A Knight to Remember (27 page)

But Pembridge was after Edlyn, and if what Ethelburgha had said was true, Edlyn was in great danger. In this instance, at least, she would beg that he disregard the plea implicit in that shriek.

The woman screamed again.

Who was he trying to fool? Edlyn would have gone off to check on the screamer herself if he had refused. Somehow, without his realizing how, Edlyn had begun to ride with him everywhere.

As he slowed his destrier, the cloud of dust from the road caught up with him. It coated his clenched teeth as he asked, “By Christ and all the saints, what’s wrong with that wench?”

His men rode around him and glanced at each other.

“What wench, master?” Wharton asked.

They hadn’t even heard her. “That woman,” Hugh said. “The one who’s screeching.”

“Oh,” Wharton said stupidly. “Her.”

“Would you have me see, my lord?” Dewey asked.

“Nay.” Hugh turned his horse and headed in the direction of the noise. “I have to do it myself.”

Caution urged him to reconnoiter the situation, but he didn’t have time and he didn’t have the patience. The hut stood close to the road in a protected glade, and as
he burst out of the trees, he took in the situation at once. Two armed knights and their squires, no doubt mercenaries who had served in the battle, held a woman to the ground and prepared to rape her. Worse, another knight held a whimpering girl-child and prepared to do the same. The woman’s screams weren’t for herself; she was straining, trying to get to her child to rescue her.

“A pox on you!” Hugh cursed them as he drew his sword and urged his destrier forward to do justice. The knight with the child, caught with his breeks around his ankles, could do no more than try to waddle toward his weapons as he saw a large, clearly infuriated knight on his charger bearing down on him.

Hugh removed the knave’s head with one swing of his sword. The others he hacked where they stood and crawled. His men, astonished by his sudden attack, hurried to join in but could do no more than finish the task Hugh had so ably started.

Then he galloped away, pursued by the mother’s cried thanks and his once again startled men. Hooves pounded behind him. Roxford Castle remained leagues ahead. And time, like an impenetrable fog, tightened its grip around him. He wanted to be at Roxford now. If all went well, he wouldn’t be there for two more days.

So he prayed. “Please, God. I rescued that woman and her child. I’ll give an endowment to Eastbury Abbey. I’ll do anything! Just smite my enemies and keep Edlyn safe.”

At that moment, there was a great roar. Men shrieked their dismay.

Edlyn heard the cry, “Their tunnel is collapsing!”

It was true. Great stones tumbled to the ground. Gravel and fill from the inside of the wall showered on
Pembridge’s astonished men, obliterating them in a billow of dust.

The wall above cracked from top to bottom as the foundation that held it weakened. Then it settled. All slipped into silence.

All except Pembridge’s screaming injured as they futilely struggled to free themselves from the tons of stone.

The people of Roxford gave a ragged cheer. Burdett assessed the situation, then ran up the stairs where his mistress still stood on the wall walk. Edlyn cast a triumphant glance at Sir Lyndon.

“Do you think it’s over already, you silly woman?”

The way he said the word “woman” was the worst insult he could cast at her. He was false clear to the bone, she realized. All his previous protestations of devotion had been nothing but a wind to bring Hugh back to his side. He hated her. He hated Hugh’s marriage. He hated the changes it had wrought, and now that Hugh had gone, he saw no reason to conceal that hatred.

He was a dangerous man.

She pretended not to notice, pretended to be as stupid as he thought her. “It’s not over, but it’s given us a moment to regroup.”

Apparently he perceived her courtesy as weakness, for he stepped close enough to loom over her and said, “If Hugh were here, he would order you to put me in charge!”

“I do not presume to know my husband’s mind, but if he were here, Pembridge would not be within the castle walls at all.”

It was a reproach, and Sir Lyndon’s eyes narrowed as he considered her.

Then her son, her Allyn, piped up, “Aye, he would have kept them out, not let them in.”

Sir Lyndon stepped back so swiftly Edlyn feared he might tumble off the edge of the wall walk. “I didn’t let them in.”

“No one said—” Edlyn began.

“Someone did,” Allyn said.

Parkin chimed in. “We saw him.”

Grims bore down on the lads with purpose. “Did you see his face?”

They shook their heads, but their young faces didn’t hide their suspicions. Grims looked at Sir Lyndon in open speculation while the knight glared at her sons with a malevolence that chilled Edlyn. She tried to defuse the situation and sound firm at the same time. “Fight on, Sir Lyndon, but I leave Grims in charge of his men. He knows them, and the castle, better than you.”

Sir Lyndon pushed around her and stormed down the steps to the bailey.

“There’s trouble, m’ lady,” Grims said. “Shall I set a watch on him?”

She looked at her sons. “Why do you think it’s he?”

The lads exchanged glances, then Allyn said, “He’s tall and he’s thin, and he’s got such black hair.”

They were hiding something, she could see that. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Parkin wiped his nose on his sleeve. Allyn stared at the sky.

Edlyn wrapped her arms around them and held them firmly. “Tell me true—have you been out of the castle by the postern gate?”

“Once,” Allyn admitted.

“After Hugh left?”

She had to lean down to hear Allyn’s whisper. “Aye.”

Her knees quaked as she considered the peril they’d been in. That was the problem with being a mother. A mother could always imagine the worst, even when the danger was past.

Parkin sounded choked with tears. “Do you think we showed that man the way to betray us to the enemy?”

The man-at-arms turned the boys around by their arms to face him. “Did you tear boards away to open the gate? Did you move stone aside?”

They wiped their noses on their hands and shook their heads.

“Then ’twas not you who opened the postern gate to the enemy. ’Twas done by another.” He looked meaningfully at Edlyn.

He suspected Sir Lyndon, and she feared Sir Lyndon. “Put surveillance on him,” she said.

Moving to the stairway, Grims met Burdett coming up and they spoke, giving the order to watch Sir Lyndon. Burdett nodded and bounded away.

Grims came back to the top of the wall walk and called down to the people, “God’s grace has spared us. Now do your part. You women—get the children into the keep. Men—prepare defenses before they break through again. They’ll take down the curtain wall if they can.” He looked at the crack above the tunnel. “God grant it hold.”

Everyone in the bailey scurried to obey. Taking her sons by the hands, Edlyn joined the other women and ran for the keep. In the only doorway, an opening on the second floor, Burdett stood waving them inside. Edlyn stood beside him until all had entered, then watched with approval as he took an ax and hacked the stairway down.

“It’ll not be easy to take this keep, my lady,” he said.

The rhythm of the hooves on the packed dirt road accompanied the chant in Hugh’s mind.

“
Please
God.
Please
God.”

A priest would have been more eloquent, but Hugh was a fighter, not a poet, and if sincerity counted for anything, God would hear his prayer.

Hugh had never begged before. He’d said his prayers and trusted that God would realize the good sense of them. He hadn’t seen the need to grovel. But this—this was different. Edlyn’s well-being was too important for such overweening assurance. He had no pride where she was concerned.

Wharton kept pace with him, and now he shouted, “Roxford Castle is just ahead, master.”

Reluctantly, Hugh reined in his mount—the fifth in two days.

“Listen,” Hugh said.

The sounds of battle were muffled rather than clear as they should have been. Hugh glanced at Wharton, hoping his man would scoff at his foreboding.

Instead Wharton looked grim. “The enemy is within.”

But how far within? They needed to know details, so Hugh nodded at Dewey. “Scout out the situation.”

His squire dismounted. Hugh and his men followed suit, but Hugh’s gaze never left Dewey until the lad had disappeared into the surrounding forest. He was swift and had proved himself in the battle just past, but Hugh wanted to be with him, to see for himself what Pembridge had done.

Instead, he allowed Wharton to help him don his chain-mail hauberk and his helmet. He watched as his men let their squires do the same, then all freed their
weapons from their travel cases. They rested their destriers—and they waited.

The waiting was the worst. It gave Hugh time to count the number of knights left with him. He’d lost men on the trip, mostly to lack of fresh horses. They promised to follow as they could, but they wouldn’t come soon enough. Hugh fidgeted with the strap holding the helmet to his hauberk. He’d slept during the dark hours of nights when not even his horse could see to run and eaten when his men demanded a rest. Each moment when he’d not been riding had been sheer torture, and even the riding had been torture of another sort.

All he could remember was the white flag Edlyn had waved as he rode off and his arrogant plans to accept her surrender.

Who would be accepting her surrender now? She’d called Edmund Pembridge a cruel man, and Hugh feared she would find out the truth of it. Now Hugh would give anything to have her whole and healthy, secure in her pride. Secure enough to tell him that she loved him.

And he—what would he say? Would he offer her his commitment and think that was enough, or would he…?

“My lord!” Dewey slipped back through the brush.

“That was fast!” Wharton said.

“Aye, I hurried,” Dewey answered.

Had they both run mad? Hugh thought they’d been waiting forever.

“Pembridge has well established himself within the outer bailey.” Dewey didn’t have time for details, but his bleak face told the tale. “The outer gatehouse and drawbridge are intact. There was no battle to get inside.”

Hugh and Wharton exchanged glances, and Wharton said, “Treachery then.”

Dewey said, “That’s what I thought, too. Already they’ve broken through to the inner bailey, so I thought perhaps more treachery. I didn’t dare go farther, but I saw the smoke of burning and heard fierce fighting. I fear much of the castle is damaged.”

“The castle?” Why was Dewey blathering about the castle? Hugh wondered.

“And, my lord, he has dozens of knights.” Dewey blushed as he spoke, but he said honestly, “We haven’t a chance against them.”

Hugh glanced around at his men, then remounted. “Every man must choose his battles. I have chosen mine. If you have no heart for it, then go with my blessing.”

His men stared at him. Then Wharton said stiffly, “There’s no need t’ insult us, master.”

The armor of every one of his knights clattered as they mounted their horses and stood awaiting instructions, and Hugh’s fervent “Please God” became “My thanks, God.”

He moved to the front to speak to them as their commander in this fruitless battle. “We have no reinforcements and no hope of getting them, so we’ll attack from the rear. There’s a chance they’ve become so accustomed to cutting down men-at-arms that they’ll be unprepared to face other knights.”

Hugh and his men rode across the drawbridge and passed through the gatehouse—undefended. That pleased him. It meant he faced an overconfident enemy. Then the outer bailey opened before him. “Pigs!” He spat the word, furious at the wanton destruction.

A few of Pembridge’s men milled around the inner gatehouse, so sure of their victory they took a rest from
the fighting. One of them saw Hugh and his men; he pointed. Before he could shout, Hugh scythed him with his mace. His men did the same until not one living creature remained erect.

From above, Hugh heard cheers as Roxford’s men-at-arms realized their salvation had arrived.

Hugh only wished that were true.

“
They’re here, my lady
, they’re here!”

Edlyn put the kettle of boiling lard down on the floor of the roof and let the breeze dry the sweat from her face. As her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, she could see the glow on Neda’s face and on the faces of the other women. “Who’s here?”

“The lord! Lord Hugh! We heard them shouting outside, and we looked. ’Tis he!”

“He’s alive?” Edlyn staggered back. “He’s alive.” God had heard her prayers. Nothing could defeat her now.

Then she heard the clash of arms below and the screams of a dying man, and reality returned with a flourish.

Pembridge had had that treacherous hole at the base of the curtain wall reexcavated. The gatehouse defense had been overwhelmed not long after, and Pembridge’s men had thundered into the bailey on horseback. Roxford Castle’s men-at-arms fought valiantly, but they were essentially defensive fighters, and against the knights’ superior position and power they had little hope.

Yet against all odds, Hugh had come, and Edlyn couldn’t quash the optimism that lit the women’s faces, nor could she halt her own exuberance. Running to the battlements that enclosed the roof, she would have leaned out.

“Be careful.” Neda stopped her with a hand on her arm and pointed at the green vine that rooted between the stones and curled around the merlons. “That’s blister vine.”

“Aye, m’ lady.” Ethelburgha held out her reddened, swelling hands. “Look at this. I’ll not be brewing ale for days.”

Edlyn winced but didn’t touch. Without her herbs, she couldn’t help Ethelburgha, and she had no wish to be stricken with the rash.

Stepping to a different embrasure, Edlyn leaned out and took in the sights of the battle below.

Astride his destrier, Hugh struck out at the enemies who dared to capture his property, and at the sight her heart trilled like a lark in the morning. Then she saw how hard those enemies pressed him. “Does he have enough men?”

The steward’s wife lost her smile. “I don’t know.”

What she meant was nay, but Edlyn said, “No matter. It’s our best chance.”

“Curse Pembridge and all his kind.” Neda pointed. “They’ve lit bonfires in the bailey. They’re readying the arrows. They’re going to shoot them into the door and burn us out, and the lord can’t defeat so many.”

Fire was the only thing that they truly had to fear, and fear it they did. Edlyn looked back at the pot by the trapdoor. The serving women had been boiling lard at the fire in the great hall, carrying it up the spiral stairs to the roof and dumping it onto Pembridge’s men. The bubbling grease had sent knights flying to pull off their
armor, and each time that happened the women gave a cheer. It wasn’t much—some would call it a feeble effort—but it kept the women occupied and out of Burdett’s way as he worked to prepare the keep for the final siege.

And who was to say what might turn the scales of battle?

Edlyn’s eyes narrowed as she considered the three fires below. The wind within the bailey created little eddies and cast the smoke every which way. The cluster of archers who surrounded each fire coughed and flapped at the fumes, but the men couldn’t go far; they had a duty to perform. “Go down to the great hall,” Edlyn commanded Neda. “Start dousing the inside of the door, the lintels, and the threshold with water. Soak the wood, if you can, and Neda?”

“My lady?”

“Can Burdett shoot an arrow?”

“Is he not an Englishman?”

Edlyn smiled at the pride in Neda’s voice. “Then send him to me with his bow and his arrows and an ax and a good sharp knife.”

Shooing the women before her like a flock of windblown geese, Neda moved to obey.

“Have him bring yarn, too, and my riding gloves.”

Neda turned back. “I’ll return with him.”

Edlyn looked around at the open roof. The stone battlements had protected them, but if the archers were successful, that protection would be no more. They would shower the roof with arrows, and any person foolhardy enough to remain up there was in danger. Edlyn had to do it. It was her castle. But to expose both Burdett and Neda to danger…“Nay,” she said. “Send Burdett alone.”

Neda wanted to argue, but Edlyn firmed her chin,
and the steward’s wife bowed and followed the serving women down the stairs.

The battle still roared below, but up here alone she could hear the wind whistle. It was an odd sensation to know that men were dying below her and she could do nothing. It was even odder to know she would do anything—incapacitate a man with boiling lard, drop stones on their heads, shoot arrows, or lift a sword—to protect her children and her castle.

And it was her castle, in a way that Robin’s castle had never been hers. In Robin’s castle, she had always been the scorned wife, holding her head proudly erect while her husband dallied with other women. Here she was the chosen one, the mistress Hugh had endowed with all authority, and no one dared to ask how long his favor would extend. All knew that Hugh took his vows seriously.

All except the traitor who dared betray him—indeed, who dared betray them both—during Hugh’s absence.

Who was he, this limping maggot of a man?

“My lady?”

She jumped and turned to Burdett. He’d come up through the trapdoor on silent feet. His long bow and quiver hung from his shoulder. In his hands he held a short-handled ax and a knife. He started toward her, and suddenly all the doubts about the steward returned with a rush. She was alone up here. Burdett could cut her throat and fling her over the edge, then go down and murder her children.

She took a step back when he swung the ax up. She lifted her arms to protect her head. He flipped the ax and caught it by the blade, then extended it. “My lady? What did you wish to do with this?”

Slowly she lowered her arms. He stared at her, the
handle outstretched, and she reached forward and grasped it. He let it go easily. He dropped the knife at his feet and waited, helpless, should she decide to strike him. And she blushed for her own stupidity. But with one sentence she could banish the hurt from his gaze.

“Give me the gloves,” she said. “We’re going to save Roxford Castle.”

Blood from his wounds trickled into Hugh’s mouth. His sword dragged at his arm like a bag of milled flour, and he used it, he thought, with no more than a miller’s expertise. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, and still he couldn’t get enough air. Worse, his destrier showed the same exhaustion.

His best knights were battling against impossible odds, each man pressed by at least three of the enemy. He had ordered Dewey to abandon them early in the battle, but whether the lad had made it out, he didn’t know. Wharton had stayed close to Hugh, defending his back, until the sheer weight of numbers had separated them. Hugh himself wanted nothing more than to strike the death blow to Pembridge, but Pembridge stayed well behind his bodyguard and fought only with a mocking lift of the visor on his helm. Sure of their victory, Pembridge’s archers tended their fires and prepared to plunge the tar-tipped arrows into the flames.

It was only a matter of time until the keep fell. It was only a matter of time before Hugh and his men lay dead. Only a matter of time until his dreams had died. Dreams of a castle of his own, tended by the wife he loved…

Glancing up, Hugh caught sight of her on the battlements of the keep.

Amazing, when she looked so much like other women, that he knew her from a distance even while in the heat of battle. Yet the woman he knew to be Edlyn met his gaze and waved a long, leafy branch. She showed the same exuberance waving that plant as she had shown waving her white flag, and he wondered at the significance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sword swing toward him, and he barely blocked it with his shield.

Staring at Edlyn would get him killed. Better he should fight for her.

Lost in the blood lust of battle, he scarcely noticed a sudden stirring among the group of Pembridge’s archers who clustered around the nearest fire. Not until Pembridge started shouting in febrile denunciation did he lift his head long enough to notice them fleeing. They rubbed their eyes, coughed, and blundered toward the gate as if they could tolerate no longer the winds of war.

Curiosity poured a measure of his old strength into his veins, and Hugh dispatched the two knights who fought to capture him and moved toward the fire—a fire abandoned already by the men who should be tending it.

It appeared to be nothing but a smoldering pile of ill-lit logs and still green branches, but as he watched he thought he saw a feather rise on a heat current, then curl into ash and blow away.

Plunging through the melee of bodies and weapons, a knight on horseback crashed into Hugh’s destrier with all his might. With a snarl, Hugh turned to fight—and beneath the open-faced helmet, he saw his old friend, Sir Lyndon.

He recognized betrayal.

“Lyndon.” The name whistled from between his tightly pursed lips.

The rapid journey and the previous battle had fatigued Hugh.

Not so Sir Lyndon. He grinned with fresh eagerness. “Well met, dear lord! Did you not expect to find me lift a sword?”

“Not against me.”

Sir Lyndon’s smile disappeared. “Then you’re a fool. I stayed at your side like a faithful dog for years, waiting for the day you would win your reward and share the bounty with me. Instead, you married that woman and turned your back on your faithful companions.”

Sir Lyndon just didn’t understand, but Hugh wanted to make him. He didn’t want to kill the man who had fought at his side through so many battles. “I told you that should you prove yourself of penitent mind—”

“Prove myself? To you? I had proved myself too many times to allow you to test me again.”

Sir Lyndon’s sudden tension foreshadowed a blow, and Hugh deflected it easily with his shield.

“You’re a knight. Your honor—”

“Honor is for those who can afford it.” Sir Lyndon swung his sword.

Hugh moved to deflect it, but he mistook the object of Sir Lyndon’s ire. The sharp blade sliced through Hugh’s destrier right at the neck, severing the artery. The great beast sank to its knees, and Hugh scrambled to free himself from the stirrups.

“You see? Only noble fools can afford honor”—Sir Lyndon’s voice rang with mockery, and he grasped his mace—“my lord.”

As Hugh watched, the stallion died in a crimson pool, and Sir Lyndon urged his destrier closer. The smell of blood maddened the stallion, and maddened Sir Lyndon, too, it seemed, for both struck out. Hugh
clumsily dodged the flying hooves, and the studded iron ball swung with deadly intent. Hugh didn’t want to die with his skull crushed by a mace. He didn’t want to die by being trampled by a horse. Not in the bailey of his own castle. Not defeated by his old friend turned bitter enemy.

Hugh was the better warrior, but Sir Lyndon held all the advantages. Coming at him, Sir Lyndon used his superior position ruthlessly. Guiding the horse with his knees, he shoved Hugh back toward the fire. Hugh was caught between the mace wielded so deftly and the flames that licked at his heels. When the fire was right at his rear and Sir Lyndon was right at his front, he knew only a miracle could save him.

Sir Lyndon lifted his arm to deliver the death blow. Hugh went to his knees, raised his shield, and braced himself—and heard a whistle and a thump close by his calf. He glanced down. An arrow had buried itself deep in the wood. He had no time to worry about the twisted growth of green leaves and twigs that clung to it. Sir Lyndon and his destrier lurched back, and Hugh used the distraction to rise and put distance between them.

Recovering from his surprise, Sir Lyndon taunted him. “Like everything else in this wretched castle, the archers are damn poor.”

Another arrow zipped through the air and landed directly into the fire, casting a spray of sparks into the air.

Alarmed by the flames, Sir Lyndon’s horse pranced out of control.

Another arrow struck squarely into the flames, and Hugh seized his chance. Lifting the burning log, he waved it under the destrier’s nose. The animal screamed and reared. Sir Lyndon dropped his mace
and shield and clutched at the saddle. The horse bucked forward before Sir Lyndon could regain his seat, and with a clang of armor, Sir Lyndon hit the ground.

Now the battle was even. Hugh advanced on his former friend, the flaming brand still outthrust. As the arrow ignited, smoke began to rise, the kind of smoke green wood and fresh leaves would cause.

“Get it away.” Sir Lyndon flailed his arms. “For the love of God, Hugh, take it away!” He tried to rub his face with his hands and brought his metal gauntlets back bloody.

Hugh stood astonished. What was wrong with the man?

“Whatever you say, Hugh. I’ll do whatever you want.” He ran backward crazily, like a dog stricken with a foaming mouth. “If you ever loved me, spare me now.”

Hugh hesitated, not understanding the source of Sir Lyndon’s anguish.

Sir Lyndon brayed in agony, his eyes closed as if he dared not open them. “Remember our battles together. Remember and give me another chance.”

“Oh, I’ll spare you!” In disgust, Hugh cast the log into the fire. “But what is wrong with you?” Then he forgot his own question. A riderless horse stood nearby.

Opportunity. He recognized it well. He ran, gathering speed, and leaped into the saddle. The animal bucked; he fought it to a standstill, then turned back to take care of Sir Lyndon.

But Sir Lyndon was nowhere in sight. And another laden arrow whistled through the air and landed in the fire.

Hugh glanced up at the keep and saw Burdett
adjusting his aim toward the second fire where archers still stood and waited to do their duty. Then, as if Burdett spotted danger, he ducked behind the battlements with his long bow in hand.

Just in time. An arrow dispatched from the area of the second fire struck the place where he’d been standing. Now only Edlyn leaned out, pulling at the vines that twined around the stones, presenting the perfect target.

For the first time in the battle, Pembridge rode out from behind his bodyguard. He shouted at his archer. “Shoot her!”

The archer raised his arrow and narrowed his eyes.