LADY EVER AFTER: A Medieval Time Travel Romance (Beyond Time Book 2)

by Tamara Leigh

  She shook her head, but she could not shake loose her body’s betrayal.

  “Curse you, Gilchrist!” she whispered. He had set out to seduce her, and had the sensations roused in pressing her beyond a kiss not made her feel as if she were drowning—water closing over her head and pouring into her lungs—and had he not wished it was another woman he held, she might have made a trollop of herself.

  Knowing Hildegard would have slapped her to the floor for such behavior, she berated herself until she was nearly convinced she had so disliked Gilchrist’s touch he would have had to ravish her to have her.

  He is no ravisher, a voice whispered.

  “He is a Yorkist!” she countered and, feeling the pinch of the drawstring that had allowed her to keep her men’s breeches from falling down around her ankles, was reminded she had further reason to hate Gilchrist. Had he not intercepted her, she would now be doing her duty to King Henry.

  Anger and frustration expanding her chest, she returned to her stomach, loosed a sob into her pillow, and promised herself she would reach the storeroom on the morrow.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The winch room was silent. A tomb for those who had fought to hold Strivling.

  Collier’s throbbing arm reminding him he had also shed blood here, he looked to the fallen men. In this, the fifteenth century was little different from his own—men who gave their lives for another’s gain. Though Edward’s claim to the throne was stronger than Henry’s, and the former was worthier of ruling the realm, this was a waste of life.

  Locating the sword where he had dropped it yesterday, he strode to the winch and bent. It was his blood on the blade rather than Walther’s, but was it the same sword he had displayed on his mantel all these years? He lifted it toward the light.

  He knew by heart its slender blade, the Latin inscription beneath the cross guard proclaiming it indomitable, the hand-and-a-half grip, and the heavy pommel.

  He slid it beneath his belt, then picked his way over the bodies on the stairs. As he stepped out into the first light of day, a group of soldiers approached and entered the gatehouse he had exited. Under Montagu’s orders, they were to remove the dead, Strivling’s to be tossed in a communal grave, Montagu’s given proper burial.

  Laughter returned his attention to the gatehouse, and he saw two soldiers carry out one of the guards his ancestor had slain in the dungeon. Had they already brought out Severn?

  “Gilchrist!” Stride brisk, Edmund advanced. “That is the one you have chosen?”

  Collier glanced at the sword. “It is.”

  “My friend, you have simple tastes.” Edmund shrugged. “But that is not all bad.”

  Simple tastes. If his ancestor could sample the wines in Collier’s cellar and see the fine suits lining his closet, he would revise his opinion.

  “Come,” Edmund said, “we must prepare you.”

  Hair dark as sable in the sun, shoulders appearing broad enough to carry a world of worries on them, Gilchrist knelt before Montagu to receive the collée that would bestow knighthood.

  And Catherine was made to witness it. From the base of the keep’s steps, she had stood through Montagu’s presentation of Edmund Morrow as the new Lord of Strivling, followed by the oath of fealty, which Strivling’s men had no choice but to bestow. Then Montagu had awarded coin to men who had proven themselves valuable during the siege, Rudd Walther among them. And now the dubbing ceremony.

  Hating Montagu for forcing her to be present and Gilchrist for what he had done to her last eve, Catherine watched as Edward’s man lifted his sword.

  Gilchrist being the last of three to be knighted, all fell silent as they waited to see if so large a man would fall beneath the blow as those before him had done.

  He would, she told herself. Only one truly worthy of knighthood could hold against the vicious slap of Montagu’s sword. And Gilchrist was the least worthy of all.

  The flat of Montagu’s sword struck him hard against the neck, but though he jerked, he remained kneeling. Amid enthusiastic shouts, he met her gaze. And smiled.

  Blackguard! she seethed. Despicable…vile…wretched!

  “Arise, Sir Collier,” Montagu commanded.

  Sir, indeed! Never would she title him that. Even were he crowned king, he would be no more than a knave to her.

  Who saved your life, reminded the voice she did not wish between her ears.

  Injured arm slung against his abdomen, Gilchrist strode to where those knighted before him awaited the ceremony’s closing words.

  As Montagu began his oration, Catherine considered the men elevated to knighthood. Whereas their weapons had previously been ordinary, boots unadorned, and armor rent and rusted, they were now outfitted in the knightly raiments of war—swords, gilt spurs, and plates of shining armor which had surely belonged to Strivling’s fallen knights.

  A sickening in her belly for the dead whose possessions had been taken without twinge of conscience, a tear in her heart for her part in sending them to their deaths, she closed her eyes and prayed for their souls.

  Shouts of approval announcing the end of the ceremony returned her gaze to Gilchrist. As he parted from the others, the flash of light on steel moved her regard to the sword at his side. Though not as elaborate as those girded by the others, its distinctive blue-black hilt reminded her of the one she had wielded against Walther—and which Gilchrist had taken from her. Was it the same? If so, why had he chosen it over swords more befitting a knight?

  As warm as it was following what must have been the coldest day of spring, she huddled deeper into her mantle. The sooner she departed Strivling, the better. But there was something she must do first.

  “We ride within the hour,” Montagu shouted as he descended the steps ahead of his knights. Though it was usual for celebrations to follow a dubbing ceremony, he was too eager to be on his way to permit the indulgence.

  But what of the punishment promised her? When he had summoned her this morn, she had been certain it was with the intention of publicly humiliating her. Had he forgotten?

  Before she could slip away, he settled his gaze on her. “Patience, my lady,” he said. Then with a twisted smile, he struck out across the bailey.

  As the crowd around Collier disbanded, he watched Catherine stare after Montagu. Not until the king’s man passed over the drawbridge did she blink. Then, chin high, she turned and ascended to the hall.

  How long would she stay out of trouble? Though he had foiled her plans last night, he was certain she would try again.

  The side of his neck burning where Montagu had struck him, he probed the welt. It had hurt like the devil, but knowing Catherine watched, doubtless hoping he would fall, he had been determined to disappoint her.

  “Sir Collier!”

  He looked to Edmund. Earlier in the ceremony, it was he who had girded on Collier’s sword and attached the gilt spurs. Now he motioned Collier to follow.

  Collier drew abreast as his ancestor crossed over the inner drawbridge, and his first look at the destruction in the outer bailey made him falter.

  Where there had been buildings were only blackened remains. Scattered across the ground were pieces of chain mail and plate armor, broken arrows, crushed helmets, and pools of dark pitch. But most disturbing were patches of discolored dirt that marked where men had fallen.

  “’Tis a pity Lady Catherine did not surrender ere the outer bailey was taken,” Edmund said. “It shall require much labor and coin to set this aright.”

  Which he would pour into it, ensuring Strivling’s defenses were formidable again, this time under the Yorkist flag.

  “But does the king refuse me my due, it may not be my labor and coin that restores it.”

  Though Collier knew he should say nothing, he was moved to reassure this man who would one day produce children from whom Collier would descend. Ignoring the voice that reminded him this couldn’t be real, he said, “King Edward won’t refuse you.”

  Edmund’s eyebrows rose. “You thi
nk not?”

  “You are worthy, Edmund Morrow. He would be a fool to award Highchester to any other.”

  Edmund slapped Collier on the back. “I think we shall be great friends, Gilchrist.”

  Montagu’s shouted orders a beacon to his presence, Edmund and Collier followed his voice outside the castle walls to where the first of the siege had taken its toll on Strivling. The craggy land sloping down from the high point upon which the castle was erected was littered with much the same debris as that found in the outer bailey.

  Amid a tumult of preparations for departure—the loading of wagons and carts, downing of tents, and dismantling of siege engines—the king’s man moved.

  Edmund lengthened his stride. “My lord!”

  Montagu glanced over his shoulder but did not pause until he reached a train of carriages supporting cannon.

  Collier frowned. Not only had he seen no evidence of the use of artillery against Strivling, but history books on England’s civil war had stated that during the northern uprising cannon had been used only once. And that was against Bamburgh Castle.

  “’Tis good we made it to the winch room,” Edmund said, “else little would remain of it.”

  “The cannon,” Collier said.

  “Aye, Lord Montagu brought them in yestermorn whilst we escaped the pit. Had we not admitted him and his tunneling efforts failed to bring down the wall, he would have used them.”

  Edmund halted a short distance from where Montagu conversed with a handful of soldiers.

  Finally, the king’s man turned. “The cannons will follow,” he said and settled his gaze on Collier. “Are you prepared to hold Strivling until Morrow returns?”

  Hardly, but that was not the answer required of him. “I am.”

  “Good. I shall leave behind a contingent lest Lady Catherine is tempted to stir her people to revolt. They will take their orders from you.”

  Collier was relieved Catherine would remain, having feared her punishment would see her removed. “Yes, my lord.”

  “And Lady Catherine’s place?” Edmund asked with what seemed genuine concern. “What is it to be, my lord?”

  “’Tis that which I wish to discuss with you. I can think of no greater punishment than to wed her to the enemy, a man who will keep her busy with babes at her breast.”

  Alarm shot through Collier, and from Edmund’s stiffening, he was equally affected.

  “Who would this man be?” Edmund said.

  Montagu’s apologetic smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I am thinking you, Morrow. After all, ’tis Lady Catherine to whom these people are loyal. An alliance with her would strengthen your hold on Strivling.”

  Collier closed his hands into fists. Were this real as he was now set on believing, the marriage of Edmund and Catherine would twist time out of shape, preventing his ancestor from wedding the woman by whom succeeding generations were descended. Collier would not be born, meaning…

  “Not a prospect you welcome,” Montagu mused.

  Edmund sighed. “I must be honest, my lord. I do not.”

  “As it cannot be said Lady Catherine is uncomely, are you betrothed?”

  “Nay, my lord. But I was thinking to wed a woman more…agreeable.”

  Montagu laughed. “Lady Catherine is simply too long without a husband. A good bedding will bring her ’round.”

  His words were so offensive, Collier had to remind himself this was the fifteenth century when it was common for women to number among men’s possessions. Still, he longed for the satisfaction of slamming his knuckles into Montagu’s face.

  “With your permission, my lord,” Edmund said, “I decline.”

  “With my permission,” Montagu agreed.

  Deferentially, Edmund inclined his head.

  Montagu grunted. “I shall choose another.”

  Another enemy, Collier thought. One who would make her life miserable? Who would cause her to wish she had died in the winch room?

  He did not think beyond that last. Accepting responsibility for the life he had given back to her, determined to make it as palatable as possible, he said, “If it pleases you, Lord Montagu, I will marry Lady Catherine.”

  The man gave a bark of laughter. “You, Gilchrist?”

  “Yes, my lord. Though lowly born, now that you have bestowed knighthood on me—”

  “Lowly born!” Devilment lighting his eyes, Montagu looked Collier up and down. “Certes, fitting punishment. But can you tame the termagant?”

  Catherine submissive? Though he did not think it possible, nor would he wish it, the only way forward was to assure Montagu that Collier Gilchrist was the man for the job. “Yes, my lord. I can tame her.”

  Montagu grinned.

  “Catherine Algernon, you may approach.”

  Telling herself she was prepared for whatever punishment the devil meted out, Catherine stepped past the castle folk gathered in the hall and crossed toward the dais where Montagu stood. Gilchrist to the left of him, Morrow to the right, the king’s man moved his gaze over her.

  Would she be committed to the convent to live out the remainder of her life? Would her sentence be that of attainder, whereby she forfeited all civil rights? Or would Montagu make good his belief she was better dead?

  Whatever he decided, no satisfaction would she give him. She would accept her sentence without blink or startle, then set about thwarting him.

  She halted before the king’s man, who peered down at her from his elevated position.

  “You are accused of being a traitor to the crown, Lady Catherine. How do you answer to the charge?”

  Though she knew she should not challenge him, she said, “Is it King Henry who charges me or that one who but thinks himself king?”

  As the castle folk stirred uneasily, Montagu flexed his hands at his sides. “You are charged in the name of King Edward the fourth.”

  She dipped her head. “Then I am a traitor.”

  “Indeed. Know you the penalty for treason?”

  “Hanging, drawing, quartering.”

  “A painful and gruesome death. Thus, you will be grateful to know I am in a lenient mood.” He descended the dais and halted an arm’s reach from her. “After much consideration, I have determined you shall wed.”

  Barely keeping her vow to remain impassive, she said tightly, “That is to be my punishment?”

  His mouth shrugged. “’Tis whatever you make of it, my lady. As for what I make of it, ’tis but an alliance, uniting Lancastrian and Yorkist so these ravaged lands once more know peace and prosperity. A noble enterprise, do you not agree?”

  She did not. It was an attempt to grind her beneath a Yorkist’s heel…to make of her mere chattel…to fill her body with child after child so she had not enough breath to ever again rebel.

  She raised her chin. “You cannot force me to speak vows. The Church will not permit it.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Why would they not when the bride is willing?”

  “Never would I agree to wed a Yorkist!”

  He stepped forward and captured her chin. When she attempted to pull free, he gripped her so tightly she would not be surprised if she bruised. “You will wed whomever I choose, and other than to repeat vows, you will keep your mouth closed.”

  Despite her churning, Catherine felt a surge of anger that was not her own. Gaze drawn past Montagu, she located the source. Gilchrist—ire in his eyes and the fists at his sides.

  “Though that hag, Hildegard, raised you,” Montagu said, “you forget your true family.”

  And therein her defeat. As on the day past, he would use the threat of harm to others to control her.

  “Defy me,” he continued, “and I will see every one of them attainted. Outlawed. Their possessions seized, titles lost, lives reduced to less than villeins.”

  Catherine hardly knew her family. Since being sent to live at Strivling twelve years past, she had seen them sporadically—and only when one or more members called on Lord Somerton. But still she could no
t be the cause of their suffering.

  “Have they not already lost enough?” Montagu pressed.

  Hating that her life was not her own, she said, “Do I wed this Yorkist, will my family be allowed to remain at Irondale Castle?”

  “In residence only. If Sir Edmund is awarded the barony, he will surely wish to install one loyal to him.”

  She looked to Morrow. Was he the one Montagu intended her to wed? “It seems I am without choice.”

  He released her. “I give you until Sir Edmund returns from court to become accustomed to the idea, then you shall wed Sir Collier Gilchrist.”

  She startled. “Surely you jest. He is a—”

  “A commoner raised to nobility.” Montagu showed teeth. “Fitting, do you not think?”

  She swung her gaze to the man whose sharp gray eyes awaited hers. She who had been destined to wed the Baron of Highchester wed a landless knight? The man who had tried to seduce her last eve? Whose touch she detested?

  “Naught to say, Lady Catherine?”

  She looked back at Montagu. “Punishment, indeed.”

  He smiled, took her arm, and drew her onto the dais. “Sir Collier, I present your betrothed. May she grace your life for many years.”

  Gilchrist lifted her hand. “Lady Catherine.” He pressed his mouth to the backs of her fingers.

  Telling herself she was repulsed, she snatched her hand away and swung back to Montagu. “I do not have to like it, do I?”

  “That I do not require, my lady.”

  Of course not. The point of punishment was that it be as disagreeable as possible.

  Montagu stepped off the dais, followed by Morrow and Gilchrist, the latter striding past her without a glance in her direction. Doubtless, he was offended by her reaction, but that was good. Keep him angry and perhaps he would visit no more of his attentions on her.

  Shortly, the three men passed from the hall.

  Were it not for the castle folk who regarded her with doleful eyes, she would have sagged. Pressing her shoulders back, she said, “Return to your duties.”