Rafael exchanged a grim glance with Malcolm. “It is time to open your cellar, Malcolm.”
Malcolm nodded agreement at that.
Rafael was well aware of Elizabeth’s curiosity but paid it no heed. Instead, at Malcolm’s nod, he strode to the trap door in the floor, watched Malcolm unlock it, then they two flung open the door. Rafael jumped down into the damp darkness even before the ladder could be lowered into it. Malcolm held a light as he descended.
The cellar was filled with implements of war. They had stored them here secretly, stacking them in the hidden space after it was completed, while the masons slumbered in their tents, unaware of the activity in the hall. Malcolm had acquired sufficient provisions to defend his keep against any foe. The very sight of this arsenal encouraged Rafael, for he disliked facing any enemy unprepared. He had taken a careful inventory of them during the storage, and he was heartened by the quantities. Here were the weapons he knew how to wield. This was the life he knew.
If war came to Ravensmuir, it was best it came on this day, when so many of Malcolm’s comrades were in residence.
He was glad Malcolm had prepared so well for this eventuality, and glad they had ensured the earl never guessed of the existence of the cellar during his visit. Surprise was a potent addition to their arsenal.
Perhaps events would send Elizabeth hastening home to Kinfairlie. It might be best, not only for her safety but for her notions of war. He had no doubt that she had heard tales aplenty in which war was noble and right, in which only the evil died and the good always triumphed. There was no blood in those tales, no suffering and no deceit that went unpunished.
Such tales had naught to do with the reality Rafael knew.
No woman of gentle breeding could look upon these weapons and Rafael’s familiarity with them and believe him to be anything other than what he was. He was a killer and a warrior, just as were all of his fellows. There was no honor in slaughter and it needed no fine principle to guide it. Avarice often was the motive, propelling many a man just as it guided the earl. The Sable League would fight on the side they were compensated to defend, and only success would be rewarded. This was the truth of his life: war and death and blood. This was what Rafael knew and what he did. Elizabeth would see the truth of it now. She might well flee to Kinfairlie as a result.
She would see what life had made of him.
Had circumstance made him what he was? It was a strange way to think of his situation, and a view Rafael had not considered before. Rafael had never believed that life had given him any choices, but on this day, he thought of Malcolm and his sister, and had to wonder. Had the circumstances of his life been different, might he have become a different man with a different destiny? Might he have evaded the trade of a mercenary? Might he have been an honorable man, such as the one Elizabeth insisted he must be? Indeed, she knew of no other kind, given the security of her upbringing.
Had it ever been possible that he might become the manner of man who could offer for the hand of a noble maiden like Elizabeth?
If so, he had been cheated of it, and cheated of that opportunity before he had uttered his first words. The notion made Rafael angry, as if he had lost something he had never desired before.
And that made him yet more angry, if not impatient with the tumult this maiden stirred within him. Rafael knew his own restless nature. He knew he was not a man to settle with one woman in one place. He would always travel, always win his way with his blade, always make the most of whatever opportunity presented itself in any given moment.
Rafael reminded himself savagely that whether that was his choice or the result of his circumstance, at this point, he was fit for no other life.
He could not dispel his anger, but it would be of use to him in the battle ahead.
Elizabeth watched the men prepare for war, finding herself filled with anticipation and curiosity. This was all new to her, but these warriors saw it as routine. Indeed, Malcolm had anticipated an attack and prepared for it with a thoroughness that she would never have expected.
How strange to anticipate treachery and the shedding of blood in defense of what was rightly one’s own. Elizabeth knew she would never have thought that way.
At least not until now.
Not until she saw Malcolm’s preparations proven to be prudent.
She supposed that possessing anything of merit could lead another to covet that thing. She supposed that a man of sense would be prepared to defend what he had claimed to his name, be that wife or child or holding. She shivered a little, seeing the merit of having an experienced warrior prepared to defend her. The men who had courted her before would have been soundly defeated by the Sable League—what then would happen to their possessions and kin? Naught good, to be sure.
Nay, it made sense to wed a man who knew how to swing a blade.
The men moved with purpose and efficiency, the entire company on its feet immediately after Malcolm’s words. There was no haste in their movements, just a calm acceptance of what had to be done and a steady speed in accomplishing it. She could have believed that they had been awaiting such a sign, or even that they were glad of it.
There was, however, no mistaking their glee when the store of weapons was revealed, nor their familiarity with every item in Malcolm’s arsenal. They shouted with joy at the sight of metal balls and sheaves of arrows, of knives and swords and armor Elizabeth could not immediately name. They fingered blades and arrow tips, assessed the strength of bows and nodded appreciation of all that was stored there. Elizabeth could see the anticipation in them, the certainty that they would fight soon and fight hard, the relief that they would have good tools to wage war.
Her brother might have been a complete stranger. Malcolm was intent upon his store of weapons and their distribution, his manner quick, terse and effective. There was no hint that he possessed any sense of humor, much less that he was anything other than a hardened warrior who would kill without remorse.
The difference was less striking in Rafael, though Elizabeth did see a resolve in him that she had not noted before.
There was no mistaking the eagerness in the expressions of every one of them.
They were glad to be summoned to war. Elizabeth found that a shock, though in hindsight, she was not certain why. Every man welcomed the opportunity to do what he did best, after all.
The Fae dispersed from proximity to that open cellar with all speed, swinging to the rafters to chatter in disapproval. They had an aversion to steel and shuddered in its very presence, though they did like items that shone. Elizabeth did not doubt they would have stolen all the hoarded weapons for their glimmer, gold and gemstones, had there not been so much iron and steel secreted there.
When the cellar was emptied, the weapons were sorted in the hall. Elizabeth was fascinated by the way the men divided tasks without speaking of it. They had fought together many times, it was clear, and each knew the special skills of all the others. Each gravitated toward certain weapons, and they offered choice items to each other in full understanding of who would wield what with greatest ability. There were boys gathering firewood and others sorting arrows and bows, none of whom had been commanded to do so. One heavy-set mercenary had laid claim to what he called Greek fire and was giving some instruction to another in the mixing of various powders that had also been stored in the cellar. He had a boy cutting lengths of string that he said would be used as fuses.
They began to garb themselves for the fighting, as well. Elizabeth watched covertly as Rafael shed his tabard and chemise. He donned a padded aketon, lacing it tightly around his torso, then hauled a chain mail shirt over top. The chain mail hung to his knees, and he donned another black tabard atop it, belting it closely. This tabard was shorter than the first and cut full, plus there was a golden emblem stitched upon it, over his heart.
He had no squire, evidently, but tended himself, which she thought curious. She saw Rafael check the knife and sword that rested in his scabbards and then don ch
ain mail grieves that covered his legs and boots. He set out a pair of black leather gloves that would rise to his elbows, a metal gorget to cover his throat and a helmet with more than one dent in it before returning to aid the others.
Did none consider that they might not survive this battle? Elizabeth saw the mortality of all of them, though few bore the mark of one soon to be departed. The shadow upon the brow of one man was much darker and Elizabeth knew that he would not live through the battle to come.
Should she warn him? Elizabeth did not know. Could he evade his death? Or postpone it? She had no idea. She watched the doomed man and judged from his expression that he would not be surprised by any tidings she gave him.
Nor would he change his course
They lived day to day, these men, with no expectation that there would be years left to them. It was sensible in a way, and also made Elizabeth feel sheltered for her conviction that she would always awaken on the morrow and live to a goodly age. The greatest risk for her was the birthing of a child, but so long as she remained unwed and chaste, that risk was both distant and small.
As she watched, Malcolm dipped his finger into the soot on the hearth and drew the outline of the point of land Ravensmuir occupied on the stone floor. The men and Catriona gathered around and Elizabeth pressed close behind them, curious above all.
“Here is the cliff of Ravensmuir, and here the keep,” her brother said and the men nodded assent. “The thorn hedge extends from here to here, with the gatehouse at its middle. There is no longer any approach from the sea. If they have any wits, they will assume that we are weakest at the ends of the hedge, and so we must drive them back to the middle.”
“There is no real passage there,” said the man carrying the shadow of death.
“They may make one,” another mercenary noted. “I saw them carry saws to the ends of the hedge. Louis and his crew fired upon them, but they may see the gap widened.”
“We will guard either end of the hedge,” Rafael said, “so that no horse can pass that way.”
“Rocks,” the doomed man said. “The boys can pile them in quantity, so the footing is loose and uneven.”
“And fire,” Malcolm said. “For the horses dislike it. Set a blaze just inside the bailey and lay the bonfire wide. We will place archers inside of that.”
“And slay them one by one if they come through that way,” another warrior concluded with satisfaction. “Even the corpses will add to the barrier.”
Elizabeth shuddered at this gruesome discussion, readily imagining how effective these plans might be.
“At the gatehouse,” Malcolm said, pointing to that place. “We will have the first of the oil. The roof is made of stone, with sufficient space to heat the oil.”
One man rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “It is a fine thing to serve a lord who has planned his keep so well.”
Elizabeth realized they were enjoying the process of planning the keep’s defense. Did they enjoy the warfare as well? She was both horrified and fascinated, then glanced up to find Rafael’s gaze upon her. He smiled, as if amused by her reaction, and she felt herself flush crimson.
He must think her naive, or a child, but she had never witnessed preparations like this.
She wondered what else he had witnessed routinely that she had never seen before. That only made her yearn to travel far beyond Kinfairlie and even Scotland, to see the marvels of the world and to sample every experience that could be had. She had always loved tales of adventure, but it was the presence of Rafael that breathed life into those stories, making her realize that they were more than tales—someone had lived those daring adventures.
How she wished to live one of her own!
Four
Malcolm continued to give instruction, clearly having learned much in his years away. Elizabeth listened avidly. “They will likely attack on horseback, and this will be our advantage. From the gatehouse, Ranulf will throw Greek fire.” He must mean the heavy set man who had been mixing powders. Malcolm slid his finger across his sketch. “Archers again on the gatehouse and the roof of the keep itself. We will use the arrow storm to create more confusion.”
“Burning arrows,” one warrior contributed.
“Poison arrows,” corrected a woman who could only be a whore. Elizabeth had heard that whores followed warriors, but she had never expected to see one in her brother’s hall. That woman granted Catriona an assessing glance. “Have you wolf’s bane or belladonna?”
“Wolf’s bane,” Catriona said and left the party to climb to the solar. Elizabeth guessed that her herbs were there. She folded her arms about herself, not feeling unsafe, but not entirely at ease, either.
Did Rafael have a favorite among the other whores in Malcolm’s hall? There were a half a dozen or so of those women, their knowing expressions and easy manner with the men revealing their trade. Elizabeth looked around and found one smirking at her, and hastily dropped her gaze. Just as Jeanne had suddenly seen the Fae that she had not realized surrounded her, Elizabeth felt that the company in Ravensmuir’s hall was an alien one indeed.
Catriona appeared to have accepted the presence of this woman and the others of her ilk, although Elizabeth supposed she had no choice. She also seemed to be expected to have a stock of herbs, much as Eleanor did at Kinfairlie. Elizabeth wondered if she should have learned more from Eleanor, as her sister Isabella once had done.
Would any man she wed expect her to have such skills with herbs and potions?
Would any man she wed be so familiar with the art of making war? Elizabeth could not believe it, not of the many suitors she had met at Kinfairlie in recent years. Even those who had fought abroad had gone as knights and she doubted their experience had been the same as that of these men.
They certainly had not been as hardened.
Perhaps they had not fought as long.
“Any who reach the hall can be assaulted from above, or cut down in the entry.” Malcolm continued. “Two more fires should be set on either side of the hall itself, in order to drive them toward the cliffs.”
“Smoking fires would be best,” an older warrior with a lined face mused. “I have a means to encourage that.”
“Can they dig beneath the hedge?” asked another.
Malcolm shook his head. “It will take time, for the land is rocky, and such tunnels might collapse upon them.”
“What of food?” Rafael asked, hands braced upon his hips. “They might mean to starve us out. It would be simpler.”
It was almost dizzying to consider all the ways that a keep could be assaulted.
Elizabeth knew without asking that there was no question of her returning to Kinfairlie when Ravensmuir was surrounded and besieged. Indeed, she was glad of the earl’s arrival, on that score at least. She wanted to be of assistance in the defense of her brother’s holding.
And above all else, she wanted Malcolm to survive.
Remaining at Ravensmuir was the only way to accomplish all of that, and it promised to be an adventure as well. She straightened, realizing that she had been granted her most heartfelt desire. She felt a ripple of anticipation herself, and a vitality almost forgotten.
Malcolm drummed his fingers on the board. “There is hard sausage. There is a well in the bailey that I do not believe can be readily tainted.” He nodded. “But this might be the one advantage that they hold.”
The men fell silent for a moment, weighing all the concerns and notions that had been voiced, and Elizabeth thought of another.
“Kinfairlie will be hard pressed to assist,” she contributed, seeing that the others were surprised that she had spoken. She addressed Malcolm, though she felt the weight of Rafael’s gaze upon her. “Even if Alexander guesses you are besieged, he will have to cut through the earl’s army to be of aid.” She saw Malcolm’s doubt that Alexander would have any such inclination and wished she could have removed his doubts. Alexander might disapprove of Malcolm becoming a mercenary, but he was glad their brother w
as home. He would not have left him without allies in battle.
Before she could speak, Rafael did. “Then we must provoke them to hasten the battle,” that man said boldly. “For I do not intend to starve.”
“Nor I!” echoed one man and the others gave a cry of assent. They raised their fists in salute to Malcolm.
“To Ravensmuir!” one cried. “May it stand long beneath Laird Malcolm’s hand!”
Malcolm’s comrades cheered for him, rising to their feet as one. Elizabeth was awed that these men would fight for her brother, even to the death, and wondered how he could compensate them all so well.
Then she wondered how he would himself survive Midsummer’s Eve. Her gaze flew to Rafael, who ignored her so pointedly that she knew their thoughts were as one.
“I thank you all!” Malcolm said. “And can only believe that Providence sent you to my gates.”
“I have never been called by so pretty a title,” Rafael said, prompting them all to laugh. His gaze slid to Elizabeth again and he smiled, a dangerous hunger in his expression that should have warned her to beware.
She bit her lip, enticed as she knew she should not be.
Did she dare seek him out to argue again?
She glanced at Malcolm and saw death even more vehemently upon him. His skin appeared to be rotting from his bones, to her view, and the side of his face was raw where the skin looked to have been sheared away.
Whether it was his wager with Finvarra or the blades of the assaulting company that would doom him, Elizabeth did not care. The vision made her choice for her.
Rafael flicked a glance her way, one that seemed even more penetrating than before. His eyes were dark, his manner fierce, and she wanted to match wits with him again.
If not more.
For Malcolm’s sake.
What if she did offer the exchange he had already suggested? If she surrendered to Rafael, would he ensure Malcolm’s survival? Her maidenhead was a small price to pay for her brother’s life, when she considered it thus, and truly, Elizabeth yearned to learn whatsoever Rafael could teach her.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 106
