Tall, Dark, and Medieval

by Barbara Devlin

  “Yea, my lady.” The lancer signaled a collective. “Guard the gates.”

  The cold December wind cut through her wool cloak, as she studied the full moon, which cast shadows framed in silvery light on the grounds. Clutching the folds about her, she whisked aside a stray tendril and tucked it behind her ear. As always, her thoughts turned to Arucard. So many nights, she enjoyed the view with her husband after they made love, but nature’s beauty inspired naught more than sorrow, as she yearned for him.

  Juraj de Mravec gained his saddle, as did her father, and she mustered a smile. Beneath the weight of his stare, unusual in its intensity, she shivered. When he dipped his chin, she made to bid him farewell—just as two soldiers grabbed her.

  “What art thou doing? Release me.” Kicking and flailing against her would-be captors, she fought hard, dragging her feet in the dirt. “I order thee to set me free, as I am Lady Isolde of Chichester Castle.”

  “Turn loose my lady, thou villain.” Margery scratched an assaulter, but he struck her in the mouth, and she dropped, unmoving, on her face.

  “Bind her,” Father shouted.

  “Prithee, no.” As the soldier wound rope about her wrists, Isolde wrestled with her assailant. “And what hast thou done to Margery?”

  Then the Chichester garrison responded with full weaponry, and the Rochester guards squared off, in a show of hostility. When Grimbaud advanced, two foes struck him down, but they did not kill him. Isotta screamed and ran to her beau, and the Chichesters responded with unveiled anger. The situation rapidly spun out of control, especially when her father issued a dire request.

  “Light the torches.” The earl raised his right hand. “Once we have evacuated, we shall set fire to the castle and burn its inhabitants herein.”

  “Wait.” After her attacker shoved her atop a horse, Isolde realized resistance constituted an exercise in futility, and she would not allow her people to sacrifice themselves, in vain. “If I promise to go with thee willingly, and make no attempt at escape, wilt thou spare Chichester Castle and its occupants?”

  “Thou dost bargain on behalf of thy citizenry?” Her father sneered and motioned to his soldiers. “Thou hast more fortitude than I anticipated, though thou should expend thy worry for thy fate. Mayhap thou art of my loins, after all.”

  “Pray, Father.” Tasked with the safety of those left in her care, she would not surrender without ensuring their protection. “Let them live, as they art innocent, and I will cause thee no trouble. I will do as thou dost ask, and they will not hinder thee.” She scanned the crowd to impress upon them her pact with the devil. “Thou hast my word, as chatelaine.”

  With a clenched fist pressed to their chest, and sober expressions, the Chichester men nodded their assent, as the women wept. Slowly, her guards retreated, and two maids rushed to help Margery.

  “Very well.” Father turned his mount, and the dragoons steered for the barbican. “Rochesters, let us ride.”

  With a final survey of her home, which she vowed to see again, Isolde heeled the flanks of her horse and charged into the indigo blanket of night and equally dark uncertainty.

  #

  The road manifested a lethal combination of muddy ruts and furrows, which slowed the trip to Chichester. But Arucard pushed hard, leaving behind His Majesty and the royal troops, as the caravan traveled at a snail’s pace. As a wicked December storm dumped snow on the terrain, the treacherous conditions forced him to break his journey at night, or risk a lame horse, much to his frustration.

  A howling gale battered his tent, as he sat upright in his makeshift bed. Light from a single brazier cast a saffron glow about the small accommodation, and he stretched. On the other side of the temporary dwelling, Demetrius propped on an elbow.

  “Canst thou not sleep, either?” Arucard rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Nay.” Demetrius fluffed and resituated his pillow. “I am hungry, as the boiled chicken scarcely dented my empty belly.”

  “Wherefore am I not surprised?” He might have laughed, were he not so worried. It was an awesome responsibility to care for another, and the sacrament tasked him with Isolde’s welfare. Yet he could not shake the feeling that he had failed her, and he would not yield until he held her in his arms. “Would that the sky was clear and the moon high, as I would wake our brothers and drive to Sussex, without stopping.”

  “Ah, how I miss Lady Isolde’s brewets.” Even in the dimness, Arucard noted Demetrius’s flinch. “Sorry, brother. I should have said naught.”

  “Never should I have left her.” All manner of torment haunted his conscience, as his nightmares taunted him with images of Isolde in her father’s evil clutch. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the unease that had settled as a lead ball in belly. And a singular refrain played a disturbing melody, as she invoked his name, again and again, as a plea for salvation, which he vowed to answer. “Never should I have abandoned her, after she begged me to take her with me.”

  “At the peril of my own hide, might I suggest thou art weaving unsustainable conclusions based on irrational fears motivated by thy passionate attachment, as thou didst not abandon her? Thou didst act in her best interest; given the battlefield is no place for a woman, which thou didst correctly assert. We have no idea what Rochester plans, and our information regarding his land thefts is vague. Thither is no reason to believe he intends to harm his daughter.” Demetrius arched a brow. “Mayhap I will try to rest.”

  “Nay, my friend.” He needed to talk to someone, needed to share the burden he carried; else he might devolve into insanity. “Something is not right, and I cannot explain my logic, as I understand it not. But a deep sense of foreboding chills me to the bone, and I know Isolde is in trouble as sure as I know my name. Do not ask me how I can be certain, as I cannot interpret my instincts—but thou canst attest to the fact that in such instances I am never wrong.”

  For a long while, Demetrius said naught, and Arucard presumed his brother slept.

  “Arucard, we should get an early start in the morrow.” With that, Demetrius rolled onto his side.

  “A rider approaches.” The call came from outside, as Morgan stood watch.

  In seconds, Arucard leaped from his straw-stuffed mattress, tugged on his boots, grabbed his cloak, and plunged into the tempest, followed by Demetrius.

  “Thither who goes?” He shielded his eyes and just made out the profile of a horse. “Art thou sure the saddle is occupied, as I see no one.”

  “I am not sure.” Morgan tried but failed to relight his torch in the dwindling campfire. “But I would rather be safe than sorry.”

  The poor beast, with an accumulation of froth about its mouth, trotted into their midst, and it was then Arucard spied the slumped body. As Geoffrey grabbed the reins, Aristide and Demetrius retrieved the unknown person. Together, they carried their uninvited guest into Arucard’s tent, whither they put him in Demetrius’s bed.

  When they removed the traveler’s hat, Arucard’s gut clenched. “God’s bones, it is Pellier.”

  “Fetch some water.” Demetrius stripped off the soaked cloak and tunic. “Arucard, give me thy blanket.”

  “Of course.” As he tucked the cover about his marshalsea, Arucard studied Pellier’s face.

  Gaunt in appearance, his flesh showed signs of severe weathering, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. Arucard wet a cloth and wiped Pellier’s forehead and cheeks, and the marshalsea groaned.

  For the next few hours, Arucard anchored at his friend’s side, and Pellier’s incoherent babble interspersed with a mention of Isolde stimulated intense anxiety and endless queries for which Arucard had no answer. Why had his friend abandoned his post and left Chichester? What manner of distress sent Pellier in pursuit of Arucard? As the first hint of dawn streaked the sky in pale yellow, Pellier choked and sputtered.

  “Easy, sirrah.” Supporting his friend’s head, Arucard held a cup of water to Pellier’s mouth. “Sip slowly.”

  “Christ’s blood,
art thou trying to kill me?” With a grimace, Pellier coughed and opened his eyes. “That is Adam’s ale. Have ye no beer?”

  “I would say he is fine.” Demetrius chuckled.

  After a few minutes, Pellier eased upright and scratched his chin. As he made to speak, he sneezed and blew his nose on his tunic. “Sir, I have searched for ye, high and low.”

  “To what purpose?” Arucard braced himself. “Is it Isolde?”

  “Aye, sir. Her ladyship asks me to tell ye that she needs ye.” Pellier met Arucard’s stare. “Lord Rochester hath taken Chichester Castle.”

  #

  When Father forced her to journey with him, Isolde wondered about his motives, as thither remained no love lost between them, and he had made no secret of his utter disdain for her. But the answer to her quandary became evident, when he proclaimed his plan to prosecute her for crimes against the citizenry. In short, she was to shoulder the blame for her sire’s conspiracy, thereby positioning him as Winchester’s savior.

  The hasty trial, a mockery of justice, had lasted two days in Winchester, with her father acting as judge and jury. Pronounced guilty of conspiring with her husband to steal lands, using the counterfeit burgage plots, Isolde was sentenced to a public lashing. Given she had endured and survived countless such whippings, she accepted the decision with calm confidence. But what irritated her was Father’s outright refusal to grant her the opportunity to plead her innocence before a crowd that viewed her as the enemy. And neither was she permitted to defend Arucard.

  As she knelt in the corner of her small room, which featured a single bed, a table, a matched set of chairs, and a washstand, she leaned against the wall. A seemingly harmless drain functioned as a herald, of sorts, as it carried her father’s voice, along with that of Juraj de Mravec, from the chamber below, revealing the details of their nefarious plans.

  “Dost thou verily intend to beat thy daughter?” Juraj inquired. “As I would be willing to enter into a marriage contract to solidify our connections. Thither is no need for violence.”

  The very suggestion struck terror in her heart, as she had a husband she dearly loved.

  “Hast thou lost thy mind?” Father scoffed. “She must be punished for our ruse to succeed. If we art to place blame on the Crown, undermine the King’s authority, and win the support of the citizenry, we must sacrifice Isolde on the altar of rebellion. Trust me, the people want blood, and blood we will give them.”

  She expected no less from her father.

  “How wilt thou defend against Sir Arucard?”

  “Given our most recent communication from thy spies reports he is currently imprisoned by the King, thanks to our fortuitous letter, which inflamed His Majesty’s temper, we need not fear de Villiers.”

  In that moment, Isolde bowed her head, bit her lip, shivered, and let the tears flow. First, she wept for Arucard, as she loved him, yet she had not told him so. Second, while Father’s intense dislike was naught new, never had she imagined he would subject her husband to such brutality, in his illegitimate quest for power. In short, thither was no limit to his degeneracy.

  “And what of the Lancasters?”

  “They will support my son’s ascendance to the throne, and William rallies the troops. Which begs the question, whither art thy men?”

  So Father had involved her brother in the dastardly plot. Was there no end to his depravity? Would he not be satisfied until he destroyed their entire family?

  “Given the weather hath turned, their departure was delayed. If thou wilt but wait another day or two, my soldiers should arrive to reinforce thy position.”

  “Thou hast thy requisite postponement but no more, as I am anxious to secure Winchester for our mighty cause and celebrate my son’s ascendance to the throne.”

  The remainder of their conversation degenerated into a vulgar discussion of women, so Isolde moved to stand by the window, which overlooked the town square. At center, a platform held a large stake, and she shuddered, as she envisioned what her father intended. Then she studied the night sky and hugged herself.

  Nay, she would not yield, and Arucard would not fall. He was a good man, and the King would see that. His Majesty had to see that.

  “Oh, Arucard, whither art thou?” She sniffed and then vowed to fight. “Thou wilt come for me. I believe in thee, and I will do so until I die.”

  ARUCARD

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  All was not as he had anticipated, and something was most definitely wrong as he soared over the verge. Evidence of the recent occupation surrounded Chichester Castle, as Arucard noted the remnants of numerous campfires dotting the meadow. That he expected. What surprised him was the absence of Lord Rochester’s troops, as it was obvious the earl had departed.

  Was it as Demetrius claimed? Had Arucard worried for naught? But when both drawbridges lowered before he could offer the secret phrase, which his lady had suggested, permitting a hasty entrance, and the head of the guard rushed forth, Arucard feared the worst.

  As he drew rein in the courtyard, he searched for the one person he most wanted to welcome him home, but his wife remained conspicuously absent. When he spied Margery, and noted the black bruise to her left eye, his anxiety grew by leaps and bounds.

  “Whither is Isolde?” He jumped from the saddle, grabbed Margery, and shook her. “Whither is my wife?”

  “Gone, sir.” With tears welling, Margery peered over his shoulder and shrieked. “Pellier.”

  “Woman, what happened to thy face?” The marshalsea dismounted and ran to the steward. “Who injured thee, as I will slit the bastard’s throat?”

  “Oh, thou art my funny little man, and I have missed thy wit. I am grateful thou art well.” Then, to his surprise, Margery kissed Pellier, and Arucard envied their reunion. “Come inside, and I will tell thee everything.”

  While his staff celebrated the Brethren’s return, Arucard navigated the crowd gathered to receive him and walked to his chambers, as he was in no mood to socialize. In the solar, the sitting room had been tidied, but the psalter he gifted his bride on their wedding night sat on the table near the windows, whither she often read. As he opened the double-door portal to the inner sanctum, he found Isolde’s robe draped across the foot of the bed they shared.

  Perched at the edge of the mattress, he caressed the linen garment and then held it to his nose. Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes and invoked her sweet face, framed by her shimmering smile. Then her pleas to journey with him filled his ears, as a morbid refrain, and his heart broke. Never should he have abandoned her.

  “Lord Rochester took my lady almost a sennight ago, sir. He declared an intent to journey to Winchester, but that is all I know, and we have had no word of her, since.” With an expression of sorrow, Margery loomed in the entry, and Pellier stood to her right. “The earl threatened to burn the castle, so Lady Isolde made a pact with the devil, himself, to spare us.”

  “Of course, she did.” Oh, he could just imagine his valorous heroine, with her blazing green gaze, her fists clenched at her sides, and her adorable chin thrust high. With care, he spread her robe whither she left it, as she would want it when he brought her back. He would not permit himself to think otherwise. “Pellier, have fresh horses saddled for the Brethren, and pack our armor.”

  Pellier clenched his fists. “Sir, I would go with ye, as—”

  “Thou wilt remain hither, and guard this castle with thy life.” Arucard flipped through his belongings and located a clean tunic. After washing his face, he shaved. “How is Grimbaud?”

  “Better, sir. But he blames himself for what happened.” Margery collected his soiled garment. “Shall I bring thy meal hither? Or wilt thou dine in the great hall?”

  “I want no food.” He tossed aside the towel and strode into the narrow passage. “And it is not his fault, as Rochester would have found a way to invade Chichester Castle, which might have resulted in costly damage to the curtain walls and rendered us vulnerable to additional attacks.”


  Various torments plagued his thoughts, as he pondered the tortures the earl might inflict on Isolde. Of course, naught would have happened to her, had he abided her pleas and taken her with him. While he had sought to protect her, he had, in fact, delivered her unto the earl and very real danger. That was a grave mistake he would never repeat.

  “Brother, Pellier tells me thou dost intend to ride for Winchester, now.” With hands on hips, Demetrius frowned. “We have been traveling for weeks, and thou art not thyself. Rest and eat. Can we not take the day to recover, else thou mayest not be fit to rescue Lady Isolde?”

  In the vast meeting room, his fellow knights gathered around a large table. For a hairsbreadth, he considered Demetrius’s suggestion, as the men looked to Arucard for guidance. But then he recalled her scarred flesh, and he shook his head. “Isolde may not have another day.”

  #

  A multitude of angry Winchester citizens lined the street and filled the square, bombarding her with all manner of spoiled food and calling for her death, as Isolde marched to the platform, and the miserable journey seemed never-ending. With her wrists bound, she lost her balance, as a soldier shoved her up the steps, and she tripped and fell to her knees.

  “Beat her.”

  “Make her pay.”

  “Burn her.”

  Clothed only in her linen chemise, hose, and leather calf boots, she shivered as the icy December wind chilled her to the marrow, and her teeth chattered. In truth, she also shuddered in stark fear. While she refused to cry, terror struck at her heart, as never had she suffered the unrelenting hatred, however displaced, of so many.