavy woolen tunic and leather gloves. Everything was coming off because he wasn’t going to face de Royans dressed to the hilt if de Royans was going to face him without any protection at all.
He would prove who was the better warrior.
But Juston wasn’t going to wait until the man was stripped down and ready to face him. He may have been arrogant but he wasn’t foolish. He had been biding his time, waiting for the proper moment to charge, to catch de la Roarke off-guard. He had to time it correctly or he would find himself in a serious battle, something he really didn’t want to exert himself over, so he waited until de la Roarke bent over to pull off his mail coat. The man’s head and arms were wrapped up in the wet mail and he would be unable to fight back. He made a perfect target that way.
Juston knew it was time to strike.
He abruptly charged forward when de la Roarke was bent in half. Even at his advanced age of thirty-nine years, Juston could move like the wind and he did, charging through the mud, startling nearly everyone who witnessed his spe
ed. By the time de la Roarke’s men realized what was happening, it was too late. Juston rushed up to de la Roarke and plunged his short sword into the man’s back, straight through his spine, so that the blade emerged from his belly.
As de la Roarke fell to the mud, mortally wounded, the situation dissolved into chaos.
CHAPTER TWO
All she knew was that men were rushing into the keep, which contained the great hall where the wounded were being tended. Some of the men were from the garrison at Bowes, but some men she didn’t recognize. It took her little time to realize the castle had been breached.
Startled, the woman stood up from the man she had been bent over. She was tending a man who had burns to most of his body and who probably wouldn’t survive more than just a few days. There were many burn victims from the incendiary devices hurled over the walls by the opposing army. When the bombardment had begun, they’d had some remnants of snow from an earlier storm that they were able to use for the burn victims, but that snow had melted and now all they had were cold rags and butter to ease the pain, and even the butter was almost gone.
The enemy is inside!
It would have been incredibly easy to panic as the woman watched enemy soldiers pour into the keep. In fact, her sister, the wife of the garrison commander, began to screech from the other side of the hall.
“Emmy!” she cried. “Hurry! Upstairs!”
Emera la Marche wasn’t flighty like her sister. She was more reserved, far more in control of herself. She was also weary and hungry from a three-week siege and, as she saw the enemy soldiers enter the keep, her first thought was one of relief. Truly, one of relief. No longer would they be bottled up in a fortress that was slowly starving out, with men dying before their eyes and no way to receive help for them.
At least now, there was some resolution to the conflict, even if it meant she was on the losing side.
“Emera!” her sister screamed again. “Upstairs! Now!”
Emera turned to her sister, who was racing towards her, tripping over the supine men scattered about the hall floor.
“We have men to tend,” she said calmly. “Jess, you must not forget your duties.”
Lady Jessamyn de la Roarke would not be soothed by her outrageously composed sister. “But the enemy knights will kill us!”
“I do not believe they will do that. Why should they? It was not we who fought against them.”
Jessamyn wasn’t so convinced. She looked around, seeing the enemy soldiers already moving into the hall, swarming over the wounded. “Where is my husband?” she gasped. “Where is Brey that he might protect us from these men?”
Emera looked at the entry to the hall where the enemy was, indeed, starting to filter in. “Hopefully, he is dead,” she muttered.
Jessamyn looked at her sister in shock. “You will not say such things!”
Emera focused on the woman who was eighteen months older than she was. “I will say what I please,” she said. “Your husband is a vile excuse for a man. I have been telling you that since you married him. He handled this siege horribly and now he is nowhere to be found. Have you even seen him in the past week, Jess?”
Jessamyn turned red in the face. “He has been busy commanding the battle.”
Emera wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand. “He has been making a mockery of everything he is supposed to stand for,” she said. “When he is not beating his men or robbing travelers, he is in his personal retreat in the gatehouse bedding the servants. I have told you this before.”
Jessamyn hissed at her, sharply. “Enough,” she said. “I will not hear you. He is my husband and may do as he pleases.”
“Including beat your own sister?”
“You should not have said things to displease him!”
“I refused to let him bed me, Jess!”
Jessamyn turned away from her sister, terrified at what was happening, confused and directionless. The old argument between her and Emera only heightened her sense of angst. Unless her husband was telling her what to do and where to go, she truly had no idea how to make a decision for herself. It had been that way for the past four years, ever since she had married Brey de la Roarke. He’d taken a lively young girl and turned her into something dependent and indecisive. When his wife’s sister had come to live with them two years later, he’d tried to do the same thing to her, too, but Emera had been stronger than her sister.
Smarter, too.
But the result with Jessamyn was that the woman could hardly make a move without her husband because that was the way Brey wanted it. Even now, with the enemy overtaking the keep of Bowes, the only decision Jessamyn could make was to run away, but she was incapable of acting on it.
“What shall we do?” Jessamyn finally said, fearful that knights had now entered the keep. She watched them near the entry, wide-eyed. “Where is my husband? Will he leave us to the mercy of these… these barbarians?”
Emera could see the knights entering as well; big, battle-worn men in well-used protection. They were carrying weapons that had seen a good deal of service. She had to admit that she felt some apprehension but that was nothing new in her world. It was part of her everyday existence, ever since she’d been forced to come and live with her sister and the woman’s husband.
Every breath she’d taken at Bowes for the past two years had been filled with apprehension over Brey de la Roarke and his constant harassment. A man that was supposed to protect her in a fatherly way had become a predator. Therefore, dealing with de la Roarke’s enemies made her feel as if they’d saved her.
She intended to thank them profusely.
But the truth was that they were now the conquerors of Bowes. Three weeks of a nasty siege had delivered to them the prize of the mighty fortress. Standing tall, she set aside the cold rag she had been using to dress the burn wounds. Smoothing at her hair, she moved up beside her sister.
“They are in command of Bowes now,” she said quietly. “We must greet them and offer our fealty.”
Jessamyn looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “I will do no such thing!”
Emera didn’t answer. If her foolish sister was going to be stubborn about it, then so be it. Emera intended to be practical. She moved away from her sister, towards the men filling the entry. The sun had set early on this night and a cold winter’s evening was settling, which meant it was dark in the world outside beyond the entry. Chill wind whistled in the open door, an unhealthy thing for the wounded that were lying near the entry.
The closer Emera came to the knights, the more her heart pounded. She didn’t want to admit that her apprehension was gaining, but it was. Still, she felt she had little choice. If these men were now in charge of Bowes, then it would more than likely be much better for her if she simply showed them some respect. She drew close to a big man with dark hair and dark eyes, sporting a growth of beard on his weary face.
“My lord,” she said, bowing her head respectfully. “I am Emera la Marche. I live here at Bowes and I am attending these wounded men. May I assume that the siege is over?”
The knight looked at her, as did his companions. All three of them eyed Emera with varied degrees of disinterest and suspicion.
“The commander of Bowes is dead,” he said without emotion. “The castle is now held for the Count of Poitiers, Anjou, and Maine, Richard the Lionheart.”
Emera had to admit she was shocked to hear those words. The commander is dead. Not shocked in a bad way, but in a way that bred utter astonishment. As big and powerful and brash as Brey de la Roarke was, there was something that suggested the man would never die. His particular brand of wickedness would go on forever. Therefore, she could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Is it true?” she gasped. “Brey is… is dead?”
The knight nodded, now looking around the hall. “How many wounded?”
Emera looked around because he was. “I have seventy-nine wounded men, my lord.”
“You will put them somewhe
re else.”
She looked at him, somewhat confused by his statement. “But… there is nowhere else, my lord,” she replied. “All of our outbuildings have been burned, so there is no shelter anywhere.”
“Then you will move them into the bailey. I care not what you do with them, but remove them. My lord, de Royans, will require the use of this hall for his men.”
It was a cruel command. Emera was beginning to feel the tendrils of desperation, realizing he meant to throw the wounded from the hall regardless of the fact they had no place to go.
“But these men are badly wounded, my lord,” she said imploringly. “To move them outside into the freezing temperatures will surely kill them.”
“Move them or I will.”
Emera was struggling with her composure. The man meant to move the wounded no matter what she said. “Then you must give me time if that is your command,” she said, sounding less respectful than she had been. “I must prepare a place to take them. Will you at least give me the night? Surely you can wait the night.”
“De Royans waits for no man,” the knight said, turning to his companions. “Send soldiers in here to remove the wounded.”
“Wait!” Emera cried. “Surely you cannot show such inhumanity to wounded men. These are not animals to be cast aside. They are men who stood honorably against your flaming bombardment. Surely you will show them a small measure of respect.”
The knight wasn’t going to argue with her. Reaching out a big hand, he grabbed her by the arm, preparing to drag her away. But the moment he touched her, Emera’s sense of self-protection kicked in, that same instinct that had been heightened and sharpened with Brey prowling the grounds of Bowes. Many a time, the man had tried to grab her or force himself on her, so Emera’s reactions were stronger than most. The moment the knight grabbed her, she instinctively balled a fist and swung it at his face as hard as she could.
The strike was a brutal one, causing the knight’s head to snap sideways, but he didn’t lose his grip on her. He simply passed her off to the knight next to him, who threw her up over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a child. Emera began to twist and fight, trying to dislodge his grip, but it was like fighting iron. He wasn’t budging.
Fearsome Brides Page 3
