by Jacobs Delle
He was going to love her.
And if he didn’t find a way to break the curse, she was going to die. By his hand.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ALTHOUGH THE PAIN from the dream had faded almost immediately, its memory lingered in Leonie’s mind. She shuddered, recalling the horror and guilt on Philippe’s face. But he was not guilty. He had done nothing wrong. It had all come from her nightmare. Somehow she must put the dream aside until she could be calm about it, and then perhaps talk with him. She must make him understand she did not blame him. But for now, she had to think of something else.
As she watched the Earl of Northumbria ride away with his knights, Leonie chewed her lip. He was indeed a strange man. But that was not what concerned her. Why would a man who was said to have a heart as black as the inside of darkness care about her? What did he know about her mother that he would not say? Why?
She sighed and returned to her work in the old hall. Though Philippe might wonder why she meant to clean it so thoroughly when he hoped to dismantle it as soon as he was able, she knew preparing for war must be most important for him now. She would live in a primitive hut if she must, but she would not live in a pigsty.
Although the stink in the hall was much improved, it wasn’t gone. Eventually, like all the women who scrubbed so furiously, she had to seek the relief of fresh air. She headed for the open kitchen to see how the meals were coming along.
As she stepped outside, she shielded her eyes against the bright day and followed the noise of the upper bailey to the uphill side. The villeins were raising an extra row of tall poles into a deep trench on the unfinished section of the curtain wall. She frowned at the curious structure, set back some ten paces behind the old wooden palisade that was probably the last of the original wooden wall. Men’s business, she understood, but she would make a point of knowing its purpose before the day was out. Someday she might be forced to lead the defense here, and she would be ready if she could. She would not be the first wife to do so.
Throwing her green cloak over her shoulders against the day’s chill, she started down the hill to the lower bailey and passed through the stone barbican, following the lane that meandered down to the village. Only last night the village had caroled them down, then back up. Now she looked forward to meeting her people, who had been so long separated from her.
Thatched huts stood around a common green, the place where the night before they had danced so merrily. She smiled, remembering. It had been a good bride ale, and no matter what came, she would always have that night to make her smile.
“Out for a stroll, sweet bride?”
Leonie made a grumbling noise. “You seemed busy enough,” she replied. “I thought it polite to visit among the people.”
“So it is, but I do not like for you to roam about so freely. This is very dangerous country.”
“It is my home, glorious husband.”
“Aye, it is. But no one knows you yet, angelic wife.”
Leonie snickered. “Angelic wife? I have never been that.”
“I do not recall ever being glorious, either.”
That surge of warmth plowed through her again. Oh, he was. Their jests were usually lies, but that one wasn’t. She sought a different topic. “Don’t you have a curtain wall to build?”
“The men can manage it. I have a curiosity or two about the people myself. Haps we can meet them together.”
Leonie waggled her brow in some sort of statement, which she supposed meant she might as well. It was probably a good thing for them to appear together in the village.
They passed a sprinkling of thatched cottages that became closer together as the path wound down the steep hill on which the castle sat. Near the center of the village, they reached the fading green where a dozen or so cows grazed, oblivious of the clangor and bustle of the village. No signs of last night’s lavish feast remained.
“I have a yen to find the old woman,” Philippe said.
“Why?” She darted a glance at him, wondering at the casual way he spoke the words. Nothing in his face said otherwise, yet she thought something was the slightest bit askew.
“I found her intriguing. De Mowbray tells me she has great knowledge of things like cures and curses.”
“Why would that interest you?”
He shrugged. “Everything interests me. Who can tell when such knowledge will be useful?”
She drew her lips in tightly. Why would a great knight care about cures and curses? One more thing about the enigmatic Peregrine to puzzle her.
But they wandered through the village, meeting children and women. Most of the men who were not at the castle were in the fields collecting chaff for fodder.
Cyne left the men in the field to approach them, his aging body showing the weariness of a hard day’s labor. She had thought him too old to still work in the fields, yet here he came. He bowed low, and she could see sweat darkening his grey hair and trailing down his gaunt cheeks. She soon excused herself to talk with the old man’s wife, with one ear listening to Philippe’s questions.
The blare of a horn, three blasts then a long, hard blow, startled them.
Philippe’s eyebrows shot up. He grabbed her arm. “Back to the castle,” he said. “Now.”
“Why?”
“Unwelcome visitors. Hurry.”
They dashed out of the cottage. Farther down the road, a huge dust cloud rose toward the sky. Riders! But who? De Mowbray was gone, and not in that direction.
The horn blasted again, its sound even more urgent.
“Fulk, I’ll wager,” Philippe said. “Riding too fast. We can’t make it back before they arrive.”
“Come, Lord,” said Cyne, running back behind his cottage. “The sally port gate on the north. I’ll show you the way through the woods.”
For an old man he ran spryly, dodging through the trees along a slender path, Leonie behind him and Philippe bringing up the rear, his hand ready on the sword hilt.
As they reached the clearing circling the castle, the old man’s strength flagged, his steps less sure and his breathing ragged.
“Go, lord, hurry,” Cyne said, his eyes wobbling a bit in his head. “Leave me.”
Leonie looked down the open field toward the main castle entrance to see the knights of Durham riding into the clearing, heading toward the barbican. They stopped, spotting the runners. One man, Fulk, she was sure, pointed at them. He would know them by their garments, and that they would need to cross the dry moat and climb the steep, narrow steps snaking up to the sally port, a route accessible only by foot.
Two riders dismounted to run over the uneven terrain into the dry moat to cut off their prey at the steps.
Philippe grabbed the exhausted old man and threw him over his shoulder. “Run, Leonie! Stretch those long legs like they’ve never been stretched before!”
“Not without you!” Why, oh why had this been the one day she had left her bow behind? Wanting to appear more womanly to her villagers was a foolish reason. Now she could not even defend herself and the husband who was burdened with the body of the old man.
“Do as I say! I’m right behind you.”
She’d promised. She would do it. Leonie sped across the field, up the berm, down the dry moat, then up the slope leading to the steps and castle wall. Philippe’s footsteps pounded the ground right behind her. Thanks to Heaven, he was such a strong man. But Fulk’s men ran easily along the moat bottom, not climbing a slope as she and Philippe did. Four archers followed close behind.
She reached the steps just before the knights and dashed up. Philippe set Cyne on his feet to climb the steps, then whirled, sword drawn.
Her heart sank into her stomach. He did not wear his mail. He could battle the knights with his sword, but he was defenseless against archers. The moment he moved up the steps, the archers would have a direct shot. He would be doomed.
“Go, Leonie!” Philippe shouted.
The Durham knights attacked. Philippe parried their blows,
his back against the stone wall as he moved up a few steps.
“Leonie!” The shout from above was Sigge. Fear hit her like a blow. He was running down the steps.
But he had her bow! She dashed up the steps and grabbed her bow and quiver. “Get out of here! Get the old man up to the gate!”
She grabbed a fistful of arrows, dropping the quiver on the steps as she nocked an arrow and pulled.
Fly, sweet shaft, she sang, though she needed no Faerie skills this time. The string twanged. Knowing the shaft struck home, pinning the archer’s hand to his bow, she nocked the second from her fist, drew, and released. It struck the second archer’s hand while she shot the third arrow and sang to it as it sped through the air.
The fourth bowman, seeing his three injured comrades, dropped his bow and threw his hands up. Leonie pointed the tip of her ivorywood bow toward the Durham knights at the barbican, and he fled, followed by the three others clutching their broken hands.
She aimed at the swordsmen. Two were down, but one still threatened Philippe, who backed up the steps toward her.
“Shall I finish him?” she called.
With one fierce stroke that nearly unbalanced him from the precarious steps, Philippe cut into the knight’s vulnerable armpit, and the knight toppled backward, blood spraying.
“No need,” he replied. A fierce scowl splayed across his sweat-soaked face, and his golden hair straggled before his eyes. Yet he barely breathed hard beneath the bloodstained blue tunic.
God in Heaven, but he was a magnificent man!
He frowned and waved his sword at her. “Go on, sweetly obedient wife. Do you mean to wait till they send an army for you?”
Leonie tossed her chin in the air, beginning to realize sweat soaked her scalp too. “I expect you to slay them for me,” she said.
And just to please him, she rushed up the steep steps and through the sally port.
Sigge ran up, shouting, and threw his bony little arms around her. “Leonie! You’re safe!”
“Aye,” she said, hugging him back. “You were sent from God, Sigge!”
“No, I wasn’t. I heard the horns and I knew you didn’t have your bow with you so I ran for it, and then I knew you were coming up to the sally port because they were cheering for you from the wall, so I ran that way. And then the guard didn’t want to let me go but I kicked him in the shin because I knew you’d need your bow.”
“All things come from God, Sigge.” Philippe joined them. “’Tis God who gave you the wits to know what to do and the swift feet and courage to do it. But I’ll see you thrashed if you take such a chance again.”
Leonie beamed along with Sigge, who stared in awe at his hero.
“And you!” Philippe whirled on her, his fury all but turning his sweat to steam. “Don’t you ever dare disobey me. If you take such a chance again, I will chain you to your bed.”
She almost flinched and stepped back, but caught herself, stiffened her spine, and glared back. “Aye, my ever gracious lord, next time I will obey. And leave you to them to be killed.”
“Do you think I need a woman to protect me?” His face flushed red as Rufus in a rage.
Leonie lifted her chin high, as if she might look down her nose at the man who stood a head taller than her. “You did this time. I do not think your hide is so tough it can ward off arrows.”
“That is not your concern. Shoot your arrows from behind stone walls, or not at all.”
Hugh sped up to them. “Fulk and the Bishop of Durham are drawn up before the barbican gate,” he said. “They’re demanding to talk with you, Philippe.”
“Not surprising, since they’ve been bested at their game of guile.” At that, Philippe stalked away, soon picked up speed, and ran through the gate between the upper and lower bailey and down the hill, then up the wooden stairs aside the curtain wall to the parapet. Leonie hurried after him, with Sigge at her heels.
On the far side of the moat outside the barbican, both the bishop and Fulk, fully armed and clad in mail, sat on their dust-covered warhorses.
Leonie raised her bow. She had two arrows left. That was all she needed.
“Nay,” said Philippe, his hand coming out to stop her. His voice had lost its fury, and he touched her almost gently. He turned back to the problem below. “What do you want, Durham?” he shouted down at the armed men below.
The bishop sidled his horse away from his warriors and rode forward with Fulk at his side.
“My apologies for my overeager soldiers, Peregrine,” shouted the bishop. “I fear they misunderstood their orders.”
“My condolences on the poor quality of your vassals,” Philippe answered. “Again I ask, what do you want, that you come at us prepared for battle? Have you forgotten the king’s command that forbids any Norman to take up arms against another Norman castle?”
“You misread me, Peregrine. We only come prepared, for these are troubled times. Mayhap you would show us the hospitality of your walls, where I can explain our visit more easily.”
“I think not. I say again, Durham, what do you want?”
The bishop turned in his saddle to face Fulk, and they exchanged words Leonie could not hear.
“What, are you after my fair bride again, Fulk? You are too late. We said our vows yesterday and the bride ale was celebrated by the entire village. ’Tis best you go find yourself another bride. If you wait for this one, you will be greyer than your bishop beside you.”
“I come only to talk with her, Philippe le Peregrine,” the bishop answered. “You must let me in, for it is her soul that is at stake.”
Leonie leaned over the parapet. “I confessed my sins only yesterday, Your Grace,” she said. “I believe my soul is safe for now.”
“Lovely Lady Leonie, only allow me a few minutes to talk with you. I must be satisfied. I could not allow you to condemn yourself by your ignorance.”
“I think I could fight him off,” she said to Philippe in a voice she was sure could not be heard below.
“You will not. He’s a bishop, and no young man, but he is a fine warrior.”
“We cannot refuse him. He will excommunicate you for it.”
“He will do that anyway, but God will side with right. I will not risk you.”
“Philippe, I know you can protect me from him. You have made that clear. Let us make it so there is no danger, and if we can speak to him away from Fulk, we might change his mind. He would not desecrate the chapel, so let him meet with me there.”
Philippe’s eyes darkened beneath his frowning brow as he regarded her. Whether he sighed or his exhale was more of a snort of disgust, she could not say. But he turned back to the wall and looked down at the Norman knights near the gate.
“The bishop may dismount and give over all his weapons and his helm to his squire. All others will ride down the hill to the far side of the village and stay within our sight, and then the wicket gate will be unbarred. The bishop will be granted entry through it.”
Durham stiffened in his saddle. “You cannot expect me to abide by such demeaning terms, Peregrine. We will ride through your gate.”
“You will not. You will face Lady Leonie of Bosewood with your hands bare of weapons and your head as free to the air as our Lord God made it, or you will not face her at all.”
“And who will protect me from such brigands as Philippe le Peregrine?”
“God will protect you if you are in the right,” Philippe sneered back. “And I will defend you from brigands myself if God will not.”
Passing instructions to his knights to shoot any who made an attempt to follow the bishop through the small wicket within the heavy wooden gate, Philippe shuffled rapidly down the steps, Leonie following, to await the meeting of their terms and greet the bishop as he stepped through the tiny wicket gate beneath the barbican.
“Whatever you do, don’t let him into the upper bailey, Leonie. I don’t want him to see our new wall.”
Leonie nodded and stepped forward, snuggling her bow i
nto its place on her shoulder. One look at the man’s sharpened gaze reminded her of his fury moments before. She hastened to the tiny stone chapel and found her place inside its cool darkness, close to the small door near the altar. She waited.
Soon the paired doors parted and the bishop stepped from the bright light into the dim chapel, Philippe behind him.
She dropped a quick but proper curtsy to the bishop, who turned to glare at Philippe. Philippe folded his arms and planted his feet in a battle stance.
“Come near to the altar, Lady Leonie, that we may speak in private,” the bishop said.
Leonie sidestepped his attempt to grasp her arm. “It is not necessary, Your Grace,” she said. “I have no fear of anyone here.”
“Yet, dear girl, did you not say this very man who has forced you into marriage assaulted you brutally in Brodin Forest?”
She drew in a thick breath. She had been afraid he would bring that up. Yet she wondered how he could have known. How could even his spies have reached him with that information so quickly?
“My mind was muddled by the blow to my head, Your Grace, but it is clear now. Philippe le Peregrine did not harm me.”
The bishop’s jaw dropped open. “It cannot be,” he said. But he composed himself again. “Women can be so easily influenced and misled. They have not the sense to see such things clearly. Come with me, girl, and I will see you protected, else he will surely kill you.” He reached for her again.
Instinctively, Leonie dodged away and stepped behind the altar rail. “He is my husband now, and is so by the king’s command, Your Grace. I would do his bidding even if I did not wish it, but I do.”
“You say this because he is so close. He must leave.”
“Nay.”
“’Tis not a legal marriage, and you are living in sin. Your very soul is in danger. You did make your promise, and in God’s eyes, that is binding.”
“I made no such promise.”
“Dare you contest the word of the saintliest warrior in all Christendom, lady? Dare you call him a liar?”
