My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (37 page)

“Drink a little. It will help to soothe you,” he whispered.

He waited while she took a shallow sip. Then, he turned to look at Father Edward. “I’m glad to see you looking so well, priest. You have brought me news?”

“Yes, my lord, though my heart is saddened by what has transpired since my departure. From the looks of the battlefield, I see much death has come to Sutcliffe.”

“It has been a sad turn of events,” Nicholas agreed. “I hope you’ll now be able to put an end to the bloodshed.”

Father Edward bowed his head and lifted two sealed parchments he held within his thin hands. Looking at Lord Marshal, he spoke in a slow, thoughtful voice. “It is with regret that I must inform you that King William has been killed.”

A collective gasp filled the room. Ysabelle tensed beside Nicholas, hardly able to believe what she heard. The king was dead? How could this be?

“What are you saying?” Marshal blurted as he took a step toward the priest.

“Less than a fortnight ago, the young king was hunting in New Forest when he was struck fatally by an arrow. Walter Tirel, Lord of Poix, has been accused of the deed and has fled to France. Prince Henry was crowned king within three days of his brother’s death. As king of England, Henry has recalled you and your army. He seeks good will with the Scottish king. There is to be no more fighting along the border. King Henry has agreed to allow Lord Nicholas to rule Sutcliffe. Here is his seal to prove what I say.”

The priest handed one of the missives to Lord Marshal. The Englishman unrolled the parchment, reading quickly before he nodded in amazement. “It is true. Henry is king.”

A murmur of astonishment spread throughout the hall. Soon, relieved chatter and laughter could be heard as the ramifications of this decree were realized. The war was over. The siege was ended.

“And what of my marriage to Lady Ysabelle? Did you also visit the Pope?” Nicholas asked, his tone urgent.

Ysabelle’s breath stilled and the vast room was so silent that she could hear the crackling of the fire.

“I was told that Sir Lambert and Sir Malcolm were killed during the battle. I went to see the two men’s bodies. With Malcolm dead, there is no further claim upon Lady Ysabelle. As you are aware, the Pope was not on good terms with King William.”

Stepping forward, Father Edward placed the second parchment in Nicholas’s hands. Nicholas unrolled it, his gaze scanning it before he passed it to Ysabelle. “Will you read it for me?”

Ah, her husband couldn’t read. She was prepared to read it for him, but Father Edward interceded with a genial smile.

“Since you were betrothed already, the Pope has graciously declared your marriage to Lady Ysabelle is binding and shall not be annulled. You are legally wed.”

A cheer shook the rafters. Ysabelle gasped with joy and tears ran down her cheeks. Alex slapped his palms on the tabletop and roared with mirth. Above the din, Ysabelle could hear Nicholas’s robust laughter as he reached for her. She rushed into his arms and he hugged her close, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, eyes, and lips.

When they finally settled again, Lord Marshal bowed his head, his gaze upon Ysabelle, his expression no longer filled with hate. “I lament that King William ever gave me this mission and beseech you to understand I was merely fulfilling my duty. I regret causing you any grief.”

Blinking back tears, Ysabelle nodded her head. She was too overcome with emotion to speak. She belonged to Nicholas. Nothing could part them now. Not even death.

Marshal smiled and saluted Nicholas smartly. “I will stand by the Pope’s decree, Nicholas Ramsay. No longer will I trouble you or your people. We will gather our dead and shall leave these lands posthaste. Never have I faced a more worthy foe.”

At Nicholas’s respectful nod, Marshal turned and left the hall, followed by a gloomy-looking Father Eustace. Ysabelle didn’t care. The priest could not change the Pope’s decree. He could do them no more harm.

With their absence, Ysabelle breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, she was in Nicholas’s arms, being kissed fiercely by the Scots Ram. She didn’t care that others might witness this passionate exchange. Her happy laughter mingled with his. Their people cheered and laughed buoyantly.

Peace had been restored.

“At last we are free,” Ysabelle whispered against Nicholas’s ear. “We are both finally home where we belong. Father would have been so pleased.”

Nicholas smiled, his face lit with absolute joy. “I know he would be pleased to become a grandfather. You are my home, fair Ysabelle. Wherever you are, there I will also be. Never will I wander from my home.”

As Ysabelle gazed into his eyes, love filled her to overflowing and she found no more words worthy to speak.

THE END

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Excerpt from The Heart’s Warrior

Northern England, AD 954

Death surrounded her, a gruesome specter threatening to consume them all. The stench of lifeless bodies filled the early morning air. Screams of men vibrated throughout the forest along with the ringing clash of swords. A chilling breeze swept the copse and the tall pines surrounding the glade shivered.

Cold fear washed over Kerstin of Moere. She stood at the edge of the woods and stared at the carnage. Sweat trickled down her neck and forehead. Her knees wobbled and her arms shook with fatigue.

The destroyer had come, not a dark heathen with fangs and cloven hooves, but a golden warrior, fighting in the thick of battle. He stood shoulders above the rest, broader with hardened muscles. He wielded his sword with the skill and strength of a berserker.

He yelled orders to his men and they obeyed. His mighty sword gleamed crimson as he thrust and lunged. Several of Kerstin’s men surrounded him, seeking to cut him down. He hacked his way through one and sliced through another. Blood sprayed across his chain-mailed chest, spattering against a tree trunk to his right. As his muscled arms heaved, his shrill war cry vibrated in the air.

The cry of death.

Kerstin’s throat tightened at the grisly scene. She longed to look away, but could not. He must be stopped else all would be lost.

With trembling hands, she reached over her shoulder and plucked a long, straight arrow from the quiver strapped to her back. Her metal helmet made it difficult to see, but it shielded her identity and protected her head. Raising her bow, she aimed it at the warrior. His wide back made an easy target. Drawing back her arm, she let the arrow fly.

The thin head of the shaft pierced through a link of his mail and buried deep in his left shoulder. He didn’t scream at the impact, but grunted.

Pity that her aim had been poor, but her arms were weary from firing arrows at the enemy.

The man whirled, a snarl on his lips. His gaze stabbed her, marking her for death. With little concern, he snapped the shaft off, leaving the head embedded in his shoulder. Did he feel no pain?

He continued to slash his way toward her, his gaze leaving her long enough for him to slaughter any foe who stepped into his path. Kerstin’s men had little chance against his greater strength and a blaze of panic shot up from her toes. He would cut her down if he reached her.

Knut, one of Kerstin's best, turned in time to see the threat. Having been her protector since her mother’s death a year earlier, Knut placed his own large frame in front of her and yelled over his shoulder. “Flee! We have lost the advantage and it’s only a matter of time before we are finished.”

Kerstin couldn’t move. Her feet were leaden with despair. She couldn’t abandon her men.

She stared at the demon warrior as his burly shoulders flexed beneath his chain mail.

He was coming for her.

Terror clogged her throat. This man showed no mercy.

“Warn our people,” Knut said. "Your father will carve the blood eagle in my back if I let anything happen to you."

He pushed her around to face the dense foliage of the forest. With a mighty shove, he thrust her toward the sheltering trees.

“Go!” he roared.

She ran. With her bow clutched in her fist, she sprang through the forest, ignoring tree limbs and branches that snatched at her as she passed. Her long shirt of chain mail slapped against her knees, hampering her flight. Tripping, she crashed hard upon the ground, her heart pumping.

Lying in the dirt, she tried to catch her breath. Her lungs burned and her calf muscles cramped, but she had no time to tarry. She must warn the women, children and the old ones. Kerstin came to her knees, wiped her bleeding hands against her woolen hose, then picked up her bow where she had dropped it. As she placed one foot beneath her to stand, she heard a crashing behind her. Whirling, she saw the demon warrior plunging through the forest, moving at an alarming rate.

She gasped. Knut must be dead—slain by this monster.

As she sprang to her feet, her heart lurched with grief. She raced through the woods, veering uphill, away from her home. Never would she lead this heathen to Moere, but she must find a way to outwit him before he caught her.

Dodging hanging branches, she swooped over fallen logs. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him gaining fast. Relentless in his pursuit, he didn’t bother to push tree limbs aside as he charged after her. His heavy chain mail and helmet didn’t hinder him at all. Clutching his bloody sword in his hand, he yelled with fury, like an evil fiend from the netherworld.

Twice, she evaded his grasp. For all his enormous size, he moved fast and light on his feet, his heavy breathing now at her back. Something brushed against her neck. His sword!

With a fresh spurt of speed, she dipped around a tall pine. He hurtled after her. She couldn’t lose him.

He knocked her to the ground. He was on her. Screaming with terror, she lay upon her stomach, her face pressed into the dirt. Bracing her hands beneath her, she tried to rise, but he flattened her again. Her skin crawled, awaiting the sharp bite of his sword.

Oh, please, God. Don’t let him kill me.

She rolled to press a frontal attack, kicking and biting. He straddled her with his great thighs, his chain mail leggings digging into her hips. He tried to grasp her flailing hands. Had he dropped his sword? Why didn’t he kill her? He had plenty of opportunity.

Their scuffling knocked his helmet from his head. His fierce gaze clashed with hers, blue as the ocean on a clear day.

If he subdued her, he would kill her. She clawed at his face. He knocked her hands away with a stinging blow and she sank her teeth into his hand.

“Cease!” he roared.

He struck a blow to her helm, knocking it from her head. As her long hair fell about them, the man grunted with surprise and his grip loosened.

“A woman?”

Kerstin took the advantage and clouted his head, knocking him backward. Now was her chance! She scrambled from beneath him, but he recovered and grabbed hold of her ankle, jerking her back.

Clawing the ground, her fingernails filled with earth. She scooped up dirt and threw it into his eyes. The man roared with fury and she tensed, ready to duck a blow from one of his hammerlike fists. Instead, he lay against her, holding her wrists to the ground. She lunged upward, meeting the solid wall of his chest. She couldn’t move, nor barely breathe. Her skin prickled. Terror screamed inside her mind.

“Hold still, woman.” His deep voice shook her.

Tears burned the backs of her eyes and she swallowed, refusing to let them fall. Her brothers had taught her to be strong and she wouldn’t disappoint them now.

His breath whispered across her lips, his chilling eyes crinkled with curiosity. Drawing back, he studied her, his voice like thunder. “Why would a woman battle amongst the men?”

She jutted her chin. “I came to fight for my people. If you plan to kill me, have mercy and get it over with.”

An evil chuckle shook his chest. “Nay, I have other uses for such as you.”

Even subdued, his suggestion outraged her.

“How dare you? You’ll have naught of me,” she vowed and shook her head.

He peered at her chain mail and hose, as if amused by her man’s garb. “Why did your men attack? We were on a peaceful mission.”

“Hah!” She snorted. “When has a Sigurdsson ever sought peace? You’re dressed for war.”

“We are dressed for protection.”

“Oh? And I suppose you also sought peace a sennight ago when your men raided our flocks and killed my youngest brother. Your presence in our hills can only be taken as a sign of hostility. You can’t blame us for attacking.”

He frowned. “I find it difficult to believe your men take orders from a mere girl. Yet, they followed your command.”

Pride enveloped her. “They are loyal.”

“Loyal to their death.”

“You could have sailed up the river, where we would’ve seen you. Instead, you hid your ships and landed behind my father’s steading. If you came in peace, you should’ve sent us word you were here.”

“Your father?” He tilted his head to one side, his brows quirked. His mouth tightened, his entire body tensing against hers.

“The Witch of Moere,” he whispered in a scathing tone.

Kerstin cringed. With her foolish babbling, she had given away her identity.

“You are Kerstin of Moere, are you not?”

She froze. Dare she deny it?

His eyes narrowed. “With your cheeks smudged with dirt, you look like a puling boy.”

It had been her intent to pass as a lad to hide her identity, but pride got the better of her. “I am no puling boy.”

His deep laughter filled the air, cold and hollow. “Nay, you are all woman. Your eyes aren’t blue, like most Vikings, but green as the damp moss that covers the trunks of pine. I’ve heard you’re Irish.”

She locked her jaw. “My mother was from Eyre.”

His brows lowered in an ominous scowl. “Is she the one who taught you the black arts of witchcraft?”