Authors: Samantha Holt
Summer Siege
A
Summer Siege
Samantha
Holt
Copyright
2012 ©Samantha Holt
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as
real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Kent,
England, April 1211
She would never
marry him.
As she
stumbled up the grassy slope that led away from the village, she swore to
herself that she would never be possessed by such a man.
The heavens had
opened with great relish that day, the mud slickened ground giving way under
her feet, slowly coating her slippers and dress, as the heavy rain plastered
her crimson hair to her face. Sheltering under a tree, she pressed herself
against the bark before sinking down to the ground, the throb in her cheek no
less poignant for the cool relief of the downpour.
Madeline’s father
had struck out at her before, to be sure, but never with such force, and never
had he threatened her thus. For the first time in her fifteen years she was
sure he would follow through on his threats should she refuse to marry Lord
Oswald.
Sir Edward was no loving father and made no secret
of his hatred for his young daughter. A son had been his ultimate goal in
marrying her mother and when she had died giving birth to Madeline the blame
had forever lain with her. A second wife provided no respite as she was just as
vile as he and her womb as barren as her father’s love. It was only with slight
relief that her step-mother had succumbed to dysentery.
With his full focus
now on his daughter, Sir Edward’s behaviour became more extreme - beatings and
threats becoming a regular occurrence. Madeline was a resilient character and
refused to be defeated, much to her father’s aggravation, forever secure in the
belief that somehow there would be an end to the nightmare that was her
existence. For certain the end would not be in Lord Oswald’s hands for she knew
him to be just as malicious as her father.
Through the heavy
drumming of the rain, Madeline perceived the sound of hoof beats approaching.
She recognised the horse first, a well-known mount in the area. It belonged to
Tristan Dumont, the son of the lord of their demesne.
Tristan was revered
by most of the women in the village, young and old alike, and no less by
Madeline. His golden hair and sun kissed skin reminded Madeline of a Greek God
and his strong build did little to dissuade her notions. A bump in the bridge
of his nose, the result of falling from a tree when they were younger, served
only to enhance his striking profile. A jawline a sculptor would be proud of
and deep blue eyes completed this beautiful man, yet he was without arrogance,
treating others with respect and kindness. To Madeline, he was perfect.
Although some eight
years older than she, they had played as children until he had joined the fight
in Normandy. Upon his return, his transformation into manhood had been
complete. His lean frame, filled out through battle, lent him the figure of a
warrior. Recently he had been seeking her out and she could not help but long
to believe that she was growing in his esteem.
As he made his way
through the sheeting rain, she admired the way the way his weather soaked hair
clung to his face, the fair strands darkening as the water ran rivulets down his
face.
Peering at her
through the rain, he smiled when he realised it was her and her heart sprang
with joy as she hauled herself to her feet.
“Madeline?” He
dismounted and made his way towards her, divesting himself of his cloak as he
went. “What are you doing out here in this godforsaken weather?”
Returning his
smile, she pulled her hair over her cheek as he wrapped his cloak about her
shivering shoulders.
“I did not realise
‘
twould
be so torrential. Where are you travelling to
with such urgency, my lord?”
“I hold an
important missive from my father; I’m to take it to Dover Castle with great
haste.”
“Then you had
better be continuing on. I would not see you delayed.”
“Can I not escort
you home?”
“Nay, I will return
home shortly.” Madeline smiled up at him as he shifted closer in a bid to stay
dry under the tree.
A sudden gust of
wind blew at the pair and Tristan moved in front of her, his large form
protecting her from the worst of it, though not before it whipped her hair from
her face revealing the proof of her father’s cruelty.
Too late, she
pulled her hair back across her cheek and Tristan looked at her in concern.
Brushing her hair from her face, he lifted her chin.
“Madeline, what is
this? Who did this to you?”
She pulled away
from his touch, looking away. “I am surely not the first woman to be on the
receiving end of a man’s anger.”
A glance at Tristan
revealed
his
increasing anger and he
pulled her chin back up, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“Who did this?” he
asked forcefully.
“
‘Tis
no secret my father is an ill-tempered man.”
“Sir Edward did
this to you? By the stars, I should like to return the favour!”
“Nay, Tristan, you
are not so foolish to think you could beat him without consequences.”
He looked at her
with frustration, a scowl marring his brow. “What could you have done to
deserve such treatment?”
“He wishes for my
betrothal to Lord Oswald of
Sothwell
. I refused my
consent, but I fear I shall be forced into the union.”
“Nay, ‘twill not
happen. I shall not allow it.”
“You,
my lord?
What
will you do?” She could not help but smile at his impassioned declaration.
Tristan was the very embodiment of gallantry and, while she still clung to
hopes, he adhered to the rules of chivalry in the same manner.
Madeline watched the
gulp of his throat, the slight uncertainty that filled his face, and she
frowned at the hesitation that was so at odds with the Tristan she knew.
“Marry me.”
She blinked at him,
unsure if she had heard him correctly, but his face told her she had not as he
anxiously awaited her answer.
“Marry me,
Madeline, and I shall protect you from the likes of your father, that much I
promise.”
Her spirits dropped
at this statement. No matter how much she wished for a man like Tristan, she
would not be looked upon with pity.
“Nay, I have no
wish to be a burden to you.”
A look of
disappointment flickered across his face and Madeline wondered if he had been
earnest in asking for her hand. Mayhap he did care for her after all and he was
not simply offering out of duty. Biting at her lip, she considered him
hopefully, praying he would tell her so.
“You would not be a
burden,” He clutched at her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, “you would
be my love.”
Madeline could not
prevent a smile from breaking across her face.
“In truth?”
He grinned and
pulled her into his embrace. “Aye, I love you Madeline of Woodchurch.”
Flinging her arms
around his neck, she nuzzled into his chest. “I love you, Tristan Dumont.”
He placed a tender
kiss to her lips and shivers of excitement ran through her as he pulled back
and looked at her with more adoration than she ever thought possible.
“I am loath to
leave you, but I must away. Duty beckons.” Leaning forwards, he brushed a kiss
to her forehead. “When I return we shall be wed, your father would not dare
refuse.”
Optimism and
excitement unfurled within her, her father’s harsh treatment quickly forgotten.
She was right to hope after all, for when her Tristan returned life would
finally bring her the joy that she so desperately craved.
Madeline watched
him as he mounted his horse, looking more handsome and brave in her eyes than
ever before.
“Stay safe, my
love.”
She nodded. It did
not matter what her father would inflict upon her, the knowledge of his love
would see her through aught. That much she was sure of.
“Oh, will you not
take your cloak?”
She went to remove
the item but he motioned for her to stop. “Nay, keep it. I will come for it on
my return.”
Madeline watched as
he made for Dover, clutching at the garment as if it were part of him.
Tristan never
collected his cloak.
Kent,
May 1216
The cool spring
breeze had begun to give way to the heat of summer and Tristan wiped at the
sweat beading upon his brow. Already down to his shirt, there was little he
could do to keep himself comfortable as he toiled in the fields. For too long,
the land had lain fallow and the village poorly tended by the steward. Tristan
had taken it upon himself to oversee the seeding and ploughing.
Hoof beats drew his
attention and he squinted into the sun as a cloaked stranger galloped down the
dusty path in the direction of the village. The rider appeared slight, rather
too small for the huge black rouncey they rode, and he wondered at their attire
for it was entirely too hot for cloaks.
A flick of red hair
escaped the hood and his heart stopped for a moment before thumping painfully
against his ribs. Forevermore, he would be reminded of his lost love at the
sight of scarlet hair. Dead for five years now, he still mourned the loss,
having never been able to claim her as his wife and protect her as he had
sworn.
Swiftly realising
the stranger was headed towards the late Sir Edward’s manor house, he laid down
his harrow and made his way to greet them
***
Upon reaching the
manor, his page informed him that their visitor was awaiting him in the hall.
Washing his hands in the proffered bowl, he asked the nine year old boy if he
had a name for their guest.
Thomas reddened,
his freckles disappearing under the blush. “Nay, my lord, I forgot to ask.”
Tristan gave a roll
of his eyes and chuckled. Thomas had only served him since last autumn and,
whilst he was a hard working boy, he was forgetful and needed much instruction
in conduct.
Stepping into the
hall, he discovered the cloaked visitor standing at the window. He realised it
must be a woman for she was at least a head, if not more, smaller than he and
her slender shoulders could be made out even under the heavy mantle.
The shutters had
been thrown open with the warmer weather, breathing life back into the stale
home and he had recently had the rushes replaced as well as the fireplace
cleaned. Sir Edward had lived a solitary life after the death of his daughter,
shutting himself away, leaving duties to the steward and the house had suffered
because of it, along with the village. Now, several months after his death,
Tristan was attempting to put things to rights.
He stopped at the
end of the large trestle table that sat in the middle of the hall and the
visitor turned at the sound of his crunching steps.
“Madeline?”
Tristan looked at
the stranger in disbelief, wondering if his grief had turned him mad. Indeed,
the woman in front of him had red waves tumbling over her shoulders and her
pale skin matched that of Madeline’s. A sad smile stretched across her full
lips and green eyes observed him nonchalantly. While Madeline had been a pretty
young girl, this woman was strikingly beautiful, her high cheek bones and
slanted eyes lending her an exotic look. There was no doubting the resemblance
though.
“Good morrow,
Tristan.”
In his gut mingled
excitement and unease, still wondering if he was deceiving himself. A quick
stride around the table took him to her side and he was assured the she was
indeed real.
“You are dead!”
She gave a little
laugh at this. “Nay, Tristan, I am quite well as you can see.”
“Nay, you do not
understand. You were dead, I saw your grave! Your father…” he trailed off as
realisation struck home.
No-one had ever
talked of Madeline’s death. All he knew was that she had taken ill shortly after
he had left and was buried before he returned. Convinced it had been the rain
that day that had caused her malady; he blamed himself for not having taken her
home.
Madeline nodded her
understanding. “My father was not a truthful man; we were both aware of that.
Though, I will admit I did not think he would go as far as feigning my death.”
Elation began to
flow through Tristan as the shock diminished and he reached for her hand.
“Then ‘tis truly a joyous day!”
Her look of
hesitation gave him reason to pause and he released her hand as she took a step
back.
As he studied the
wariness in her eyes, a thousand questions hastened through his mind. “Why did
you leave? Where have you been these past five years? Madeline, you have to
know that I have been mourning you all these days.”
Turning from him,
she ran her fingers along the fireplace, as if remembering the place that was
once her home. “I am sorry to have grieved you, Tristan. I had no choice
but to leave, my father was to force my marriage to Lord Oswald.”
Watching her
emotionless manner, he puzzled over this taciturn woman who stood in Madeline’s
place. For all her apologies, they had no worth behind them.
“Did you not tell
him of our betrothal? If you had but waited-”
She spun to face
him, her eyes bright with resentment. “I waited, Tristan. I waited until my
father drugged me and had me taken from my home. Still, I waited, but when
‘twas clear I was waiting on false hope I made my escape.”
His heart sank, the
guilt weighing heavily upon him. He always knew he had failed her but never in
such a manner.
“Forgive me,
Madeline. I was a fool to believe your father. But you are returned to me now; will
you not allow me to atone for my mistakes?”
She shook her head
slightly, her riled expression quickly shuttering over. “I do not seek your
apologies nor do I hold you to your promises. I am merely here to claim back my
lands.”
“The French-”
“Aye, I had heard
the French have taken much of the South.” Her chin tilted with determination.
“This land is my birth right and I will not see it taken.”
Taken back by the
determination in her voice, he watched her carefully. “I would see them
restored to you but you must understand the danger you will be placing yourself
in.”
“I fear not the
marauding French, Woodchurch is of little import.” She looked at him brazenly.
“Moreover, I’ve had experience enough of the dangers of faithless men these
past years.”
He pondered these
words with a frown. “What have you been doing all this time?”
She paused before
pulling her hood from her head and divesting herself of the cloak. As she
handed it to him, he fingered the cloth and realised that it was his, the one
he had given her the last time he had seen her.
“Surviving,”
Madeline told him simply.
***
Before Tristan
could respond, a flurry of skirts signalled the arrival of Alice. Originally
her mother’s servant, she had been with the family since before Madeline’s
birth. A thin, wiry woman, Alice had always seemed old to Madeline, yet she had
not aged a day since her departure. Her thick hair, perfectly white, surrounded
an age wizened face, while grey eyes peered out beneath hooded lids. A quick
mind functioned behind those eyes and Madeline had often found her to offer
good counsel.
Alice squealed when
she saw her, scurrying
fowards
and wrapping bony
hands around Madeline’s face. “So ‘tis true! Ye
be
back from the dead!”
Madeline laughed in
spite of herself. “Aye, Alice I am back, though not from the dead.”
“And look at ye, a
true beauty are ye not? Wouldn’t you say so, Sir?” Alice turned to Tristan
expectantly.
Tristan shifted
uncomfortably, their awkward reunion creating a tangible tension in the air. He
regarded her, his eyes locking onto hers, forcing a flush to pervade her
cheeks. “I would indeed.”
Madeline broke eye
contact first, unable to bear the intensity behind his gaze. While she may have
grown in beauty, Tristan had certainly grown even more handsome. His strong jaw
bore the beginnings of a beard, fair stubble scattered over his lips and jaw
line, and he had let his hair grow longer, the strands curling at the base of
his neck. His chest seemed broader, more intimidating, than five summers ago.
He had obviously spent much time in the fields as his skin was sun beaten, the
golden hue she remembered having darkened, but it only seemed to add to his
masculinity.
Alice watched their
exchange with interest before interjecting, “We thought it odd that ye took ill
so suddenly, milady. Ye seemed in fine health before ye left for the wedding.
Why, we did not even see ye buried!”
A laugh escaped
Madeline at seeing Alice’s indignation. “Pray tell, where am I buried?”
“Nottinghamshire,”
said Tristan abruptly.
She nodded; her marriage
was to have taken place in Nottinghamshire. “I see.”
Tristan gave a
depreciating laugh. “I visited it as oft as I could.”
Madeline’s heart
wrenched at his forlorn expression. She had not realised he had suffered almost
as much as she. In truth, it never occurred to her that he might grieve for
her, never realising her father would go to such extremes as to fake the death
of his only daughter.
“Aye, ‘tis true,
milady. We were all deceived. But now ye have been returned to us! Surely
‘tis time for celebrating, not mourning. Will ye be taking over the running of
the manor, milady?”
She shifted. “That
is my wish, aye.”
“
Yer
father would not deny Lady Madeline her lands surely,
milord?” Alice turned to Tristan.
“I could not say,
Alice.”
Undeterred, Alice moved
towards the stairs. “Shall I make up the beds, milord?
Ye’ll
be staying here won’t ye, milady?”
Madeline looked at
Tristan uneasily.
“
‘Tis
not my
decision, Alice.”
She had felt so assured,
so confident, when she had first rode into Woodchurch. Now, at the sight of
Tristan, it had all dissolved.
For so long she had
nurtured the belief that Tristan had betrayed her. When he did not come for
her, her quietly hopeful mind-set had been shattered. Spurred on by her belief
of his pretence, that betrayal had consumed her for the rest of her days. She
had convinced herself that he had merely asked for her hand out of duty,
knowing full well how much Tristan had liked to play the role of the honourable
protector. But now, seeing him stood before her, a weary shadow cast across his
face, her thoughts of treachery seemed ridiculous. Had he truly cared for her?
“Aye,
of course.
‘
Tis
still your home, Madeline.
Alice, put Lady Madeline in her old room, I will take Sir Edward’s room.”
“Thank you.”
She was grateful
not to have to stay in her father’s room, the memories of him were still
painful, and she imagined Tristan guessed enough. Observing him as he gave
Alice instructions for supper, she realised he was still the same dutiful man
that she had left. But, whilst he was no different, she had changed
immeasurably. Whether he had asked for her hand out of duty or not, she was no
longer that girl and she would not hold him to his vow. She would never place
herself so vulnerably again and he would be free of the burden of a broken
promise.
***
With heavy hearts
both Tristan and Madeline retreated to bed that night, Madeline to her old
chambers and Tristan to her father’s. Slumping down onto the curtained bed, she
studied the room and realised naught had changed. She wondered why Tristan had
chosen to sleep in here while acting as steward for his father.
The room was basic,
the only comforts being the bed, a rustic table and clothes chest. A brace of tallow
candles smoked happily on the table top and Alice had recently lit a fire to
ward of the chill that still lingered at night. The glow suffused the room but
could not banish the grim ghosts of another life.
Reminding herself
that she was no longer that girl, she gratefully slipped into her bed, the
ropes creaking under her slight weight. Much time spent travelling had wearied
her and she relished the feel of the mattress dipping underneath her aching
body. The sheets smelt of Tristan, assaulting her senses with his masculine
aroma. A smell she could still so vividly remember from when he had kissed her
all those years ago, in spite of the time passed.
As she drifted into
the blissful interval between wakefulness and sleep, the memories of the last
night in her room resurfaced, having been deliberately buried in the time
since.
Madeline had
practically skipped home that night, unafraid of what might be awaiting her.
Sir Edward was still angry, his temper no less abated by the sight of his
jubilant daughter. His face seemed to Madeline to be in a permanent scowl, deep
set lines running across his brow and between his
nose
.
He was practically bald but he kept what little grey hair he had left short, as
if it was a deliberate choice to have no hair. Hollow brown eyes, forever
watching her, were filled with a hatred that was never warranted.