Warrior's Lady

by Amanda Ashley

  My Lord Jarrett. He was a man who had always been accorded a great deal of honor and respect, not only because he was Lord of Greyebridge but because he was a hunter without equal, a man of insight and daring. His courage was well -known, his skill with a blade almost legendary. No one had dared cross him, or mock him, until the Pavilion…

  In the bowels of the Pavilion, he had learned that there were things far worse than enduring the pain of the flesh. Harder to bear than the torture he had been subjected to had been the contempt in the eyes of the men who had played the Games, the constant degradation of the whip, the humiliation of being shackled like a dog, the constant ridicule, the scorn, the jeers they had hurled at him.

  “Not so lofty now, my Lord,” they had cried as they forced him to his knees again and again.

  Almost as bad had been the taunts the Giants had hurled at him. Here’s your food, my Lord Jarrett,” they had sneered when they brought him his meals, meager as they were. “Sorry, we’re all out of silver trays and crystal goblets.”

  He felt Leyla’s hand tighten on his and he shook the memories away. What was past was past. It was time to look forward, not back.

  Filled with a sudden restless energy, he began to move through the castle, assessing what needed to be done, determining which tasks should be started immediately, which could wait.

  He sent the women to search the fields for whatever wild fruit or vegetables they might be able to find while he set several snares in the woods behind Greyebridge.

  The next few days passed swiftly. There was much to do and far too few hands to do it.

  Father Lamaan returned, bringing a ewe and a ram, apologizing profusely because he hadn’t been able to procure a cow.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, two heavily armed men rode into the courtyard.

  Leyla was sitting outside with Jarrett, watching as he fashioned a chair from a tree trunk, when the men rode up. Her first thought was to run, but Jarrett made no move to flee, nor did he reach for his sword. Instead, a slow smile spread over his face.

  “Dann! Paull! By thunder, it’s good to see you!”

  The two men dismounted and for the next few moments there was a lot of laughing and back-slapping.

  “What brings you here?” Jarrett asked at length. “I thought you were serving in the King’s army.”

  “A few of us managed to avoid being taken,” Dann answered. “We’ve been hiding out in the hills. Father Lamaan told us you were here. Can you use us?”

  “Indeed. Where are your families?”

  “In the hills also.”

  Jarrett shook his head, touched by their loyalty, by their unspoken belief in his innocence. He had been branded a traitor, accused of consorting with Aldanite spies. No one had come forward on his behalf. Rorke had claimed that the King refused to hear him, though Jarrett was beginning to wonder if Tyrell had ever been made aware of his arrest.

  He held out his hand, bidding Leyla to join him. “This is my wife, Leyla,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist.

  “My pleasure, my Lady.”

  “Welcome to Gweneth, my Lady.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, flattered by the admiration she saw in their eyes.

  “Come inside,” Jarrett invited. “Tannya will have food prepared.”

  Paull shook his head. “Our women will worry if we do not return home before dark. With your permission, we will return on the morrow.” He glanced around the courtyard. “We have a small herd of sheep. Some goats. A cow.”

  “Your generosity will not go unrewarded.”

  “It is not generosity, Milord,” Dann replied with a grin. “All wear the mark of Greyebridge Castle.”

  “How came you by them? My lands and livestock were forfeit to the Crown.”

  Paull’s pale-blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Would you believe they followed us into the hills?”

  “Followed you?”

  “Aye, Milord,” Dann said, stifling a grin. “It took but a rope and a firm hand. Until the morrow, then.”

  “Wait! What is the word in the village? Do the people think me guilty of treason?”

  “No, Milord. But they have been warned not to help you on pain of death. There are others from Greyebridge hiding in the hills. In time, they will come home.”

  “I cannot promise you safety if you stay,” Jarrett warned. “If Rorke learns of my presence here…” Jarrett shrugged. “Think on it carefully before you decide to return.”

  “Greyebridge is our home,” Dann replied. “And you are our Lord.” He bowed in Leyla’s direction. “Until the morrow, my Lady. My Lord Jarrett.”

  “Until the morrow,” Paull repeated.

  Jarrett draped his arm across Leyla’s shoulder as he watched the two men ride out of the courtyard. “I hope they do not regret their decision.” Jarrett let out a deep breath. “Tyrell should return to Heth soon. When he does, I’ll go to him and explain what happened.”

  “What if he won’t listen?”

  “He will,” Jarrett said emphatically.

  He kissed Leyla soundly, then reached for the ax he had dropped earlier. “It looks as though we will need many more chairs,” he said with a grin. “Go tell Sherriza that Dann and Paull are coming home.”

  The next few weeks were happy ones. Dann and Paull brought their families to the castle and the walls rang with the sound of children’s laughter. In a short time, the men built two tables and enough chairs to seat everyone. New wardrobes were constructed, new shelves and trunks made. Dann’s wife Sarrah spent hours beating the dust from tapestries and bed hangings. Paull’s wife Janna washed the floors and the windows. Tannya reigned in the kitchens, enlisting the help of the older children. Sherriza spent hours in the garden, planting, weeding, watering.

  Leyla found herself in charge of the house. She knew it was her right, her duty, but it did not come easily to her. She was not comfortable giving orders, settling disputes, planning menus. She felt as if she were usurping Sherriza’s place, but Jarrett’s mother insisted that was not the case. Leyla was Jarrett’s wife. As such, she was now the lady of the manor.

  Gradually, a few others returned to Greyebridge, renewing their allegiance to Jarrett. First, Harran, the cobbler; then Jorrad, the blacksmith; Terrek, the cooper. They brought their wives and families, their livestock.

  They brought news as well. Tyrell was marching toward Heth; Rorke had been called to Cornith to preside over a minor border dispute between two adjoining landholders.

  Jarrett breathed a sigh of relief. With Rorke at Cornith, there was nothing to fear, at least for the time being. It would give him time to get Greyebridge on its feet again before he left for Heth.

  And now Greyebridge Castle vibrated with life. Roosters announced the coming of dawn, the lowing of cattle and oxen could be heard, mingled with the sounds of sheep and horses.

  Soon, Greyebridge looked the way Leyla imagined it had before Jarrett’s arrest. New rushes covered the floors. The tapestries and hangings had all been aired and brushed clean. The mattresses had been turned, the bedding laundered.

  When Jarrett decided they deserved a holiday, she wholeheartedly agreed. They had worked hard for weeks. It was time to dance.

  The women immediately began cooking, and when Sherriza remarked that she had a taste for fresh pork, Jarrett decreed that she would have it.

  So it was that early on a clear summer morn he took up his bow and a quiver of arrows and went in search of game.

  He experienced a sense of peace as he prowled through the sun-dappled forest. As a boy, he had spent hours within the woodland, chasing rabbits and foxes and the other furry creatures that inhabited the timberland. As he grew older, he hunted the great gray stags and the wild pigs that were more vicious than any other beast of the forest.

  On silent feet, Jarrett made his way deeper into the woods, his eyes and ears attuned to each shifting shadow and sound. A change in the wind carried the heavy scent of the Sea of Darkness, located on th
e far side of the island, and with it came the heady fragrance of the wildflowers that grew in abundance along the shore.

  And then, ever so faintly, he caught the musky odor of a wild boar. Fitting an arrow to his bowstring, Jarrett moved through the woods, soundless as the sunlight.

  He found the boar sniffing around a rotten log, its long narrow snout rooting in the soft earth.

  Jarrett was taking aim when the island wind, always as unpredictable as a woman, shifted yet again, carrying his scent to the boar.

  The animal’s head came up with a jerk. Its little pig eyes searched the shadows as it sniffed the wind, and then, with a high-pitched squeal, it charged forward, its short stocky legs propelling it toward Jarrett with astonishing speed.

  Forcing himself to remain calm, Jarrett sighted down the long shaft, waiting until the last possible moment before he let the arrow fly.

  The shaft struck home, killing the animal almost instantly, though the boar’s momentum carried it another three yards before it skidded to a halt mere inches from Jarrett’s feet.

  Drawing his knife, he skinned the carcass, gutted it, and hung it from a tree. He would return later with a horse to carry the meat home.

  With his bow slung over his shoulder, he started for home, his mouth already watering. It had been almost a year since he’d had fresh meat of any kind, and his stomach growled as he envisioned the meals to come, succulent pork, stuffed sausage…

  It was near dusk when Greyebridge Castle came into view. Jarrett came to an abrupt halt as he reached the edge of the timberland, his gaze drawn to the red-and-black banner that hung upside down from the top of the west tower.

  It was a warning to stay away.

  Drawing his sword, Jarrett followed a narrow deer trail around the side of the hill to the front of the castle. Hunkering down behind a great clump of blue ferns, he stared at the scene before him. A dozen mounted men wearing the King’s colors waited near the drawbridge. He could see another dozen or so strung out on the bridge itself. No doubt there were more inside the keep.

  Melting into the gathering shadows of sunset, Jarrett made his way to the east side of the castle. A small boat waited there, hidden in a dense thicket.

  Sheathing his sword, he dragged the boat from cover and eased it into the moat. Praying that the ancient craft would stay afloat, he lowered himself into the boat and rowed across the narrow channel to a small opening cut into the castle wall, cleverly hidden by a tangled mass of water vines that grew up out of the moat, clinging precariously to the rough stones of Greyebridge.

  It was awkward, trying to keep the boat from capsizing while he pushed the vines aside, then levered himself out of the boat and into the opening.

  His hands were scraped and bloody by the time he managed to drag himself into the narrow passageway. On hands and knees, he made his way through the thick darkness, shaking off the memory of other dark places that had closed him in.

  There were two hundred hand-hewn stone stairs from the passageway to the fourth floor. He had counted them often in carefree days gone by. He counted them now. When he reached one hundred, he made a sharp right turn, then crawled quietly along the damp stone floor until he came to a narrow door which opened into the Great Hall. The door, known only to members of the family, had been designed and painted in such a way that it looked as though it were a part of the hunting scene that covered the entire north wall from floor to ceiling.

  Rising to his feet, Jarrett peered through a slit to the right of the door, his gut clenching at what he saw. Sherriza, Tannya, and Leyla stood in the center of the Hall surrounded by several of the King’s men, while the King’s brother-in-law asked questions, one after the other.

  Rorke! So much for the rumor that he had gone to Cornith.

  “Where is Jarrett?” Rorke asked brusquely. “We know he’s been here. He was seen in the village. Has he left? Did he speak with anyone other than family while he was here? Have any Aldanites been seen in the area?”

  Sherriza shook her head after each question, her expression placid.

  “He managed to escape from the Pavilion, something that’s never been done before. Do you know who helped him? Do you know where he might have gone?” Again Sherriza shook her head. “The punishment for refusing to answer the King’s questions is imprisonment in the King’s Tower,” Rorke said, his anger rising. “Do not think you will be spared because you are related to the Lord High Ruler of Aldane.” Sherriza looked unimpressed by the threat. Tannya shivered, visibly shaken by the mere mention of the Tower. Her brother had died within its walls.

  Leyla remained unmoving, her hands clasped together, her chin thrust forward in unspoken defiance. The King’s brother-in-law was tall and lean, with dark-brown hair, a full beard, black eyes, and a nose as thin as a blade. A hideous scar bisected his left cheek. She wondered if he could tell how frightened she really was.

  Rorke’s narrow-eyed gaze lingered on each woman’s face. “You will all be sent to the King’s Tower if you do not tell me what I wish to know.”

  “We know nothing,” Sherriza replied calmly. “You may search the castle. You may threaten us. You may flog us. But there is nothing we can tell you except that he is not here.”

  Rorke fingered the scar on his cheek as he contemplated flogging Jarrett’s women. It would give him pleasure to do so, simply because he knew it would cause Jarrett a great deal of pain. Jarrett, who had been his childhood friend.

  They had played together, learned to ride together, hunted in the king’s forest together. As they grew older, Rorke began to realize that he would always be second best. When they went wenching and drinking together, Jarrett always managed to end up with the most desirable woman.

  They had trained together, but it had been Jarrett who excelled with the sword, the crossbow, the lance. Always, it had been Jarrett who had been the better horseman, the wiser strategist, the most skilled at hand-to-hand fighting. Jarrett who might have replaced Rorke in the old King’s affections if he hadn’t been sent away for disobedience. It was Jarrett’s one weakness, his refusal to obey orders without question, to be humble in the face of authority, to be silent in the face of discipline, deserved or not.

  When the old king died, his brother Tyrell had inherited the throne. With a great deal of cunning and patience, Rorke had gained Tyrell’s confidence. He had courted Tyrell’s sister Darrla earnestly and unceasingly, not because he loved her, but because he coveted the throne, and an alliance with the royal house put him that much closer to the King.

  Rorke stared at the young woman with the silver hair. She was a distant cousin, Sherriza had said. A dreamy child who had been sent to Greyebridge to put distance between her and an unwanted suitor. Perhaps, when this trouble with Jarrett was over, he would get better acquainted with the girl.

  From his hiding place behind the wall, Jarrett listened to every word. Hands curled into tight fists, he glared at Rorke. It was all he could do to keep from bolting through the door and wrapping his hands around the man’s throat. But killing the King’s brother-in-law would accomplish nothing but his own death and that of those he loved.

  “I know he has been here,” Rorke remarked. “I think perhaps we will await his return. Taark, take the Lady Sherriza and the young one to the dungeon and lock them up. You, Tannya, prepare food for my regiment at once. Gayd, go outside and tell the men we’ll be staying the night. Yorri, Parre, see to the first watch.”

  Jarrett swore under his breath as three of the King’s men escorted Leyla and his mother from the hall.

  The dungeon was dark, damp and cold. Sherriza was locked in the cell nearest the door. Leyla was thrust into a cubicle at the far end of the corridor. After making sure the locks were secure, the men left, taking the only source of light with them.

  Leyla shuddered as the moldy hay piled in the corner of her cell began to rustle. She screamed as something scurried over her foot. “Sherriza!”

  “I’m here, child. Do not be afraid.”


  “Something touched me.”

  “A rat, most likely.”

  “A rat.” Leyla shuddered with revulsion. “Sherriza.” Leyla’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Jarrett is near. I could feel his presence in the hall.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope he has the good sense to stay away.”

  “When have I ever shown good sense, my mother?”

  “Jeri!” Sherriza exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Did you expect me to leave you in Rorke’s hands? Where are the others? Paull and Dann, Jorrad…”

  “Paull and Jorrad were killed trying to defend the castle. Dann and several other men were badly wounded.”

  Jarrett swore under his breath, berating himself for thinking that he could return to Greyebridge and make everything right again. He never should have let his people come home. They’d been safe before, living in the hills. Now the survivors were Rorke’s prisoners.

  “You must go, Jeri,” Sherriza urged. “If they find you, they’ll take you to the Tower, or worse, back to the Pavilion.”

  “I know.” He took his mother’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly before he continued down the corridor to the last cell. “Leyla?” He could scarcely see her for the darkness.

  “Here. Oh, Jarrett, it was awful. Our people fought so hard, but they were badly outnumbered. So many were hurt and there was nothing I could do to help them.”

  The anguish and regret in her voice tore at his heart. But for him, she could have healed the wounds of his people. But for him, she wouldn’t be here now. But for him, his men would still be alive. The fact that he had warned them of the danger lessened his guilt not at all. They were his people, his responsibility, and he had failed them.