Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  “Berwick has stood on this promontory in one form or another since ancient times,” Nicholas said quietly just above her ear. “It has never been taken, not by Romans, Saxons, Vikings, or Normans. Nor will it be taken by the likes of Robert Walford or any army he dares to bring against us. The only approach is from the South, and we’re well defended from that direction as well.”

  The view to the South revealed not only the massive amount of open space within both the inner and outer baileys, but also Berwick’s sweeping dominance over two valleys falling away below it. In one valley, off in the distance beyond the forest and a large, boggy marsh, was Berwick Village, the charming high street lined with its neat little houses and shops. At the far end of the village, the buildings on Weaver’s Lane were just barely visible beneath the dense branches of the oak trees sheltering it. In the summertime, they would be completely invisible beneath the canopy of green leaves. Off to the right of the village sat the Lowden’s gracious brick manor house, with its outbuildings, surrounded by formal gardens and a neatly kept park.

  In the other valley were fields, ponds, meadows, and forested knolls, dotted with small stone houses and bound by a crazy-quilt of fields stitched together with stone walls—the farms that sustained life both in the village and in the Castle proper. Off in the distance, beyond the enclosed fields swept the moors, their wild, ragged edges sweeping right up to the foothills of the distant mountains. The moors were dotted here and there with what, at first, looked like clouds moving across the ground—until Kathryn realized they were the herds of sheep that brought the castle its wealth and prosperity.

  The one road leading through the village to the main gate of the castle followed along a ridge between the two valleys. It was a minor branch off the heavily traveled, main road from London to York.

  “As you can see, my love,” Nicholas said softly, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her, “Berwick is in an ideal location strategically. A besieging army will have its work cut out for it. There is only the one road.”

  “What will happen to the village? And all the people?” Kathryn asked worriedly. “Oh, Nicholas, the weavers—all their equipment—their priceless looms—”

  “They will all be safe within the walls. Have you not been hearing all that hammering down below? Dozens of carpenters and masons have been building temporary housing for everyone. We’ve been planning this ever since we learned who had attacked, because we knew it would ultimately come to this. The villagers have been bringing their belongings up here for days now. Soon wagons will begin bringing the looms and the last of the weavers’ equipment to their new atelier. Trust me, beloved, we have left naught to chance.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She squeezed his hand, her relief evident in both her voice and the sudden sag of her shoulders.

  “I told you I had a plan,” he said gently.

  “Aye, you did. I guess I just never realized until this very minute what a remarkable man I married. I will never doubt you again.” She leaned back against him, content just to stand there in his arms and look out over the battlements. Until she noticed a low-lying, dusty-looking cloud just beyond the village. A cloud that was definitely moving this way. “Nicholas—” She lifted her arm and pointed to it. “What is that?” Shading her eyes, she squinted, trying to make it out. “Nicholas, it’s people!” she exclaimed. “A lot of people!” She straightened, panic suddenly thickening her voice. “Nicholas! It cannot be Walford already, can it?”

  Nicholas smiled, giving her arm a reassuring pat. “Nay, beloved, never fear. Walford is on his way back to Pemberton. He’s still gathering his army. Our spies will alert us the instant he leaves. That,” he gestured toward the distant cloud, “if I am not gravely mistaken, would be chaos.”

  “Chaos?” she frowned.

  “In the form of Clan McGarrity—Sorcha’s family, and our reinforcements.” Turning her in his arms, he bent his head and kissed her gently on the mouth. “Things are about to get very interesting, beloved. Are you ready for chaos?”

  She laughed. “As ready as anyone ever is for chaos,” she replied.

  “Then let us go and greet our guests.” Rolf strode over to the iron trap door and lifted it with a squealing protest from the hinges. Retrieving the lamp he’d left on the top step, Nicholas handed it to Kathryn and told her to go first, he and Rolf following her down the steep, shallow steps, letting the door fall shut behind them. Once the daylight was obliterated, she paused briefly to allow her eyes to become accustomed to the stygian gloom, relieved only by the feeble glow of the lantern.

  As they crossed the rush-covered floor of the great hall, Kathryn had to run to keep up with them. She couldn’t hide her anticipation. What, exactly, she wondered, did chaos look like? She could hardly wait to greet the first guests to her new home.

  Sir John Lowden and Roger de Vries, as well as Thomas and Sorcha Parsons and their six girls, were already waiting at the inner gate as Nicholas, Rolf, and Kathryn arrived. Kathryn was out of breath, pressing her hand against the stitch in her side. The portcullis was rising, the grinding noise of the great gears precluding any attempt at conversation. It wasn’t long before a mottled gray charger came clattering through the gate, bearing Ewan McGarrity, Sorcha’s father.

  He was a short, stocky, bearded man dressed in a kilt, with a bearskin cape around his shoulders. Fur leggings tied with crisscrossed leather strips covered his calves. Giving a shout when he saw his beloved daughter standing there, he jumped off his horse before it had even come to a stop and engulfed Sorcha in an enormous hug, lifting her completely off the ground and swinging her around.

  As she was released, laughing and staggering, Nicholas introduced Kathryn, who was treated to the same bone-crushing, dizzying embrace. This exuberant greeting was repeated thirteen times in all, as each of Sorcha’s brawny brothers, uncles and cousins followed suit.

  Breathless, dazed, and lightheaded, Kathryn yelped as two huge hands came around her from behind, swinging her up and out of the way, as nearly two dozen shaggy deer hounds came bounding through the gate, barking and lunging and jumping up on everyone until the McGarrity men were finally able to get them under some semblance of control. Only then did Rolf put her back down to stand directly in front of him.

  Struggling for breath, Kathryn leaned gratefully back against Rolf’s hard body, letting his hands on her shoulders shift her from side to side as needed to keep her from being knocked over by exuberant hounds or stepped on by heavy boots or horses’ hooves. She watched, bemused, as the small army of McGarrity knights poured through the gate, filling the courtyard like the rising waters of the incoming tide.

  She was amazed at just how much space two hundred armed knights, along with their horses, squires, pages, armor, and baggage took up.

  It was obvious that they were Highlanders. They were all dressed in an endless variety of kilts, plaids, odd pieces of fur and leather, and assorted bits of armor. Their quilted gambesons were, for the most part, stained with soot, sweat, and rust from their chain mail. Some of them wore dented helmets, most were bare-headed. To a man, they all had full beards and long, scraggly hair, adorned with an assortment of braids and beaded leather dangles. Many had painted their faces with stripes, chevrons, and other symbols, whose significance was known only to the wearers. They were the fiercest, scariest-looking lot Kathryn had ever seen.

  Behind the knights came the carts and wagons, some piled high with helmets, shields, battle axes, maces, chain mail, and pieces of plate armor, others carrying sacks of grain and casks of ale.

  “Ah, Nicky, me lad,” Ewan boomed out in a hearty voice, striding past Kathryn toward a cart that was just coming through the gate, bearing three large stag carcasses. Just in time, Rolf moved her aside to prevent the stocky Scotsman from stepping on her foot. “Our hunters brought these three down in the forest, not above an hour ago. “’Tis venison we’ll be having for supper tonight, eh, me boy? Our gift to you and your lovely bride.”

 
“Thank you, my friend,” Nicholas replied, “but tonight’s meal is already being prepared. We’ll have this fine venison for dinner tomorrow.” He refrained from mentioning that the aforementioned forest was on Berwick property. Therefore, he was being “gifted” with his own deer.

  The deer were hauled off the cart and quickly field-dressed right there on the spot, before being hefted onto brawny shoulders and carried toward the kitchen.

  The last conveyances to come through the gate were two large fully enclosed wagons, each pulled by a pair of yoked oxen. As everyone watched, the leather side curtains on the first wagon were slowly rolled up, revealing Sorcha’s mother and three sisters, with their seven children ranging in age from two months to twelve years.

  Kathryn could barely hide her astonishment. What on earth were they doing here? Did they not realize that Berwick was about to be attacked? It was as if they had thought they were coming to a clan gathering instead of an armed siege. The second wagon contained the chambermaids, wet nurse, nannies, and other female servants. They even brought their own cook!

  The doors opened and the women stepped out, swirling around Sorcha like eddies in a tidal pool. At Sorcha’s introduction, Kathryn greeted each of them warmly, welcoming them to Berwick and thanking them all for coming to their aid. She then stood and watched as the frighteningly efficient Sir John Lowden and Roger de Vries took charge, dispatching all the provisions and foodstuffs to their proper storage venues. Rolf turned Kathryn back over to Nicholas, as he and Thomas led the knights and their horses off to their quarters in the garrison. Sorcha led her family members and their servants to the wattle-and-daub guest house, adjacent to the Parsons’ own brick dwelling.

  In less than an hour, the bailey was completely cleared, leaving Nicholas and Kathryn alone to continue their tour. She followed him up the steps to the ramparts along the castle’s southern inner wall, where a few armed sentries were patrolling, then up some more steps until they were in the allure, high above the gate house.

  The vast area between the inner wall and the outer curtain wall was busy with all sorts of activity. To the right lay the tiltyard, the stables, the enormous parade grounds, and the barracks where all of Nicholas’s knights and squires were housed. Kathryn could see them helping to unsaddle the Scottish knights’ horses and going in and out of the barracks and stables. The air rang with masculine shouts, stomping hooves and the clanking of tack and armor. The sound of hammering was particularly loud here, as the carpenters were frantically putting the finishing touches on the spectators’ pavilions for tomorrow’s archery contest. Some squires were rolling barrels noisily back and forth along the length of the list.

  Kathryn watched them curiously. “What are they doing?” she asked.

  “They’re de-rusting their chain mail,” Nicholas answered. “They fill the barrels halfway with a mixture of sand and vinegar. Then the chain mail is thrown in, and the rolling sand scours off all the rust. It works out quite well.”

  To the left was an extensive fruit orchard at the far end of a broad meadow, part of which had been fenced in and was now filling up with more McGarrity horses. Some of the animals were standing quietly in the enormous fish pond slaking their thirst and soothing their hot, tired hooves. Grooms were busy removing saddles, currying tangles from manes and tails and spreading hay along the ground for the tired animals to eat. Against the eastern wall were the granary, the brewery and the mill, which was in constant use day and night, grinding various grains into flour for the castle’s enormous daily consumption of bread.

  Cone-shaped tents sprang up on every available patch of open ground to serve as temporary accommodations for some of the Scottish knights, as well as for the archers for tomorrow’s contests, many of whom had already arrived and were getting ready to prepare their evening meals. The smoke from their cook fires rose so thickly in the air it stung Kathryn’s eyes, making them water.

  “Notice the people lined up at the barbican gate,” Nicholas said, pointing to the relatively small fortified enclosure extending out onto the flat hilltop beyond the castle’s outer gate. It had its own ramparts and corner towers that served as a first line of defense in case of enemy attack. “With so many strangers coming to the archery contest, everyone approaching the castle is being stopped, searched, and disarmed before being allowed through the gate. Even the archers’ quivers of arrows are being taken from them and marked, to be returned to them at the beginning of tomorrow’s contests. And no one is being allowed through the inner gate. ’Tis just an extra precaution we are taking to ensure everyone’s safety.”

  Nicholas and Kathryn stood side by side looking out over the rolling countryside beyond the steep walls. In spite of the rawness of the day, it was obvious that winter was beginning to lose its grip on the land. The first tiny buds of spring added a faint yellowish-green tinge to the bare, drooping branches of the willows and beeches.

  The thought that a besieging army would soon be camped out along the valley, ravaging this peaceful, bucolic countryside was obscene. And that it would be an Englishman leading it, pitting countrymen against countrymen, was even more obscene.

  “Mayhap he won’t come,” Kathryn whispered, her voice filled with the quiet desperation of doomed hope. “Mayhap he will think better of it and change his mind.”

  “He’ll come.” Nicholas’s tone was grim. “He has no choice. By ignoring his arrest warrants, I have openly challenged his authority. I have humiliated him by stripping him of his dignity and sending him home with his tail tucked between his legs. He’ll come, all right. But, methinks he will not like it much when he gets here.” He turned his head and grinned down at her. “I fear he will find Berwick hospitality a bit lacking.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she accused mildly.

  “Aye, I am,” he admitted, his grin broadening.

  “This isn’t a game, Nicholas. Walford’s dangerous.”

  “As am I, my love. As am I. And I’m going to win. We have enough provisions stockpiled to last us over a year. We have hired an extra blacksmith to keep all the horses shod and the weapons sharp. We’ve hired extra bowyers, fletchers, carpenters. All my sheep are being moved to safe pasturage on lands belonging to the Earls of Lyndsley and Fairbourne, where Walford cannot touch them. We are definitely ready for him. More than ready.

  “Besides, Walford’s not the only man in England with an army. I have one of my own. One that will move into place behind him, cutting him off from being re-supplied. He will very quickly be forced to surrender. Hopefully that will happen before any blood is shed—even if it turns out to be his blood. And, truth be told, I’d much prefer it to be his than mine.”

  Turning, he put his arms around her, then brushed his lips across each of her smooth, cold cheeks. “Do you feel better about things now, beloved? Can you rest more easily now?”

  “Aye, my love. I’m sorry I worried so.”

  He studied her face, then drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a heavy sigh before saying, “One more thing.”

  The sudden seriousness of his voice had her frowning up at him. “What?”

  “News has come to me that your father has been arrested. He’s been taken to Newgate Prison.”

  Kathryn’s mouth opened and closed, but she said naught. Owen Weston had never been much of a father. But he’d never done anything horrible enough to earn him a cell in Newgate, either.

  “If he’s still alive when this is all over, I’ll see to it he’s released,” Nicholas promised solemnly. “You need not see him or have aught to do with him, if that is your wish. But at least you’ll know he’s free.”

  “Until he loses another wager,” Kathryn replied bitterly. “At least, the next time he can’t sell me.”

  “Nor Carrolton Castle,” Nicholas said. “That is your dowry. I’ll settle your father in one of my smaller homes with one of my trusted stewards to keep an eye on him. He’ll soon learn his gambling days are behind him.”

  A sudden g
ust of wind lifted the flap of her mantle, reaching inside with icy fingers. She shivered in his arms.

  Nicholas kissed her. “Come, beloved, let us go back inside. I told William to have a hot bath ready upon our return. That should warm you up nicely.”

  * * * *

  Nicholas was busy drying Kathryn after their bath when Rolf entered the solar and methodically began removing all his weapons. Kathryn could catch glimpses of him moving beyond the filmy curtains that separated the new bathing alcove from the rest of the chamber. Then he just as methodically began undressing. It was when he turned to hang his clothes on a peg that Kathryn got her first look at the inked mark that rose from his waist to cover most of his back, up to his shoulder blades. He turned and climbed the four steps up to the tub.

  “Your back!” she exclaimed, grasping his arm and circling around behind him. “What is this on your back? Oh, Rolf, it’s beautiful!”

  “’Tis a Viking dragon ship under full sail. When a warrior is slain, his body is placed on such a ship, which is then set on fire and pushed out to sea. ’Tis the only way he can enter Valhalla and be with the gods.” He turned and reached for her, enfolding her naked body within the heat of his embrace. He smelled of leather and smoke, horses and man. “I am going to wash the smell of the stable from my body,” he said, releasing her and holding her by the arms as Nicholas, now dry himself, stepped up behind her, sliding his hands around her rib cage to cup her breasts from beneath, a move which lifted them up and out. Murmuring soft love words, he left a trail of hot kisses along her face, her neck, and her arms.

  Rolf stood in the tub, rinsing the worst of the dust and dirt from his body before quickly drying himself and descending the steps of the bathing alcove to drop to his knees in front of Kathryn who, by this time, was moaning softly. He looked up at her with a wicked grin. A grin that had her belly clenching and hot cream rushing from her core, dripping down the insides of her thighs.