My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (16 page)

“I regret Nicholas didn’t meet you sooner,” Alex spoke with feeling. “Perhaps you could have saved him from much suffering.”

A wrench of sympathy rose in Ysabelle’s chest. Though she tried to squelch the emotion before it took root, she failed miserably. If she had known Nicholas as he grew into manhood, they might have become good friends.

“I must speak with Cook,” she murmured and stumbled away.

*

“Nicholas, your lady is missing!”

Turning from the table inside the main hall, Nicholas stared at his brother who stood before the open doorway. “What do you mean? She left me not an hour ago after she bade Ada sit with Sara. Have you checked the kitchens?”

“Yes, brother. Cook told me Ysabelle was concerned because Sara refused to eat. She went out the postern gate to pick berries by the river’s edge, because they are Sara’s favorite. Ysabelle thinks she can tempt the child with the fruit.”

“She left again?” Nicholas roared.

Scooting back from the table, he came to his feet so quickly his tall-backed chair toppled backward onto the floor. Paying no heed, he ran out the door. Too bad he didn’t have time to don his hauberk and helmet. Praise the saints the armorer had pounded the dents out of his helmet and shield and sharpened his sword before returning them earlier that morning. The sword was now sheathed at his side, beside his dagger. He didn’t feel vulnerable as he raced to the stable and threw a saddle onto his warhorse.

“The little fool,” he breathed, conscious of Alex close by, calling for their men to saddle their mounts. “Hasn’t she learned her lesson? She knows Marshal could be hiding outside the gates by now.”

“Maston said she loves to walk along the river, gathering herbs,” Alex said. “Such a woman will be difficult to keep inside the castle walls. She’s used to her freedom. Our lookouts haven’t sighted the English forces, but they could sneak into the forest and take you unaware if you’re found outside the castle walls.”

“And I wonder if that’s what Ysabelle planned all along.”

Alex frowned. “Surely you don’t think she would help them murder you.”

“Right now, I don’t know what to believe.” He should never have trusted her.

Nicholas threw himself into the saddle and barked an order for the portcullis to be raised. The drawbridge lowered slowly, the chains grating in time with his teeth. How long could it take to get the thing down?

He cursed beneath his breath, then muttered a prayer. He must find her in time.

Visions swam before his eyes, of her riding into Marshal’s arms. The king handed her over to a fat old man that tore the clothes from her body and raped her, battering her lovely body, bruising her innocent soul.

Sweat dripped from his forehead and his hands shook with fear, an emotion alien to him. He didn’t understand this hold Ysabelle had over him.

“Fool!” he cursed himself.

He would be no good defending her if he couldn’t gain composure over his own emotions. Never had he faced such a challenge before. He’d made an art out of numbing his senses and retaining command. But how could he control his heart? If he lost Ysabelle, if he never saw her again, he feared what he might do.

Panic twisted his gut.

Finally they had the drawbridge down. He kicked his horse and the animal’s hooves thundered over the bridge as he raced out of the bailey and across the hills. He rounded the castle to the shore along the River Tweed, where Cook had said wild berries grew. He saw Ysabelle immediately.

She was here! He hadn’t lost her. Relief flooded him.

A plain woolen scarf covered her golden hair. Holding a wicker basket in one hand, she clutched a bouquet of field flowers in the other. Standing on a lonely hill beneath a single birch tree, she stared away from the berry bushes, at the ground beneath the tree. A mound of freshly churned earth rested there. Bending, she placed the flowers on the grave, then brushed the palm of her hand across the marker stone. She tilted her head to one side, as if she were too weary to hold it upright. Her shoulders drooped in defeat. There was something so wistful about her posture, and Nicholas realized this must be Maston’s grave.

She still grieved for her father. Nicholas felt a tightening in his own chest. He also mourned the fierce lord. If Maston had lived a few months longer, this trouble would never have come. Nicholas would have married Ysabelle without battles, unless the English king decided to challenge Maston, which Nicholas didn’t think likely. King William had come to battle against Maston of Sutcliffe only once before, when Maston refused to remarry after Ysabelle’s mother had died. Maston had defended Sutcliffe with fury and William had ended the war by withdrawing his army and respectfully ignoring this northern boundary. Now that Maston was dead, William must think he could take revenge by wedding Ysabelle to whomever he chose.

Nicholas sighed deeply, knowing he must defend Ysabelle and Sutcliffe as fiercely as Maston had done. He owed that much to Maston and he wouldn’t shirk his duty.

Even from this distance, Nicholas could see Ysabelle’s shoulders tremble. She might be crying, and he didn’t like that. She must miss her father terribly. She looked so innocent in the morning sunlight, as if she had no idea of the danger she was in.

Spurring Samson, Nicholas urged the stallion faster as he thundered closer to his goal. She looked over her shoulder and saw him, her eyes round and startled. He was almost upon her.

A movement at the forest edge caught his eye. Ysabelle looked that way, her mouth rounding as she dropped the basket and drew back in alarm. Riders appeared, dressed in chain mail and armed with swords and spears. The royal crest was emblazoned upon their shields in bright red and gold.

Lord Marshal’s men had arrived! Nicholas could only guess how long they’d been hiding in the forest, waiting for just such an opportunity.

If Ysabelle ran to them, Nicholas wasn’t close enough to stop her. Now was the moment of truth. She must choose a side.

Drawing his sword, Nicholas braced himself low over his stallion’s neck, prepared to pursue and fight to keep Ysabelle no matter what.

Lifting her skirts, she turned and raced toward him. Elation drenched him like rays of summer sunshine. She had chosen. She was his!

He yelled a warning and swerved Samson in time to avoid a collision. Without breaking stride, he reached out and snatched her onto the saddle behind him.

Ysabelle cried out as she clutched handfuls of Nicholas’s shirt, seeking a secure hold. He reined in to turn the stallion. The mighty destrier reared, pawing the air with its flashing hooves. Ysabelle wrapped her arms around Nicholas’s waist as he pulled her close.

Ysabelle almost screamed. How she hated riding Nicholas’s warhorse. The beast would kill them both, but it was preferable to what her king had planned for her. Her fingernails dug into Nicholas’s sides like a plough in deep soil. She wouldn’t go to Lord Marshal without a fight.

The king’s men pointed at them, then kicked their mounts into a gallop. They rode hard in an attempt to intercept them.

Nicholas placed his heels against Samson’s flanks. The charger gave a loud snort before racing back toward the castle gates.

English riders appeared just to their right. The thundering of hooves sounded directly behind them. Nicholas kicked Samson and yelled a quick demand. He leaned low over the animal’s neck and Ysabelle hugged tightly to his back. They sped across the hills, trying to outdistance the English. Ysabelle was jostled on the horse and almost fell. Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering as she fought to stay in the saddle. Her arms locked around Nicholas. Though Samson was large and strong, the horse carried extra weight. If they could only make the gatehouse. If they could get inside.

Ysabelle saw their goal. The way was clear. But it was an illusion.

More English soldiers broke from the low hills beside the river. Forced to swerve once more, Nicholas raced Samson along the embankment.

They were cut off! Without hesitation, Nicholas turned Samson toward the river. The charger plunged into the icy water. Ysabelle gasped, but clung to Nicholas as the destrier began to swim. She was conscious of Nicholas letting his body flow with the animal beneath them, placing himself between Samson’s thrashing hooves and her smaller body. Even now, when their lives were in danger, Nicholas sought to protect her.

Kicking her legs, Ysabelle tried to swim, but the cloying skirts of her dress hampered her legs. Water lapped at her chin and she coughed. As she stared at the shore where Lord Marshal stood glowering, her face tightened with fear. An English archer took aim. They would be killed!

Nicholas curled his back over her, shielding her from harm. He would give his own life for her. This knowledge left her stupefied. No greater test could have shown her the truth of who he really was. But was he protecting her, or his claim to Sutcliffe?

Marshal struck the archer in the face with a gauntleted fist and yelled at the man. “You fool! You’ll kill Lady Ysabelle. Go after them.”

English soldiers urged their horses into the river. The current pushed them along and Nicholas gave Samson full rein as they crossed to the fosse where the river joined the moat. Samson was strong and reached the sheer edge of the castle wall. There was nowhere to go. They were trapped!

Water slapped them in the face. Ysabelle’s scarf came undone and her hair lay plastered across her face. She pushed it away, blinking water from her eyes.

As they skirted the stone wall, she looked for dry land and a way into the safety of the castle. From behind, Marshal’s men gained on them with alarming speed.

Shouting came from high above. Looking up, she saw armed guards standing along the ramparts of the castle, gesturing toward them.

“This way,” they yelled.

A heavy concentration of bowmen gathered along the wall, firing arrows down below at Lord Marshal’s warriors, killing several, injuring more. Screams of death filled the air, along with the shrill cries of horses and the rush of the river.

“Nicholas, here!” Alex called from the gatehouse.

A small garrison of Nicholas’s men had left the safety of the castle on horseback, armed and ready for battle. Praise the saints! It was a slim chance for escape, but gave her hope.

Nicholas urged Samson up the steep embankment. As the powerful animal lunged, Ysabelle lost her balance and almost fell. Clutching her close, Nicholas jerked her back. She trembled, with cold or shock, she wasn’t certain.

“They’ll kill us,” she gasped.

“Not today,” Nicholas growled. “I willna allow it.”

For some reason, his words gave her courage. Alex had told her Nicholas often won the day simply because he was too stubborn to give in. He was proving that now.

The portcullis was down, shielding the gatehouse against entry. Her heart pounded as she wondered how long it would take for the men to raise it.

As they reached the drawbridge, Ysabelle saw Lord Marshal’s men racing their mounts toward them, closing in. They were doomed!

Alex and the other Scotsmen rode their horses closer, the animal’s hooves clattering on the drawbridge. The men offered protection as Nicholas maneuvered his stallion so the warriors could provide Ysabelle a buffer of safety. Their willingness to sacrifice their lives for her and Nicholas was a revelation of loyalty.

Nicholas brandished his sword. She clung to him fiercely, her eyes wide with terror.

Thundering his battle cry, he sliced through one man and hacked through another. Ysabelle closed her eyes, hardly able to believe what she saw. The blood and gore were almost more than she could stand. The grating of chains filled the air.

Three English soldiers surrounded them. One sought to pull Ysabelle from the saddle. A blaze of alarm prickled her skin. If she allowed it, he’d take her and kill Nicholas. Never could she sit by and let that happen.

She lashed out with her foot, kicking hard. The man drew back, but her heel connected with his jaw. A loud clop sounded as his teeth clacked together.

Growling with anger, the man reached for her again. Ysabelle had no time to think before she pulled the dagger from the sheath at Nicholas’s side and stabbed the Englishman in the chest. Blood spurted from the wound and he yelled and fell back. He would trouble them no longer.

Looking up, she saw Nicholas glance her way as he witnessed this scene. His brows lifted with surprise before he wheeled the destrier and brought his sword down upon an Englishman’s head with a sickening thud. Ysabelle cringed against Nicholas’s back, hiding her face from the slaughter.

Arrows whizzed past from the battlements, one almost struck Nicholas’s horse. Reigning in, Nicholas glared upward at a white-faced archer who looked about to cry. Just a boy whose aim was off.

Nicholas spun and deflected another blow, the swords clanging. The shock ran up his arm, through his body and into Ysabelle’s. The impact hurt. She had no idea how Nicholas kept his bones from breaking under the stress.

The Englishman attempted a sidestroke and lost, both the battle and his head. A taste of bile in her mouth, Ysabelle watched Nicholas wrench his sword out of the lifeless body.

The grinding of chains sounded over the yelling of men.

“Please hurry,” Ysabelle prayed.

Before the gate was up all the way, Nicholas ducked his head and urged Samson through the portal. Defending their back, the Scots warriors followed only when they saw that Ysabelle was out of danger. Facing the English, in case they tried to pursue, Nicholas watched grimly as the portcullis lowered and the drawbridge rose, forcing several mounted Englishmen into the river. Lord Marshal lifted a fist and yelled at them from the far shore.

“I will kill you, Scottish cur. I will severe your head and place it on a pike,” he promised.

Inside the safety of the bailey, Ysabelle sagged against Nicholas, her limbs shaking, her head turned to the side with her cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. They were safe, for now. Relief swept her, leaving her weak and tremulous.

Nicholas rode toward the stable and lowered her to her feet. She could barely stand. She felt like a drowned rat, her gown ripped, her hair sodden about her face as she clutched the bloodied knife in her fist. Dropping the weapon, she stared at it with horror. She’d killed a man in defense of her home. No doubt her father would approve, but she couldn’t agree.