My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (30 page)

“Why did your father not put her away or stone her for adultery?” Ysabelle asked.

A laugh roughened by emotion slipped from Alex’s throat. “For all his faults, Archibald Ramsay loved our mother, in his own way. She was beautiful, with black hair and shining eyes. In his heart, I believe my father knew he had driven her into another man’s arms. After her death, I don’t think he could live with the guilt, and so he also sent Nicholas away.”

Ysabelle was aghast by the sadness of the tale. “Why did Nicholas’s real father not send for him?”

Shaking his head, Alex sighed. “He had an agreement with our mother. She wanted to keep her sons with her as long as she could. Our mother planned to send Nicholas to his father when he turned thirteen, but she died unexpectedly of a fever. Nicholas’s father never knew of her passing until years later. By that time, Nicholas had been sent to Lord McDonald and the damage was done. Nicholas’s real father spent the rest of his life trying to repay Nicholas for neglecting him. They became inseparable and grew quite fond of one another. It healed many old wounds.”

Ysabelle was happy to hear this news. “And where is Nicholas’s father now?”

Alex paused. “The man died a short time ago. Now, Nicholas has no one, except you and me.”

Turning on his heel, Alex left the room. Ysabelle was deeply frustrated by this sad tale.

Sinking into a chair, she stared at her husband, wondering at Alex’s words. And then, an idea bloomed in her mind. What if she were to speak reason to Lord Marshal? Perhaps she could soothe the English and end this war. If they would listen to her, there might be peace.

Chapter Sixteen

Ysabelle sat at the high table on the dais in the great hall. The crackling fire ate at the coarse lumber scavenged from the stable and cast eerie shadows across the stone walls, but did little to warm the chilly room. Clutching her trembling hands in her lap, she vowed to be strong. Fierce guards loyal to Nicholas stood along the walls, armed and ready to fight. It was early morning, the air filled with the scent of hot ale and warm bread.

Praise the saints, they still had grain for bread. But their supplies were sadly dwindled.

Ysabelle stared at the men who approached her. Thankfully, Alex was upstairs with Nicholas. Knowing he would not agree with her plan, she had managed to get Alex out of the way by requesting he sit with Nicholas for a time. When Alex agreed, she had made haste to call the guards to her aid.

A runner had been sent to request an audience with Lord Marshal. Sir Lambert and Father Eustace now accompanied him through the hall. Ysabelle had given her word they would have safe passage inside the castle.

“My lady.” Lord Marshal bowed his head as he stood before her dressed in chain mail, his helmet braced beneath an arm at his side. Thank goodness her guards had taken his weapons. “It does my heart good to see you hail and hearty. At first, I was inclined not to come, but since the invitation was from you, I decided to take the chance.”

Ysabelle did not return his smile. “I have asked you here for a reason.”

“Truly? I am surprised Nicholas Ramsay is not also here. Does the heathen hide behind your skirts?”

Ysabelle tensed at the slur. If Nicholas were here now, he would skewer Lord Marshal with his sword.

Jutting her chin, she spoke in a strong tone. “You of all people should know my husband doesn’t need to hide from any man. You are aware I have wed Nicholas Ramsay. This cannot be undone. I want to request that you leave these northern climes. Surely you can take word to King William and convince him to give up this plan to wed me to another. This siege is futile.”

Marshal’s face reddened with anger. As the priest glowered, Sir Lambert began to bluster.

“You cannot be married to Nicholas Ramsay,” Lambert bellowed. “You are still wed to my father.”

Ysabelle felt her skin crawl. “The marriage was never consummated. Besides, Sir Malcolm is dead.”

“No!” Father Eustace sneered. “You are a bigamist and an adulteress. Sir Malcolm yet lives. If you don’t return to him posthaste, you will be excommunicated.”

Ysabelle stared at the man, feeling the blood leave her face. Her mouth went dry. Dread coiled in her stomach like a deadly serpent. What was this game they were playing?

“You lie,” she said.

“It is true. Sir Malcolm is still alive,” Marshal told her.

“King William has sent a petition to the Pope,” Father Eustace warned gleefully. “Once he declares your marriage to Sir Malcolm is valid, you will be excommunicated and your lands forfeit to the king.”

Ysabelle swallowed hard. The ramifications plunged through her like a bolt of lightning. She would lose Sutcliffe and be exiled. What would happen to her people?

Her hands shook and she smoothed her palms over her abdomen. What would happen to her child?

“But I have done nothing wrong,” she whispered.

“Your soul will be condemned, you vile sinner,” the priest hissed.

Ysabelle blanched. Excommunication. Her soul condemned. Her lands forfeit. Was she to end up birthing another bastard, just like her mother? Her babe would have no future. She and Nicholas could face almost anything, but she didn’t want their child to grow up as cruelly as Nicholas had done.

The questions whirled around in her mind, deafening her to anything else.

“We warned Ramsay of this.” Marshal lifted his hands in a placating gesture.

“What?” Ysabelle’s breath caught in her throat. Had she heard correctly? Nicholas knew Malcolm was still alive. But why had he not told her?

“We told Ramsay weeks ago that the king would petition the Pope. He knew Sir Malcolm had not died and still he refused to surrender you over to us.”

Outwardly, she remained clam. But inside, she was screaming. Her heart hardened, her veins filling with determination. She would not be deterred from her goal. She must convince these men that their fight was futile and they should leave the area for good.

“King William must have promised you much to do this,” she said. “It must bring you a great deal of satisfaction to try and force a defenseless woman to do your bidding.”

Marshal’s brows darkened as he scowled at her. “I serve my king.”

“Oh?” her brows quirked in a sarcastic smile. “Then the king did not promise you any lands and titles if you defeat my husband and give Sutcliffe to Sir Malcolm?”

His face reddened. No doubt King William had offered much wealth if Marshal was successful in keeping Nicholas from ruling Sutcliffe. It was possible even a part of her lands had been promised to the man. It was a blessing her father wasn’t here to see this black day. His wrath would be great.

“What did the king threaten to do if you fail?” she persisted.

Marshal’s gaze dropped to the floor. The coward. Without the strength of his men, Marshal was nothing. And never again would she let them force her to the altar against her will.

“Get out,” she told them. “Get out and never return. You will not have Sutcliffe. You will not have me.”

“You cannot hold on forever,” Lambert sneered. “Eventually, you will run out of food and have to surrender. If you don’t agree, you will be locked in the king’s dungeon for the rest of your pitiful life.”

She laughed. Undoubtedly, he was trying to scare her. The evil man. Did he have no conscience? Nevertheless, his words tore at her like giant talons ripping through silk. She could not stand the thought of never seeing Sutcliffe again.

“That will never happen,” she vowed. “Never will you take my father’s castle, even if I have to tear it down with my own two hands. Never will you or your filthy father live within these walls. I will kill you myself before I let that happen.”

The three men exchanged amused smiles. Lord Marshal’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure your idle threats will displease King William.”

“You speak of murder,” the priest said.

Fury filled her until she was shaking with it. If she were a man, she would skewer them all. Opening her mouth, she planned to lash out with anger. Her words were cut short as a terrible roar filled the hall.

“You bloody curs! I will kill every one of you.” Nicholas raced into the room, followed by Alex. Fully dressed, the bandage of Nicholas’s wound was hidden beneath a soft linen chainse. Armed with his sword, the Scots Ram showed none of the frailty from his wound. His skin gleamed pale in the dim hall, his eyes flashing with savage intensity.

Stepping in front of the dais, his gaze met Ysabelle’s and in that moment of time, she saw his sadness. The pain of betrayal. He was angered and hurt that she had brought his enemy into their home. Did he not know the good she had sought to do for them? Yet, her plan had failed. How she wished she had never invited Marshal inside the keep.

“How did you get in here?” Nicholas demanded of the three men.

“Lady Ysabelle invited us for peace talks.” Marshal reached toward the scabbard at his side, no doubt searching for the sword her men had removed when he had entered the gatehouse. Praise the saints she had given orders for them to be disarmed before she would see them.

“And we have reached no resolution. They were just about to depart,” Ysabelle spoke in a chilling tone.

“We should hold them hostage,” Alex chimed. “It would sting King William to have all three of them taken by the Scots Ram.”

“No!” Ysabelle stood on wobbly legs, resting her palms on top of the cloth-covered table for support. “I gave them my word that they would have safe passage. I hoped for peace but realize now it can never be. However, I will honor my vow to see them safely back to their men.”

Nicholas’s lip curled in a snarl as he stared at the three Englishmen. Anger pulsed from every pore of his body. A low growl vibrated in his chest. “Be grateful for my wife’s kindness. This once, you may have your freedom. But if you ever enter these walls again, your lives will be forfeit.”

Father Eustace’s mouth dropped open and he took a step back. Marshal looked furious but he followed quickly and the two men stumbled from the hall, fleeing toward the gatehouse.

Sir Lambert hesitated, his eyes hard, his plump face masked with anger. “Enjoy your victory while you can, Ramsay. It will be short-lived once the Pope renders his final verdict.”

“Yes,” Nicholas spoke with confidence, a cruel light filling his eyes. “Soon, we will hear from him. No matter what he decrees, I willna give up Lady Ysabelle. Now go, before I change my mind and hand you over to my brother.”

Alex glared at Lambert. Normally a cheerful man, Alex now appeared as brutal as the Scots Ram. Ysabelle forced herself not to shudder. She would not want either of these men for her enemy.

Stepping closer to the dais, Lambert looked at Ysabelle. He spoke in a low, treacherous tone and only she could hear his words. “My father is an old man. Once he is gone, I will inherit all that is his and you will be mine. You would do well to seek my favor.”

A knot of disgust rose in her throat. What a fool. Never would she seek anything from him. Holding her head high, she glared with haughty contempt as she pointed at the door. “Get out!”

A rumbling came from Nicholas as he ran at Lambert like a wave crashing toward shore. The portly man scurried back and fled as fast as his fat body could waddle.

Alex followed after Lambert. “Against my better judgment, I will make certain all three men leave the castle and make it safely across the drawbridge. If I see them again, I will do my utmost best to kill them.”

Ysabelle did not doubt her brother-in-law’s vow. After they had gone, she trembled. She had always sensed Lambert was a skulking snake, manipulating people to his will. If Sir Malcolm died and Nicholas was out of the way, she had little doubt that Lambert would seek to take her to wife so he might rule Sutcliffe. The fact that he desired his own father’s death repulsed her.

Turning her head, Ysabelle watched her husband turn and make his way back upstairs. Placing her hands over her trembling lips, she longed to run to him and beg his forgiveness. Then again, perhaps she would yell at him instead.

He had deceived her.

Somehow, they would have to talk this through. She followed him, climbing the spiral stairway, closing their chamber door against intrusion.

Without a word, Nicholas placed his sword aside and lay upon the bed, closing his eyes. He moved slowly, his movements stiff and painful.

Walking silently to the table, she poured a cup of water. From the pocket of her apron, she pulled out a vial of brown liquid and added a single drop to the water.

“Drink this. It will ease your discomfort.”

“No,” he swallowed hard. “It tastes bad and I must not sleep. I will rest awhile and then return to the wall.”

She set the cup aside, staring at his lean face. “You seem angry, my lord. Do you wish me to leave you?”

“Yes.”

“Should I go to Lord Marshal?”

He snorted. “Just try it. My men willna let you pass through the gates.”

“Will you ignore me all night, then?”

“Why did you invite them into Sutcliffe? Did you think to hand me over to my enemies?” he growled, not opening his eyes.

She gasped. “You know I would never do such a thing!” Anger pulsed through her and she asked her own question. “Why didn’t you tell me Sir Malcolm is still alive? Didn’t you think I would be interested to know I am now a bigamist?”

“You are no bigamist, Ysabelle. You are my wife.”

“Truly?” she mocked him. “And what of the Pope’s decision? Do you think I will gladly serve as your wife if my soul is condemned and our children are declared bastards? I would not sentence them to such a life. You of all people should understand that.”

His jaw hardened. “I sent Father Edward to the Pope, along with all the wealth I have earned throughout my lifetime. The priest has orders to bribe the Pope for an annulment. I have every reason to believe he will accept my generous offer.”

She sucked back a startled breath of air. Should she be angry with him for not telling her before now, or pleased that he would do this for her?

Turning away, she went to peer out the window. Night was falling across the sky as dark clouds approached from the west. The air was filled with smoke from the burning arrows their archers had shot down at the Englishmen.