The raiders were trying to relieve the kitchen, and the priory, of barrels of dried beans and vegetables, items intended to keep the priory supplied throughout the winter, but the young woman with the pot in her hand would not permit it. St. Milburga’s Priory had known raids before from the Welsh, especially when food was scarce, but this raid was particularly bad. There were many starving Welshmen who wanted what the priory had, and the nuns and wards of the priory found themselves fending off a fairly serious invasion of men intent to plunder their meager resources. Even Welsh children were involved this time, making it harder to fight back for the healing order of nuns.
Even so, the Welsh could not be permitted to steal the food that the priory needed in order to survive, which meant the nuns found themselves on the defensive, most especially the young woman in the kitchen. When the pot became too heavy for her to bear, she collected a big piece of wood stacked neatly near the hearth and began using it like a club.
“Go away!” she shouted. “Go away or be damned! God will punish you for this, do you hear?”
The Welsh mostly spoke their native tongue and did not completely understand her, although a few of them understood her words quite clearly when she brained them with the wood. The tall lass was not beyond aiming for the heads, and sometimes the buttocks, of the Welsh who were trying to steal from her. Oddly enough, however, they didn’t try to fight back – they grabbed for items from the kitchen, whatever foodstuffs they could get their hands on, and the young woman would chase them down with her wooden club.
However, not all of them would allow her to chase them away. One Welshman, young and big, grabbed at a barrel of barley, which was quite heavy. When the young woman rushed him with her club, he reached out a hand to shove her back, nearly pushing her into the hearth. This only seemed to infuriate her and she leapt to her feet, exchanging the wood for a long iron spit that they used to roast meat on. It had a pointed edge, like a dagger, and she went after the man with it.
The Welshman had his back to her as he tried to flee, only catching a glimpse of the spit in her hands at the last moment. Since he had the barrel of barley in his arms, he had to drop the thing in order to defend himself and prevent the young woman from goring him. The wooden barrel fell to the dirt floor and exploded, sending barley everywhere.
The Welshman and the young woman wrestled with the iron spit for a few moments; he was trying to take it from her and she was trying not to let him. But he was much stronger and managed to yank it from her hands, injuring her palms as he jerked it free. Just as he managed to wrest it from her, his cohorts began to yell in their harsh language, their shouts echoing against the cloister, and the Welshman with the spit bolted from the kitchen, still holding the spit. Enraged that he’d taken her weapon, and now with bloodied palms, the young woman ran back to the hearth to reclaim her wooden club.
Racing to the kitchen door, she came to a sudden halt as she heard the sounds of heavy fighting going on outside of the kitchen. Instead of simply screams and running feet, she could now hear weapons clashing, metal against metal. Someone, somehow, had brought weapons into this raid and she could hear the sounds of a battle quite clearly now, growing worse.
The main entry in and out of the kitchen opened into the cloister, a covered walkway that joined the Servery, or dormitory for the nuns, to the kitchen and to the refectory and the rest of the priory. Beyond the cloister, in the center of the collection of buildings, was an open grassy area, called The Garth, where the novice nuns and wards often performed their lessons.
It was in The Garth that the young woman in the kitchen seemed to hear most of the fighting going on. Her rage cooled and she began to feel a hint of fear as she peeked around the side of the open door to see The Garth beyond. Immediately, she could see soldiers with weapons, battling the poorly-dressed Welsh, and she caught a glimpse of at least one heavily-armed knight as he rode his big, armored steed beneath the covered cloister. The knight seemed to be chasing the Welsh with his enormous broadsword and as she watched, he caught up to one and gored the man when he tried to fight back.
Now, dead Welsh were littering The Garth as a serious battle went on inside the walls of St. Milburga’s. The young woman’s anger at the raiders fled; now she was terrified for her safety and she pulled back into the kitchen and slammed the heavy, worn oak door, which had a broken iron bolt on it. The Mother Prioress had never seen the need to repair it, so now the young woman had no real means of protecting herself should the knight, or armed soldiers, decide to invade the kitchen.
But she had her wooden club and she looked at the thing, knowing it would not be enough against an armored knight. She needed something heavier, something that could do damage against the well-protected warrior.
Racing back over to the hearth, she picked up the handled iron pot again, knowing it would be the only true defense against such a man. Moreover, she had to strike first, to stun him or even knock him unconscious so she could run away and have a fighting chance against the madness going on around her.
Rushing back to the kitchen door, now closed, she positioned herself against the wall next to the panel so that when it was opened, she would be behind it and not be seen. She would at least have a few moments to come up behind whoever entered the kitchen and smash them over the head. God forgive her for truly hurting the man, but she would not be taken prisoner, or worse.
She had to fight.
As the sounds of battle continued outside her door, the young woman pressed against the wall and listened, praying fervently that no one would make any attempt to open the kitchen door. She prayed that they would simply bypass the kitchen but she knew that was a foolish hope; the kitchen contained most of the value of St. Milburga’s. It was what the Welsh were after and as she clutched the iron pot to her chest, she looked around the kitchen at the damage done by the raiders.
The burst barrel of barley was on the floor near the door. She wasn’t particularly worried about that, as the barley could be swept up. A few bags of dried beans had been taken, and a slab of precious pork that had been hanging from the ceiling rafters, but in all, they hadn’t lost too much. She wanted to keep it that way but she wasn’t entirely sure she could fight off hordes of men with swords. The Welsh hadn’t been armed, at least not that she could see, but the second group of men that were in The Garth… they were armed, and heavily so.
She was jolted from her thoughts when something heavily bumped against the old oak door. The door rattled and young woman jumped, shrieking with fright, before quickly biting her lips together. She didn’t want to be heard. Sweet Jesus, do not let me be heard! she prayed, but it was too late. Someone had evidently heard her cry of fear. The door lurched again and abruptly opened, spilling forth an enormous knight in expensive and well-used armor.
Terror seized the young woman. The knight was barely through the door when she ran up behind him and hit him as hard as she could on the back of his helmed head with her iron pot. He fell like a stone and she pounced, beating him with the iron pot rather haphazardly, trying to strike him on the head again but the pot was so heavy that she ended up hitting him in the neck and shoulders and back with it. The knight, face-down on the dirt floor, grunted in pain.
“You beast!” she shrieked. “How dare you invade our home! I will beat you to a bloody pulp, do you hear?”
She was straddling his back at this point, trying to pin him down with her insignificant weight as she beat him with the pot. Unfortunately, her arms grew quite tired very quickly as the knight put up a hand to try to protect his head.
“I am not here to harm or harass you,” he said, his voice muffled against his faceplate. “I swear I mean you no harm, Sister.”
The young woman wasn’t convinced but her arms were so weary that she could hardly lift the pot anymore. She ended up putting it on his head so that it was engulfing most of his helm as she leaned forward and put all of her weight on it, attempting to keep his head down.
“Then who are
you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”
The knight was amply protected against her assault but the pot on his head had him in an awkward position, especially with her leaning on it.
“My name is Gates de Wolfe,” he said evenly. “I serve the Earl of Trelystan.”
The young woman’s features rippled with confusion and, bewildered, she backed off the pressure on his head. “The Earl of Trelystan?” she repeated, mulling over his surprising statement. But when she realized she was no longer nearly lying on his head, she pushed her weight forward again, onto the pot, to keep him down. “Lies! You are not from Trelystan!”
The knight beneath her had, so far, made no move to fight back. He simply lay on the cold dirt floor and let her beat on him.
“I am, I swear this to you,” he said. “Lord de Lara has sent me but when we came upon St. Milburga’s, we walked right into a raid. We have managed to subdue them, Sister. You need not be afraid any longer.”
His explanation made a good deal of sense about the Welsh and a second group of armed men appearing in The Garth. Now the young woman was coming to understand somewhat, but she was still frightened and bewildered. In her confusion, she eased the pressure upon his head once more.
“Have they gone?” she asked. “The Welsh, I mean. Are they gone?”
Gates sensed that she had relaxed and he was quick to take advantage of it. He didn’t have time to fool around with a frightened nun. Quick as lightning, he pushed himself up, pushed her off, and flipped her over onto her back. Suddenly, he was on top of her with her arms pinned over her head with one hand. As his body weight and one hand kept her wrists immobile, he used his other hand to lift his visor and look at her.
The truth was that he had fully expected to see a nun beneath him – one who wore woolen clothing to chafe her skin and remind her of the vanity of the flesh, one who did not bathe regularly, and one who shaved her head to do away with worldly beauty. He knew she was young by the sound of her voice but other than the usual expectations, he had nothing beyond that.
Therefore, the fact that he had expected something unspectacular and crude somehow made the shock of the opposite that much stronger. Lifting his visor to gain a clear look at the nun who had assaulted him, he was literally jolted with surprise as his gaze fell upon beauty so angelic and unearthly that he could hardly believe what he was seeing. The woman had skin like cream, full and rosy lips, nearly black hair that was now covered with dirt from the floor of the kitchen, and the most brilliant blue eyes he had ever seen.
It was like finding a rose amongst sewage or a white dove amongst ravens. For such beauty to be found amongst the confines of a priory made no sense to him at all. Stunned, Gates had to literally catch his breath, make a conscious effort to swallow, and then resume breathing before venturing to speak.
“Who are you?” he finally asked, his voice sounding strangely raspy.
The young woman was frightened but trying not to show it. “Please,” she asked softly, “do not hurt me.”
Gates couldn’t help but watch her lush lips as she spoke, feeling oddly flushed at the sound of her whispery, sweet voice. “I told you that I would not harm you,” he said, lifting a dark eyebrow. “But you tried to take my head off. I want your vow that you will not try anything so foolish again if I release you. Do I have your promise, Sister?”
The young woman shook her head, her dark hair brushing against the dirt of the floor. “I am not a sister.”
Her reply did nothing to abate his puzzlement. “Then what are you?”
“A ward,” she said. “That is, I hope to be a novice very soon. I have lived here most of my life. You said that the Earl of Trelystan sent you?”
Gates nodded. “He did.”
“Prove this to me. What is his name?”
Her question confused him even more. “Why should I?”
“Because I have asked this of you,” she said, forcing her bravery. “You told me that I need not be afraid. If you want me to trust your word, then tell me his name.”
It was rather demanding but he almost found it amusing. Here she was, pinned beneath him, and in spite of her obvious fear, she was still prepared to make demands. He saw no harm in answering her.
“Jasper de Lara.”
The woman seemed to ease somewhat; he could feel her body relax beneath him, which would have been quite arousing under different circumstances.
“Aye, it is,” she finally said.
“And how do you know?”
“Because I am his daughter.”
Gates wasn’t even aware that his jaw dropped. I am his daughter. God’s Bones, was it even possible that in the great labyrinth of the cloister, he happened upon the one thing he was actually looking for? He could hardly believe his fortune.
When he and his men had ridden up to the priory swarming with Welsh, he truly hadn’t known if he’d find any female flesh still intact much less the exact lady he was looking for. But here she was and evidently unharmed. Still… as he gazed at the woman, a more selfish thought crossed his mind – was it actually possible that old Jasper de Lara bred such fineness out of his fat, worn body and this glorious creature was actually a de Lara? The mere thought boggled the mind.
But the fact remained that identity had been established. Without any reason to keep her pinned, Gates let go of the woman and climbed off of her.
“Lady Kathalin, I presume?”
Lady Kathalin Elizabeth du Bois de Lara slowly pushed herself up from the hard-packed earth, rubbing her elbow where she had bruised it when the big knight had flipped her onto her back.
“Aye,” she said. “Did my father send you with a message?”
Gates reached down to help her, assisting the woman to her feet, inspecting her closely as she stood up. She was somewhat tall for a woman, and rather slender, but now that he was seeing her in full view, he realized that he’d never seen such magnificence. He was quite in awe of her, struggling to keep his composure at the surprise of the entire situation.
“I will tell you why I have come, but first you will tell me something,” he said. “Were you injured in the raid? Are you sound and whole?”
Kathalin nodded. “I am well,” she said, unwilling to mention the bruised elbow she was still rubbing. “They did not hurt me but it would seem that you arrived just in time.”
As the volatile situation between them eased, Gates unlatched his helm and pushed it up off of his face so that the bottom of it rested on his forehead. He wiped at his sweaty, stubbled face.
“I would agree with that statement,” he said. “But what about the garrison at Ludlow Castle? They are not far away. Why did you not send word to them?”
Kathalin shook her head. “It is possible that word was sent,” she said. “I would not know. I have been in the kitchen since the assault began, trying to prevent the Welsh from stealing our food stores.”
That made some sense to Gates as he scratched at his neck. “I see,” he said. “I have heard of the Welsh raiding villages, but to raid a priory is bold even for them. How long have they been here?”
Kathalin shook her head, eyeing the very big knight. He had hazel-gold eyes, dark hair from what she could see of it tucked underneath his helm, and a granite-square jaw with a pronounced cleft in his chin. He was tall, too – quite tall, with shoulders nearly as wide as the door frame. And the hands he lifted to wipe his face were the size of trenchers. She’d never seen so handsome, nor so big, a man at close range and she had to admit that it was both frightening and strangely alluring. But she would never admit the last part, of course. Future nuns were not to be enticed by men, but if they were, this one might fit that bill.
Her heart fluttered a bit, giddy.
“Not long,” she replied belatedly to his question. “Mayhap less than an hour before you fortuitously arrived. You said that my father sent you? Do you come with a message?”
She was asking the question again, the one he’d failed to answer the first tim
e. Gates finished scratching his face and neck, pulling his helm down over his head again.
“The message I bring is that your father wants you returned home, Lady Kathalin,” he said, finding some pleasure in that statement because it would mean escorting the woman, and staying close to her, for the return journey. “Your mother and father have recalled you to be with them.”
Kathalin’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why?”
Gates shrugged. “This, I would not know,” he said, eyeing her, and in particular, her clothing. “You said that you were not a sister?”
Kathalin shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “The Mother Prioress sent my father a missive back in the summer asking his permission but my father has not yet answered. That is why I thought you had come bearing a message from him, an answer to the Mother Prioress’ query. But instead, he sends you to bring me back to Trelystan?”
Gates nodded. “Your parents are wintering at Hyssington Castle, my lady,” he said, addressing her properly now that he knew, much to his relief, that she was not yet a nun. “If you will gather your possessions, we must return immediately.”
Kathalin’s furrowed brow turned into a full-blown frown. “Why?” she asked, exasperation in her tone. “This is my home, Sir Knight. I do not wish to return to my parents.”
Gates hoped he wasn’t going to have a problem with her. The last thing he wanted to do was carry her, kicking and screaming, out of the priory in his quest to carry out his orders.
“You will forgive me, my lady, for suggesting that your concerns are something you must discuss with your father,” he said. “I am only the messenger. I have my orders and I would ask politely that you help me to complete them.”
Kathalin eyed the enormous man, her first reaction one of refusal. However, she suspected that refusal would not be well met and she didn’t want to find herself bound and gagged, thrown across the back of his horse for transport to her family’s home. Although Gates de Wolfe seemed polite and had not been aggressive towards her even when she was beating him in the head with her pot, she was fairly certain that she didn’t want to provoke him. It would not end well, for either one of them. Therefore, she took a step back from him, away from arm’s reach.
Dark Destroyer Page 4
