Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “A man who does not see the goodness within him, even though ’tis there.”

  Tye shook his head. “Listen to what you are saying!”

  “I know exactly what I am saying.” Conviction blazed in her damp eyes. “You have a choice, Tye. The most difficult choice you may ever make, but a choice all the same.”

  “Why do I want any other choice than to slay my sire?” he sneered.

  Her gaze filled with grudging resignation. Tears trailed down her face. “Mayhap you should consider the answer to that question.”

  He yanked his hands free from hers and stood. Anger and confusion churned within him as he stared into the fire. Heat rolled off the blaze, as intense as the inferno seething within him.

  Claire rose from the chair and touched his arm. He stiffened, aflame with anguish and the soul-deep need to take her in his arms. “Tye—”

  “You can have the bed,” he said. “Get some sleep. I will post additional guards at the door tonight, and I will wake you before dawn.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Lord Delwyn de Lysonne is waiting outside the gatehouse, milord.”

  Holding the solar door open a crack, Tye rubbed his neck to relieve a cramp from lying on the floor by the hearth. “Now? ’Tis not yet dawn.”

  “His horse is drawing a small cart. He said he has a delivery of goods for the castle. He also asked after Lady Sevalliere.”

  Tye scowled. Disquiet wove through him, along with a hot spark of jealousy that the lad had asked about Claire.

  Tye glanced at her, sitting in the chair by the fire as though she was still bound, as he’d ordered when the knock had rattled the door. Judging by her expression, she was equally surprised by Delwyn’s visit.

  As he faced the mercenary outside again, one of the four men he’d ordered to guard the solar until he could get Claire to the cellar, Tye’s scowl deepened. Delwyn’s arrival could be naught of consequence. Or it could be a trap, part of a greater plan of de Lanceau’s to gain entry to the keep.

  “I will be down in a moment,” Tye said. “Wake the rest of the mercenaries.”

  The man bowed and strode away.

  As soon as the door shut, Claire leapt to her feet. “What is Delwyn doing here again?”

  “I do not know. I was about to ask you that question.”

  “Why would I know? Mayhap he has another letter from my sister?”

  Fresh jealousy gnawed at Tye as he crossed the chamber, snatched up his chain mail, and pulled it on over the clothes he’d slept in.

  “You are readying for battle. Do you suspect Delwyn is trying to trick you?”

  “I do not know yet what to expect. I will not be caught unawares.”

  Tye donned his cloak, gloves, and sword belt. She watched, her gaze akin to her hand trailing over his bare skin, making him acutely aware of her on a basic physical level. He heard the shallow rasp of her breathing, smelled the honeyed fragrance clinging to her skin, turned and saw her fingers fluttering at her throat.

  She hadn’t slept much last night; as he’d lain by the fire, trying to slumber, he’d heard her restless sighs and frequent turning. He couldn’t help but wonder: Had she worried for herself, or for him?

  Tye gathered the rest of his knives and shoved them into a leather bag. As he secured the bag to his sword belt, he saw the bee in amber glinting on the trestle table. Hellfire, he felt just like that bee, trapped by his life, never able to break free. He snatched up the amber and shoved it into the bag.

  “Delwyn is a fine young man,” Claire said. “I am certain he has a good reason for his visit this morn.”

  Tye bit back a less-than-admirable retort. How he longed to walk over to her, pull her into his arms, and to kiss her for good luck. To kiss her just because he wanted to. To kiss her because…he couldn’t imagine living without her. He wanted her. He needed her. She’d brought light into his miserable, worthless life, and he never wanted their days together to end.

  During the night, he’d thought of many things he wanted to say to her, words he’d never said to any other woman. I love you, Claire. I will always love you, my beautiful warrior Kitten.

  Yet, to say such things when he was letting her go would be unfair.

  “Stay here,” he told her. “The guards will not let anyone in. I will fetch you as soon as I can.”

  “All right.” In her voice, he heard understanding of all they’d discussed last night. When he came to get her, ’twould be to take her and Mary to the secret tunnel. “Be careful,” she added softly, as he strode to the doors.

  Be careful. His hand on the door handle, he paused. It seemed she did care for him, at least somewhat. Yet, he still had no right to hold her to him.

  He quit the chamber and made his way to the bailey, where servants had begun their morning duties. A hard frost coated the ground. Snow still lingered in places; some of the higher mounds of it hadn’t completely melted and were crusted with ice. He strode to the outside stairs leading up to the battlements above the gatehouse. A group of mercenaries had congregated there, their breaths emerging as white puffs in the air.

  “Milord,” they said in greeting.

  Tye looked down at the opposite bank. Delwyn sat on his horse that was harnessed to a wooden cart. Tye recognized the style of wagon; one of the local woodworkers made them for transporting goods from the market.

  “Good morn,” Delwyn called up to him.

  “Good morn,” Tye answered. While small, the canvas-covered cart was big enough to conceal two men. “What brings you here today?”

  The lad gestured to the cart. “I am honored to bring you fresh herbs, potent herbal tonics, and healing goods from my lord’s own supply. When I told him of the sickness at Wode, he insisted that I bring these to you as soon as possible. He wishes dear Lady Brackendale a swift recovery.”

  “’Tis kind of your lord,” Tye said, “but—”

  “Is the sickness waning, or is it still spreading?”

  “’Tis contained. For now.”

  “Is Lady Sevalliere all right?”

  “Aye,” Tye bit out.

  Relief touched the lad’s features. “I am glad. The goods I bring will help ease the discomfort of those who are unwell. Of course, Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau has been informed of the situation.”

  The mercenaries muttered to one another.

  “De Lanceau?” A jolt rippled through Tye. At last, word of his sire. Braden hadn’t returned to Wode yet—whatever was delaying him?—and Tye needed current news of his father’s whereabouts.

  “My lord is a close ally of de Lanceau’s,” Delwyn went on. “When my lord heard about the sickness, he immediately sent a missive to de Lanceau. His lordship said to do whatever was needed to help Lady Brackendale, since she belongs to his family.”

  Tye nodded, acknowledging the lad’s explanation. While Delwyn told a good tale, Tye sensed there was far more that the lad wasn’t revealing. Moving closer to the edge of the battlement, he forced a genial smile and said, “You seem well informed about Lord de Lanceau.”

  Delwyn grinned proudly. “He is a great man. I have met him on several occasions. ’Tis an honor to…”

  As the lad chattered on, Tye mulled his options. While there was a risk in opening the gates to Delwyn, the cart could only hold two men at most. If indeed Delwyn was trying to deceive Tye, his mercenaries could easily subdue a pair of unwanted guests.

  Moreover, the lad could be useful. The better informed Tye was, the better prepared he’d be for his sire’s assault. Once Delwyn ran out of information to divulge, he could be held for ransom; he obviously belonged to a wealthy family and was valued by his lord, so there was an excellent chance of earning a sizable ransom payment.

  The lad’s horse snorted and stamped a front hoof, as if sensing his master’s impatience. “Well? Will you let me in?” Delwyn’s face reddened with irritation. “I cannot return to my lord with a full cart. Not when these supplies were sent as a gesture of good will.”
/>   “Lower the drawbridge,” Tye called to the men in the gatehouse.

  With the metallic squeal of chains, the massive platform began to lower over the moat.

  Tye summoned over two of the mercenaries. “You and I will meet him. He is to go no farther than the drawbridge until we have seen what is in the cart. If he does not bring herbs and potions, you will take him captive and escort him to the great hall, to await my questioning.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  Tye hurried down the stairs to the bailey, the hired thugs close behind.

  In the shadows of the gatehouse, Tye waited until the drawbridge hit ground level. The portcullis slowly rose. Delwyn nudged his horse forward and the cart rumbled onto the platform.

  Striding ahead of Tye, the two thugs drew their swords. Once the portcullis had risen to waist level, they ducked underneath and approached the cart.

  At the mercenaries’ approach, Delwyn halted his mount. “What is the meaning of—?”

  “Forgive my men,” Tye said. “’Tis merely a precaution, but they must check the cart.”

  Delwyn hesitated, but then said, “Of course.”

  One of the thugs reached for the edge of the canvas.

  The tarp flew up, falling over to cover the mercenaries’ heads as two men in chain mail armor jumped up in the back of the cart. Shock whipped through Tye, for he recognized them instantly: his half-brother, Edouard, his sire’s son and heir; and Aldwin, one of his father’s most loyal warriors and the finest crossbowman in the land.

  Ah, God, he’d been tricked. Tricked!

  Cursing, Tye drew his sword. “Kill them! Lower the portcullis!” he bellowed. His voice was drowned by the cries from the battlements above.

  Tipping his blond head back, Aldwin put a horn to his lips and blew a single, loud note.

  An answering blast sounded from a short distance away.

  Arrows flew down from the battlements above, several embedding in the side of the cart with a thud, thud, thud. Still entangled in the tarp, the two mercenaries staggered backward. Leaping down from the wagon, Edouard shoved the mercenaries, propelling them off the drawbridge. They splashed into the icy moat.

  “Attack! Attack,” men screamed from the ramparts. “We are under attack.”

  Tye froze where he stood; the thunderous rumbling he’d barely heard over the men’s shouts was growing louder. Scores of riders galloped down the road toward the castle. To the right of the road, foot soldiers streamed out of the trees.

  Hellfire!

  “Raise the drawbridge,” Tye yelled again, his throat burning. “Lower the portcullis!” Shouting the orders, he hurried toward the bailey, but before he had taken three steps, a crossbow bolt slammed into the gatehouse wall beside him, spraying chunks of mortar.

  Tye spun. Behind the cart, Aldwin reloaded his crossbow.

  Aldwin was an excellent shot; he never missed. Why, then, had the bolt not killed Tye? Had de Lanceau had ordered his knights to spare Tye until he could fight him face-to-face?

  Aldwin readied to fire. The crossbowman might not be allowed to kill Tye, but could wound him, weakening him for the confrontation with his father.

  Aldwin wasn’t the only threat. Sword raised, Edouard walked under the teeth of the portcullis toward Tye. In the hard angles of his face, his steely gaze, his muscular stature, Tye saw the image of his sire.

  Tye raised his sword, ready to fight, noting, with a flare of rage, that Aldwin had already killed two of the mercenaries on the parapets. Their corpses lay on the drawbridge. As he watched, frustration clawing at his innards, Delwyn coaxed his horse forward and positioned the cart directly under the portcullis. Not only did it provide a defensive shield for Aldwin, but it prevented the barrier from lowering all the way to the ground. There was no way of keeping out his sire’s men now.

  Damnation. Damnation! His sire would die for this deception, along with all of the others!

  Edouard neared, his smile grim. “Good day, Brother.”

  “Go to hell,” Tye spat. Loathing for his half-brother made his blood burn. He’d almost killed Edouard at Waddesford Keep; mayhap today he’d finally have the pleasure of slaying him.

  “Surrender,” Edouard commanded.

  “Never.”

  The words had barely left Tye’s lips when Edouard lunged. Their swords clanged, the sound echoing in the enclosed area beneath the gatehouse. Edouard was strong, his assault skilled and powerful, and the ferocity of the strikes jarred down Tye’s arms. Again and again the swords clashed, metal flashing in the dull light.

  Tye growled, pivoted, lashed out once more, his blade skidding across the front of Edouard’s mail hauberk. Edouard jumped back and then retaliated, bringing his blade arcing down, but the toe of his boot caught on a raised stone. He twisted to avoid falling forward, and Tye seized the advantage. He raced at his brother, and with a vicious thrust, propelled him backward. With a grunt of pain, Edouard slammed into the wall. His head hit the stone and he went still, his eyes rolling.

  Breathing hard, Tye lifted his sword, readying to shove it against his brother’s neck. Taking Edouard hostage would give him leverage against his sire—

  Tye caught the whistle of a crossbow bolt an instant before it flew past his head. The bolt bounced off the stone and clattered on the ground. Again, Aldwin had missed. That shot, though, had been closer than the other; a warning, meant to protect Edouard.

  Stepping away, Tye dared a glance at Aldwin. The blond warrior took a fresh quiver of bolts from Delwyn and began reloading his weapon. Edouard groaned and straightened on his feet, his grip tightening on his sword.

  Shouts from the bailey drew Tye’s attention, reminded him of the greater fight yet to be won. This day, he would confront and kill his sire. ’Twas far better to save his strength for that fight than waste it sparring with his brother.

  Moreover, he had to get Claire to the hidden tunnel. She was waiting for him; he wouldn’t forsake his promise to get her away from the bloodshed.

  Sensing his brother rallying for another attack, Tye raced for the bailey washed in weak morning light. Ahead, arrows flew down from the battlements. Mercenaries were battling a crowd of bedraggled men. With a fresh jolt of shock, Tye recognized the fighters: prisoners who’d been chained in the dungeon.

  How had they escaped? They had weapons, too. Tye’s men guarding the dungeon last night should have quelled any beginnings of an uprising. Fury knotted inside Tye and he vowed to punish the mercenaries himself once the battle was won.

  Sweat slicked his brow as he dodged a mercenary and prisoner engaged in a knife fight and headed for the forebuilding. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement near the stables. Sutton, his face ashen, peered out from behind a wagon.

  A hard object smacked into Tye’s forehead. Stinging pain spread across his brow. Grimacing, he looked down at the ground. A small rock rolled across the dirt by his right boot.

  He dodged an arrow fired from the battlements, then cursed as another rock smacked into his head. He scowled, for Sutton wasn’t the only one hiding behind the wagon. Witt darted out, his slingshot whirling. Meeting Tye’s lethal glower, the boy stuck out his tongue and aimed the makeshift weapon.

  Tye spun away and loped for the keep, ignoring the thump of a rock hitting the back of his cloak. A dying mercenary, staggering backward with an arrow through his neck, bumped into Tye; he shoved the lout into one of the men from the dungeon, who had charged at Tye with a sword. With a roar of frustration, the man careened to the ground, the mercenary collapsing on top of him.

  Tye yanked open the door to the forebuilding and thundered up the stairwell to the great hall. Women and children huddled behind a barricade of stacked trestle tables. Many of the maidservants glared at him. Some smiled gleefully, clearly believing he was doomed.

  He glowered at them as he raced past and up the stairs to the solar.

  As he reached the upper level corridor, his strides slowed. A sickening fear crawled up inside him. The me
rcenaries he had set to guard the solar lay in the passageway, dead.

  Claire! Oh, God, nay. Kitten—

  Skirting the bloody corpses, Tye shoved open the right solar door and hurried in. The chamber was warm, quiet, and illuminated by fire glow. And empty, apart from Patch hiding under the bed.

  A knife lay by the hearth: the dagger he’d given Claire.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The moment Tye left the solar, anticipation raced through Claire, chilling her like a scattering of icy snowflakes. She rubbed her arms, trying to chase the unpleasant sensation away.

  Longing for Tye spread through her, along with concern. She sensed something was going to happen this day. Something momentous and far more crucial than her and Mary escaping through the hidden tunnel in the cellar.

  Cold sweat dampened her palms as she tugged on the clean gown, chemise, cloak, gloves, and boots Tye had fetched from her chamber last night. She was eager to get away from Wode as quickly as possible; Veronique was a ruthless, frightening, and unpredictable woman. Claire never wanted to be subjected to Veronique’s cruelty again.

  Yet, as she straightened her gloves on her fingers, part of her whispered that by retreating into the tunnel, she was abandoning Tye. He had no one to speak for him; his mother thought only of her own ambitions, and Tye was blinded by the torment Veronique had fed him since birth.

  Claire stooped and patted Patch, who nuzzled her hand. A heady warmth filled her, the sensation strongest in her heart. She shouldn’t run; for Tye, she must stay. She must try to find a way to resolve the enmity between him and his father. At the very least, Tye deserved the chance to ask his sire about the past.

  There had to be a way to stop that deadly fight. Somehow.

  De Lanceau wasn’t a man to yield the castle. That meant Tye would be slain.

  Agony shot through her at the thought of Tye dying. Tye was right; he wasn’t of the same social class as Henry had been. Yet, Tye’s life still had value. He’d survived so much, endured so much, especially through his mother’s manipulations.