Fearsome Brides

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Having left his clothing, including his mail, back at the inn, David dressed in Marcus’ heavy tunic and a spare pair of leather breeches from his own saddlebags, but his boots were also back at the inn and there was no way he was going back to retrieve them. But he had his sword and what was in his saddlebags, and that was all he really cared about.

  He also had his life.

  The tale of the wench’s smithy husband would make for a funny story someday, but for the first half-hour after leaving Cotherstone, no one was laughing. That soon changed, however, when they realized they weren’t being followed.

  There was relief in the realization they’d escaped the wrath of the angry husband. Marcus and Christopher, reflecting on the memory of a naked knight with a fully-erect manhood trying to ride a horse, began to snort with both humor and relief. Within a half-hour of leaving Cotherstone, they were howling with laughter until they cried.

  David, eventually, had to admit that it was humorous, too.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bowes Castle

  “Truly, Emmy, you are exhausted.” Jessamyn’s voice was soft. “You must try to sleep a little. I can tend the men while you do. We have plenty of help.”

  It was early evening as Emera sat beside a dying man, watching him breathe heavily and unsteadily, knowing there was nothing more she could do to help him. He was another man with a belly wound who was succumbing to a raging fever. He was an older man and Emera had seen him around the castle for the past two years as he went about his duty. He had always been kind to her.

  She was sitting on the ground, her knees folded up. A bent arm rested on her knee, holding her head up. She glanced at her sister in the dim light.

  “I will not leave him until he passes,” she said quietly. “He is not long for this earth. No man should have to die alone.”

  Jessamyn understood. Her sister was more tender-hearted than most, to the point of sacrificing herself for the sake of another. She wasn’t happy about her sister’s stance, but she didn’t fight her on it.

  “You did not eat much for sup,” she said. “May I bring you something to eat?”

  Emera shook her head. “I am not hungry,” she said, “although I will admit, the pork and beans that de Royans’ men provided is a vast improvement over the porridge we have been relegated to.”

  Jessamyn smiled. “I agree.” She sobered, looking around the dark, quiet vault. “Still, we are prisoners even if they have been fair to us.”

  Emera’s gaze lingered on her sister. “We were prisoners before, only you were married to our jailor.”

  Jessamyn didn’t flare to the comment as she usually did. In fact, she seemed rather thoughtful. “You can say what you like about Brey,” she said. “I know you were not fond of him.”

  “Fond of him? Jess, are you serious?”

  Jessamyn held up a hand. She didn’t want to get into an argument. “He was my husband,” she said. “He was not yours, he was mine. What I feel… it does not matter. But for you, I would understand your dislike of him. But for all of his faults, as least we had a home and food and a place where we belonged. Now, we do not even have that. Did you ever think of it that way? Last night, you told that… that terrible knight that we had nowhere to go and we do not. Now, we are worse off than you thought we were before.”

  Emera thought on her sister’s words. She was correct for the most part. But Emera didn’t agree with her completely.

  “The commander’s name is de Royans,” she said quietly. “Sir Juston de Royans. He is from Netherghyll Castle, which is not far from here, so he says. He was somewhat rigid and cold last night. But today I was able to speak with him and he did not seem quite so cold and terrible. He allowed us to take the wounded into the vault, did he not? He allowed us to keep our possessions. I would say that we are not as bad off as we could be.”

  She didn’t tell her sister about the two attempts he’d made to kiss her; somehow, she didn’t want to. She wasn’t sure if she was ashamed of it or not. Brey had chased her for two years and had never managed to kiss her the way de Royans had after only being around a short amount of time. She didn’t want her sister to think she was giving herself over to the enemy, so confusion kept her silent because one thing was for certain – she wasn’t nearly as resistant to de Royans’ advances as she was to Brey’s.

  “I suppose we have been treated better than most prisoners,” Jessamyn conceded. “But the fact remains that we are prisoners. What will become of us?”

  Emera had already planned out what her future would entail. She wasn’t so sure about Jessamyn. “When the wounded no longer need us, I have asked de Royans if he will provide me with an escort to a charity hospital in Sherburn,” she said. “I do not know what your future will be, Jess, but I wish to go to the charity hospital. You know that I have followed Mother’s path of helping the sick and needy. I have no desire to do anything else. You…mayhap you wish to marry again, and that is fine for you. But I have no desire to be the mistress of my own home.”

  Jessamyn was looking at her with doubt in her expression. “A charity hospital?” she repeated. “But… Emmy, those are terrible places filled with disease. It will kill you to work and live in one of those places.”

  “It will not kill me.”

  “It killed Mother!”

  Jessamyn was starting to raise her voice. Knowing her sister could become agitated quite easily, Emera simply lifted her hand to quiet her. “Do not trouble yourself,” she said. “It will not happen for quite some time, I am sure. Meanwhile, we must take care of Bowes as best we can. In fact, I was thinking of the turnips we have stored in the northwest corner. Those were intended for the winter market in Gainford. If we do not move those vegetables, they will rot.”

  She was changing the subject. Jessamyn, who was easily manipulated, shifted her focus from the charity hospital to the turnips. She even turned around, craning her neck and trying to see back to the area were the turnips were stored.

  “We cannot move them,” she said. “We have no means.”

  Emera thought of de Royans and his endless wealth of men and animals. She was certain the man had wagons, too. He had to, considering the size of the army he had to move.

  “Mayhap we do not, but de Royans might,” she said. “The crop is now his, after all, and all of those serfs who worked the land to harvest it are his vassals. He must understand that taking the crop to the winter market is his responsibility.”

  “What of the money he will get from selling them?”

  “He must understand that it should be put back into seed for next year’s crops.”

  “Are you going to tell him that?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Jessamyn simply shrugged, not entirely convinced de Royans would listen to her bold sister. Emera’s attention was diverted from more conversation about turnips as the man beside her suddenly took a deep breath and then blew that breath out.

  Emera leaned over him, feeling for his pulse and finding nothing. Sadly, he was gone and she quietly called over to a pair of male servants to take the body away. Once the dead man was being carried out of the vault, Emera rose stiffly to her feet.

  “I must have a breath of fresh air,” she said, rubbing her neck and feeling some sorrow over the loss of yet another wounded man. “I do not even know how long I have been down here.”

  Jessamyn stood up as well. “Since before the nooning meal, at least. You have been by that man’s side for hours, Emmy.”

  Emera simply nodded, taking a deep breath. “Let me go up and stretch my legs a bit,” she said. “I will return.”

  She needed a change of scenery for a few moments, away from dying men, and Jessamyn understood. She followed Emera as the woman moved towards the spiral stairs that led up to the levels above. But they both paused when they came upon the young child de Royans had left in their charge.

  The lad was curled up on an old blanket near the stairwell, sleeping like the dead. He had been sleeping that
way since practically inhaling two bowls of the pork and beans they’d been provided for sup. The food and exhaustion had rendered the child unconscious and they’d simply let him sleep.

  “He has been a great help today,” Emera said, her gaze on the boy. “But he seems rather fearful, doesn’t he?”

  Jessamyn nodded. “He’s a polite lad,” she said. “He is a hard worker and very helpful. But you are correct. He seems… timid. I feel sorry for him. I wonder who his parents are.”

  Emera shrugged, not giving the child much more thought. It wasn’t her concern who his parents were but she was concerned that he seemed too frightened and nervous. She felt some pity for the child but she didn’t feel it was her place to ask de Royans about him. She pointed to a spare blanket, left behind when the man who had used it had been taken away.

  “You had better cover him up,” she told her sister. “It is quite cold down here. We do not want him to catch his death.”

  As Jessamyn went to tend to the lad, Emera made her way up the stairs and into the hall above.

  The hall had a great many men in it, all de Royans men. Since it was well into the night and their duties for the day were finished for the most part, they were crowded around the two big feasting tables that filled the room while groups of them lingered about, playing games or singing. Over in one corner, several men were gathered together, singing loudly and drinking. They all seemed rather happy, perhaps happy they were out of the freezing weather and into some solid shelter for a change.

  But to Emera, it seemed odd seeing men other than Bowes soldiers inhabiting the hall. She paused at the top of the stairs, watching the men through the smoke, seeing that they’d brought dogs with them as several big mutts roamed the hall, trailing after some of the men and hunting for scraps. Emera didn’t much like dogs. She was afraid of them, so she stayed close to the wall, heading for the keep entry.

  About the time she reached the doorway, she caught sight of de Royans at one of the tables. He had his head down, eating something from a trencher as his knights crowded around him, eating and drinking also. They were talking loudly, pointing, gesturing. Whatever they said must have been very important because they seemed very adamant about their conversation. All of those armed men intimidated her, men she remembered from the night before, so she quickly slipped from the hall and into the forebuilding that led out into the ward.

  It was brisk and icy outside, but the storm that had pounded for most of the day had rolled out, leaving a crisp dark sky above with a brilliant half-moon in the middle of it. A blanket of stars slashed across the heavens and Emera took a moment to gaze up, appreciating the beauty of it. But the clear skies meant bitterly cold temperatures; already, she could feel it plummeting. She was clad only in her durable wool shift and surcoat, the same ones she had been wearing for days. It wasn’t much protection against the cold.

  “How do your wounded fare?”

  The voice came from behind. Startled, Emera whirled around to see Juston standing behind her. Clad in heavy clothing, including a luxurious leather robe that was lined with gray fur, he looked every inch the conquering battle lord. But the sight of him made her heart leap strangely and that odd buzzing filled her limbs again. She was coming to think the man had cast a spell over her because every time he came around, she started to tremble.

  “Good eve, my lord,” she said. “I saw you in the hall but you were with your men and I did not wish to disturb you. I was not trying to escape by coming out here.”

  “I did not think that you were.”

  “I simply needed some fresh air.”

  “I believe you.”

  An awkward silence settled. The last time they had faced each other, he called her beautiful and then he’d simply walked away as if regretting he’d said such a thing. Emera was, therefore, feeling nervous and uncomfortable. But she was also glad he had come to talk to her because when she thought of what he’d said to her earlier in the day, the memory made her smile. So he thought she was beautiful; there were worse things he could think of her.

  “We lost two more men this afternoon,” she suddenly said as if only just remembering his question. “I believe the others are stable but time will tell.”

  He simply nodded. “I have a physic I can offer you if needed,” he said. “I did not suffer many wounded during the siege. I am sure your men are much worse off.”

  It was a very kind offer. “That would be gratefully accepted, my lord,” she said. “Although I have experience tending the sick and wounded, some of the wounded are beyond my experience. It would be a blessing to have a physic look at them and give guidance.”

  His eyes lingered on her, glittering in the cold moonlight. “I shall send him to the vault.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  It seemed there wasn’t much more to say. Although from the expression on Juston’s face, it appeared that he wanted to say more. Still, perhaps he was reluctant to after their last conversation had ended with his embarrassment. Before the silence became awkward again, he simply turned and walked away.

  Emera watched him go, thinking the man seemed to be in a generous mood tonight. That thought brought about the subject she and Jessamyn had been discussing only moments earlier, the turnips that very badly needed to be taken to market. Before Juston moved too far away, she called after him.

  “My lord?” she called out, watching him pause and turn to her. Quickly, she closed the gap between them. “I was hoping to ask your permission for something that very much needs to be done. You see, Bowes has a vast farming system and many serfs to work the land. I am not sure if you noticed the many cultivated fields we have to the south, but that is where our farming takes place.”

  Juston shook his head, folding his big arms across his chest. “I did not pay any attention to the area, to be truthful,” he said. “My concern when I came to Bowes was not the agriculture.”

  She smiled, an ironic gesture. “I realize that,” she said, “but I am attempting to make a point. We currently have at least three wagonloads of turnips in the vault right now. It is an early winter crop that we must take to market or it will rot. We will use the money to buy seed for next year’s crops. We were preparing to take the produce to market when the siege happened and now we no longer have the wagons to haul the turnips into town. I was hoping you could spare a few wagons to complete this task.”

  He cocked his head. “What do you need the money for? De la Roarke has an entire treasure room in the vault.”

  She nodded. “I know, but that was his and his alone. It is not meant for the castle or those who work the land. The crops are all the peasants have; all they are allowed to have. Won’t you please help them, my lord?”

  Juston scratched his head, pondering the situation. “That crop belongs to me now.”

  “Aye, it does. But if you are now lord of Bowes, then there are about three hundred serfs you are responsible for, who depend on the castle to live. These turnips are all they have to see them through the winter. That is your responsibility.”

  She had a point. If he was now the lord of Bowes, indeed, that meant he was responsible for those dependent on the castle. He was a military man but he understood there were duties that went along with his command and one of those duties was to his vassals. She also made sense about the money aspect of it; the money from the food would be returned to the serfs to a certain extent, for both seed and labor.

  “I can see that there is more to this bastion than meets the eye,” he said. “Treasure rooms, great agricultural stores. I have a feeling there is even more that I am not yet aware of.”

  Emera sensed some humor to his statement. “With a big place like this, there will always be things to do and things to know,” she said. “You already know that my sister is chatelaine. She will help you navigate the difficulties when it comes to managing the functions of the castle.”

  “You seem to be far more of an efficient chatelaine than she is.”

  “You’ve n
ot had much contact with her.”

  “True enough. But I intend to.”

  “Why?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You are asking questions again.”

  Emera was properly contrite, although she seriously wondered why he’d said he intended to have more contact with Jessamyn. Was it because she had been Brey’s wife? Did de Royans think she might know all of Brey’s dark secrets? They were his subjects now. It wouldn’t be unheard of for him to interrogate the wife of an enemy. Emera was pondering that distressing idea when Juston spoke, interrupting her thoughts.

  “When does the produce need to be taken to town?”

  They were back to the turnips. “As soon as possible,” Emera replied. “There is a winter market every Saturday in Gainford. If the weather is good two days from now, it would be wise to move it then. I am not entirely sure it can wait any longer.”

  Turnips. They were talking about turnips. Juston should have agreed with her statement and then walked away from the exchange, but the truth was that he was keeping the conversation going simply because he wanted to talk to her again.

  An entire afternoon of feeling confused and embarrassed brought him to the conclusion that he was simply being foolish. He didn’t like that feeling, not in the least, especially with a woman he’d barely known a day. This time yesterday, he was telling her that she was his prisoner and trying to force her to his will. But tonight saw a different dynamic, something he was both intrigued with and confused by.

  Lady Emera la Marche was unlike any woman he’d ever met before. Beautiful, intelligent, and brave, she was unafraid to speak her mind or stand up for herself. The battle with ash shovels in the pass-through hearth had opened his eyes to a woman who was remarkably courageous against a man twice her size. But more than that, he could see deep and abiding compassion in her. He could see that as she dealt with the wounded. She was concerned for everyone and everything. That depth of kindness intrigued him.