Devil's Knight

by Geri Borcz

  Mistrust rode a two-way path.

  She'd given Rhys few reasons to take her into his confidence. But to trust him with her heart meant lowering her defenses and leaving herself open to untold misery. He needed her for naught beyond her land and a tumble or two.

  Did she possess the courage to risk the hurt?

  Her feet moved of their own accord, her mind lost in disorienting thoughts. In an unfocused daze, she climbed the stairs to the third floor.

  Quietly, Juliana readied for bed, her actions borne of habit apart from her distracted mind. She stripped her gown, sponged off, and brushed her hair, all the while mulling over Lady Angharad's words.

  Choose.

  Juliana had arrived at a crossroads.

  The time for running from unpleasantness was ended. Now, she must shed her childish willfullness and step into her future.

  Her hand stilled, suspending the brush in mid-air, as one thought collided with shock and fear. Aye, she'd come full circle.

  Juliana realized, finally, she must choose.

  * * *

  Matins. The midnight hour when elves romped amongst the sleeping world. Fanciful tales of magic remembered, absorbed by a lad at the knee of his raven-haired mother. The man now rued his Welsh heritage; he hadn't inherited the magic gift to change things to his design.

  Silvered light from a crescent moon threw into shadow the smudges under Rhys's eyes. He waved back the squire hovering at his left side, then clutched the saddle pommel with a tired hand and slowed his mount to a walk. His exhausted men behind him followed suit, aware the respite benefitted the horses before they pushed them onward.

  "David refused to listen to reason?" Alain asked, urging his horse even with his lord.

  "He suggested I return her to her brother," Rhys said, anger vibrating in his quiet voice. "I'd hoped to gain Juliana's consent to wed with me, before it came to this."

  "Why? You needn't bother."

  Rhys swallowed a short laugh of self-mockery. Why, indeed? How could he explain to his friend the tangled skein of his emotions? Emotions balled up for so long, that now as the threads unraveled, he felt powerless to weave them into sense.

  "Isobel's mother and I were strangers. Polite, but strangers nonetheless. And with the folly of youth, I thought receiving an unobtrusive wife was all I needed. But now I want more, Alain. More than the first bloom of lust, more than an efficient chatelaine to grace my hall."

  Was he falling in love with Juliana? Why did she haunt him? Why did he crave her wit and honesty, or admire her courage? Or test her strong will? Or yearn to burn to cinders in her fire?

  Jesu, he wanted her. Nay, perhaps, he'd loved her from the first.

  He'd hoped Juliana would willingly come to him, but those words died in his throat. Rhys couldn't admit that weakness to his man.

  "By her choice in wedding me," he said instead, "I would have gained, by proxy, Baldwin's consent to our alliance and left Roger no claim to carry to the Scots king or left any cause to rouse Henry's ire."

  "Then let us hope Earl William fares better with Henry."

  Rhys snorted.

  "Unless my uncle is suddenly gifted with the eloquence of angels, I have little doubt but that Henry will concur. He needs peace along the border and amongst his barons, and my wants be damned."

  "So wed with her and be done."

  "She'd sooner wed a viper."

  "Then what do you plan?"

  A muscle tightened in Rhys's jaw as he grit his teeth. "I'll claim her by right of combat."

  Alain settled fully, his saddle leather protesting a heavier burden than just its rider's weight.

  "Aye, well, Roger will gladly agree to that. He won't pass up the opportunity to skewer you."

  Rhys kept his own counsel.

  The seconds stretched, then Alain grunted. "What foolishness is this?"

  "I've never been more serious," Rhys said. "A decisive fight, just Roger and me. We're evenly matched. Having fostered with him stands me in good stead. I, more than any other, know his weaknesses. And once 'tis done, none will dispute my claim to Juliana and her dowry."

  "Once 'tis done," Alain countered with a snort, "we'll take days to find all the pieces to see you decently buried."

  Rhys rallied a chuckle. "I'll try not to make it too onerous a task for you."

  "Fatigue has addled yer wits." Alain shook his head in longsuffering patience. "Rest. Talk with Lord Richard."

  "I won't change my mind. I knew what I was about at the start."

  "It may look different on the morrow."

  Rhys squeezed his eyes closed. Behind his lids rose an image of thick, sable hair, flashing eyes, and an undefeatable spirit, all attached to the face and body of an angel. The perfect mate for a black demon.

  Except... she didn't care for him.

  That knowledge twisted like a knife into his gut.

  "Nay on the morrow, I'll still have two kings after my head, an irate brother out for my blood, and a mad Scotsman loose like the plague."

  Marveling at the insanity that spurred his unyielding desire to win Juliana, Rhys goaded his horse to a faster pace. His men followed suit.

  In the next heartbeat, the elusive answer came to him--to grow into old age with the kind of love and friendship that his father and Lady Angharad enjoyed, a mutual love borne of their passion, trust, and devotion to each other. All other problems aside, the greatest challenge lay ahead of him.

  That of convincing Juliana he meant to see this end come true with her at his side.

  How would she receive him? Still angry? No matter. The day was not yet won. Rhys wanted to see her, hear her voice, chase away the world in her fiery comfort.

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER 17

  Juliana mounted the uneven battlement steps, taking care not to trip on her borrowed green gown. A hunk of barley bread filled one palm, a flagon of ale to wash it down balanced in the other, and three tankards rested in the crook of her arm.

  Mass usually came before the day's first meal, but Adington lacked a resident priest. On a pang of guilt, she wondered how the good Father, who presided over the village, would take the news of his ruined church when he returned.

  She glanced up to the portion of wall that topped the stairs to see Oliver and two other archers standing the dawn watch at a waist high opening.

  "Ho, what's this?" Oliver said, spinning on his spurred heel to see who approached from behind.

  "You've been here since last eve," Juliana said, and climbed the last step to the parapet.

  "Ana, 'tis no place for a woman," he said.

  "I thought you might be hungry." As proof, she offered him the bread she used as an excuse to seek him out. "I brought enough to share."

  The two men bobbed a wordless greeting to her and murmured their thanks, while relieving her of their portion of the plain fare.

  "Oliver, have you a moment? I thought we'd take this time for our talk."

  She shot a meaningful glance to the archers, who then moved a discreet distance down the wall to enjoy their meal.

  Oliver smiled his thanks and worked the tight helm off his head. "Only a moment, then you'll hie back to the safety of the keep. Wheesh, prayers are answered." He shook his head like a dog, ruffling the matted hair. "I'm starving and dry as peat."

  After filling his tankard, she placed the flagon on the end of the stone ledge. The sky turning from charcoal gray to vivid blue seemed the perfect backdrop to share her plan.

  "I've done little beyond puzzling over a solution to our situation," she said.

  Light glinted in his wheaten strands and sparked off the metal rim, before he stuck the headgear under one arm.

  "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts," he drawled, accepting the ale first.

  "You have a suspicious mind."

  "With reason. Whenever you use that tone of voice, I know 'twill bode ill for me." He gulped two swallows, then lowered his drink. "I need another hand. Here, hold this." He shoved his armed crossbow int
o Juliana's empty hand and also relieved her of the remaining bread. "I'm listening. Out with it."

  Juliana glanced away, nervous to meet his inquiring stare. In the distance, squawking birds shot from the tree tops and soared into the sky like a sooty cloud.

  "When Rhys returns, I mean to bargain for our futures," she said. "There's still Roger to consider, and though it pains my heart, I see no way to avoid a breach."

  "My Lord Rhys can handle him, Ana. What really concerns you?"

  "I won't stomach another forced marriage," she admitted, balancing the familiar weapon in her hands.

  "God's teeth," Oliver blurted out on a spray of crumbs. He worked to swallow the dry bread. "Hervey was a dull-witted clod whom you intimidated, and I doubt Iain would have proven a much better husband. Though I do believe he, at least, liked you."

  Her automatic protest died in her throat. In less favorable terms, Oliver echoed Agnes's blunt opinion.

  Any man paled next to Rhys.

  With no choice but to hold the bow while Oliver ate, Juliana glanced down to the weapon and nibbled her lip. Did this forswear her vow? Nay, she decided, a weapon thrust into her hand differed from deliberately picking one up.

  "Cousin," Oliver continued, dragging his hand across his mouth. "Your father did his best, but he did you a disservice in leaving you in Roger's care. Of necessity, you've become a strong woman, and whether you agree or nay, you need a stronger man. You won't run circles around Adington." Oliver chuckled. "Nay, Ana, from what I've witnessed of the demon lord, he'll match you head for head. And of a certainty, you won't be bored."

  "And from where does all this wisdom spring?"

  "'Tis time to grow up, I guess," Oliver said with an awkward shrug. "So, what is this bargain you wish to strike?"

  "It seems of import to Rhys that I consent to wed him."

  Oliver nodded. "I daresay Adington's an honorable man. He won't rape and wed his way to your land. Then, too, no doubt a willing wife is easier to stomach."

  Her cousin's graphic outline of less pleasant circumstances sent queasy spasms traveling her spine.

  "I've pondered the wisdom in conceding to his wishes, Oliver, but with conditions."

  "Must you be difficult, Ana? Wed the man, and have done. Don't rile his evil temper with demands."

  Evil temper? Dare she put that belief to the test?

  "'Tis easy for you to say when I'm the one faced with a barren future otherwise. You heard him, he has no need of me."

  At the time, she'd thought Rhys referred to a mistress. Now that she knew a mistress didn't exist, her insecurities latched onto the only other possible meaning.

  "So, that's what you truly fear? That Adington'll tire of you and push you aside?"

  She bowed her head and whispered, "I couldn't bear it."

  "Sweet, he is not Hervey. The means to change that lies within your hands, if you but used it." Oliver waved his cup to indicate her grimace. "Lady Isobel gave me a dark look much like that. God's teeth, do not influence that sweet child to your barbaric manners."

  This observation startled Juliana. Her absent gaze swung toward the bare land fronting the castle. Oh, not Oliver's feigned concern that she might tarnish Isobel's character. Nay, instead, could Rhys truly see Juliana as woman enough to bind his interest?

  "You'll do well as Isobel's mother," Oliver added. "You two look enough alike. Must be the similar coloring."

  No longer listening, Juliana's attention riveted on a faraway movement. Her eyes narrowed against the day's brightness, then widened. To her shock, a handful of mounted riders broke from the dense cover of trees and frantically raced ahead of a horde of men who swarmed after them.

  One mounted madman wielded his sword in a wide arc against his opponents, sunlight glinting off the blade in blinding shards. Men fell beneath the sharp edged strokes like new grass before a sickle. Then, he kept his horse between those who galloped ahead of him and the footman to the rear who stopped to notch their arrows.

  What fool chanced that suicidal sprint to the gates? Though distance blurred clear vision, she hazarded a guess. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach.

  "Rhys!" She screamed over Oliver's surprised bellow and the dull clank of tankard, flagon, and helm bouncing to the walkway.

  An instant later, she reacted. Juliana whipped around to the wall's opening, and through a blood-red haze, aimed the cocked weapon in her hand.

  More than ever, this one time, she needed skill.

  She glanced past the racing knights. Then her gaze sped past the one man she desired above all else. She leveled her quarrel on the errant bowman who nipped at his heels.

  A half-second later, she let the deadly bolt fly.

  Juliana's quarrel led the way for others that joined in seeking a fleshy target, as Adington's archers sprang into action and fired and reloaded. Faraway screams pierced the warming air and mingled with a returning hail of arrows that blanketed those along the wall.

  Oliver threw his weight into Juliana and thrust her to safety behind a merlon, while missiles whizzed past them. At the same time, he wrenched the crossbow from her clenched hands. With amazing speed and a distinct lack of ineptness, he loaded another bolt from the leather quiver hung at his waist and fired into the aerial onslaught.

  Jolted back to sanity by the abrupt contact with the hard stone, Juliana flattened her back against the rough surface. Tremors rocked her body with the realization of what she'd done.

  The blinding rage that had flared to life sputtered and died, and from the ashes rose an exhilaration that tingled in every nerve ending. No longer a powerless bystander in the bid to claim her future, she'd just taken the first step in breaching the ring of fire that threatened to consume her spirit.

  Sharp edges bit into her flesh through the gown's flimsy material, but she dared not move to ease the painful pressure. She glimpsed the mailed men at her sides answer the sudden attack, and through the melee of sounds assaulting her ears, picked out the creak and boom of the lowered drawbridge.

  Scant moments later, where villagers had abandoned their vulnerable positions in the bailey, she witnessed the battle-worn riders halt.

  All but one.

  Her blood congealed to ice.

  Had she missed the bowman?

  Or had she hit Rhys?

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER 18

  Terror pinned Juliana against the wall. The skirmish played out around her—archers fired, shouts rent the air, feet pounded stone—yet, an unnatural quiet enveloped her spirit.

  She waited, unable to turn and glance over the wall for fear of the grisly scene that would shatter her fragile balance. In the courtyard below came a blur of dismounting riders.

  Then there!—from under the walkway beneath her feet, another flash shot forward and joined the chaos.

  One last mailed hulk rode into her view and hauled on his destrier's reins amidst a choking dust cloud. With shuddering gasps, she gulped in air and expelled it in strangled mirth, while trembling to her slippers with hysterical joy.

  Rhys. He was safe. By God's mercy, her quarrel had hit its target and ended the bowman's threat against him.

  Emotions crashed into her chest, each vying for an outlet with overwhelming intensity. Her hand flew to her mouth to choke back the glad sounds, and she sobbed with giddy relief.

  "The lout," she muttered. "The big, beautiful lout. He could have been killed. Holy Mary and Joseph, the man tempts death too often."

  Daring and heroic, her Rhys. Foolhardy and near fatal, too. Juliana swiped at the moistness gathered in the corners of her eyes and she sucked in calming breaths. Like a sleep walker rudely awakened, she regained awareness of the dangerous area in which she tarried.

  "I've aged a decade," she said to Oliver.

  'Twas commendable for a leader to see to his men, but they existed for his protection, not the other way around. Oh, she'd lend Rhys an ear full about how much she disliked his irksome trait, just as soon as she plotted a way t
o sneak down from the battlement wall and inch into the safety of the keep without catching his notice.

  "An-na," Oliver shouted over his shoulder without ceasing to fire. "For the love of God, leave. My Lord Richard will blister our ears, but your Rhys will be fit to chew iron when he catches sight of you."

  Aye, exhibiting a warrior image was a poor way to convince a man of her womanly charms, and thus, implement her plan to a successful end.

  But Juliana worried much too late.

  Rhys gave her no time to consider an escape route. No time to examine her burgeoning feelings beyond her happiness at seeing him return whole. In what seemed to Juliana the blink of an eye, he appeared before her startled gaze.

  Nothing of mercy reflected in his black and tired countenance.

  He whipped his hand up, and strong fingers clamped around her arm, yanking her down, hard. On a gasp of surprise, she plunged into a crouch, while Rhys shielded her with his body.

  "Keep your head down."

  Pressed between the scratchy wall and his body, with his deep breaths caressing her neck and cheek, Juliana relished the closeness. She snuggled like a kitten against a favorite cushion and enjoyed the warm feeling of security.

  "I missed you," she whispered.

  "Gloating ill becomes you, my lady," he snarled.

  That puzzled. But the steel edging his words killed any further thoughts of conversation that Juliana entertained. Time enough later to plead herself out of this scrape.