Medieval Ever After (17 page)

Closing the door softly, he faced de Norville first.

“It would seem that twice you have aided my wife and for that, I am deeply grateful,” he said. “Because of your diligence to duty, I am putting you in charge of Berwick’s House and Hold. That means that you will be in charge of security for the keep, kitchens and hall, and always be mindful of my wife’s presence. It also means that you answer to me and me alone as Guardian of the Hold. Is this in any way unclear?”

It was a distinct promotion from a mere sergeant in Norfolk’s ranks and Lane was visibly humbled. “It is clear, my lord,” he replied. “I am greatly honored.”

“It is I who am honored,” Stephen replied. “I will notify Norfolk and request your service. I am sure he will agree when I explain the circumstances to him.”

“Very good, my lord,” de Norville responded sharply. “What is your first command for me?”

At this point, Stephen looked at Tate. “That depends,” he said. “We have a bit of a situation involving my wife and I will defer to Lord de Lara at this point since it involves one of his men. My lord?”

Tate stood with his arms crossed and his legs braced, listening to the exchange between Stephen and Lane. When the attention focused on him, he lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully.

“You are not going to like what I have to say,” he said to Stephen.

“Why not?”

“Your wife will have to personally identify the man who attacked her,” he said. “The only way she can do that is to face him to confirm that he is indeed the man.”

Stephen lifted an eyebrow. “She’s terrified of the man. You saw what a mere glimpse of him did to her.”

Tate shook his head. “Unless we want to condemn the wrong man, I do not see where we have a choice. Think with your mind and not your heart, Stephen. She must closely identify the man to ensure there is no mistake.”

Stephen knew he spoke the truth. Sighing heavily, he averted his gaze a moment, shifting on his big legs thoughtfully. “You are correct, of course,” he sighed again, thinking of Joselyn’s reaction when she came face to face with the soldier who changed the course of her young life. “Give her time to recover and I will take her personally to find and identify this man. Lane, you will accompany us.”

Lane nodded briskly. “Of course, my lord.”

De Lara headed for the stairs. “I will send a few more men to you to take the man into custody once he is identified,” he said. “For now, I will begin to gather my troops for the return to Forestburn Castle. I am anxious to go home.”

Stephen gave Lane a few more orders, watching the man follow de Lara down the narrow stairs. Returning to his chamber, he found his wife standing in the middle of the room with Tilda and Mereld inspecting the skirt of the orange surcoat. He paused at the door, his eyebrows lifted.

“What’s this?” he demanded without force. “Why are you out of bed? I told you to rest.”

She looked up at him, great distress on her face. “Oh, Stephen,” she breathed. “I am so sorry. I tore my new surcoat somehow and we are attempting to determine how to fix it.”

He was not the least bit concerned as he put his hands on his hips and walked over to her, watching as the two old women discussed the best way to mend the dress.

“I would not worry overly,” he told her. “You have eight more that are serviceable.”

She looked miserable. “I must have torn it when I collided with the sergeant,” she lamented. “I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to damage one of your lovely gifts.”

He put his hand on her head, pulling it to his lips for a kiss. “As I said, not to worry. It was an accident.”

He went over to the bed and sat down while the two servant women finished inspecting the skirt. When they were finished, they fled the chamber with plans for retrieving needle and thread. Stephen rose from the bed, shut the door behind them, and bolted it. He turned to his wife.

“Now,” he lifted his eyebrows at her. “Are you sure you are well? Does your head still hurt?”

She smiled weakly at him. “It does, but I believe your potion is making it feel a little better,” she replied. “What was that powder, anyway?”

He wriggled his eyebrows and went to her. “Mysterious stuff. Magic.”

She cast him a dubious expression, knowing he was teasing her. “It is
not
magic,” she said flatly. “What is it?”

He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “It is made from willow bark. It cures all manner of aches and pains. Do you not trust me?”

She snuggled against him. “Of course I trust you,” she toyed with his tunic. “I just wanted to know what it was, ’tis all.”

“You are a nosey woman.”

“I know.”

He bent over and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss that very quickly turned into something very powerful. It seemed that with each successive touch, each new moment of discovery, the flames of passion between them roared hotter and hotter. There was clearly something very special between them, something that Stephen was increasingly eager to explore. Joselyn’s arms snaked up around his neck and she clung to him as his mouth ravaged her. When he straightened, he pulled her with him and her feet dangled almost two feet off the floor.

“A pity your head aches,” he murmured against her cheek.

“Why?” she asked breathlessly.

“Because I cannot have my way with you. Certainly your aching head would prevent an over amount of enjoyment for you.”

“I would not be so sure.”

He looked at her, grinning. “Are you positive? You just had a tremendous fright. I would feel like a cad for taking advantage of a weakened woman.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Being in your arms gives me the strength of Samson. You are the best cure for my weakness.”

His smile broadened, his gaze moving to her full lips as if contemplating their sweetness. “You are learning the art of sweet words quickly.”

“I have a good teacher.”

His mouth captured hers fiercely, suckling her sweet lips before plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. He was such a big man, so strong, and she was no match for his strength physically and could not match the power of his onslaught. She had one weapon over him, however, that she was not yet aware of; her sweet little hands to his head, his face, somehow undid him. He could feel them in his hair, on the sides of his face, and he realized there was not anything he would not do for her touch. It was such a small gesture yet a tremendously fulfilling one. He kissed the palms of her hands as they came near his mouth, returning to her lips once more and suckling her breathless.

Laying her on the bed, he stretched his big body over her, his hand moving down her neck to her arm and then to her breast. He kissed the swell of her bosom as he gently fondled her, thinking very seriously of removing her from her surcoat. But a loud bang on the chamber door stopped him.

It was loud enough to startle him right off the bed. Throwing open the door, he was fully prepared to ream whoever had interrupted his passion but bit the words off before they could come flying out of his mouth. Lane stood in the doorway, his fair face tense.

“Trouble, my lord,” he said shortly. “You had better come.”

Stephen didn’t ask questions. He whirled to his wife. “Stay in this chamber and bolt the door. Do not open it for anyone but me or de Lara.”

Joselyn didn’t have a chance to reply before he slammed the door. She rushed to it, throwing the bolt, wondering what the trouble was and feeling fear in her heart. Oddly enough, though, the fear was not for her.

It was for her English-bred husband.

The Scots had returned.

About five hundred Scots had poured in through the main gate of the city of Berwick, killing several English soldiers as they launched their sneak attack. They plowed their way through the city straight to the castle and began to lay an unorganized, if not aggressive, siege.

De Lara had been caught outside of the city walls with the vast majority of his men and very shortly found himself in a bloody battle with a few hundred angry Scots. He had cursed himself for being stupid enough to be caught unaware. It was apparent that the Scots had waited until de Lara, the last of the great English earls still at Berwick, was separated from the garrison inside the castle. When the Earl of Carlisle went outside the city walls to muster his troops for the return home, the Scots had attacked. The old adage of divide and conquer was their war cry.

The Scots were indeed a furious bunch. Smoke rose from fires near the city walls as groups of Scots began to burn the city. They were raging like children, aimless, simply attempting to do as much damage as possible without thought to those they damaged. As Stephen stood atop the battlements of Berwick Castle and watched, he began to understand the pattern. Surrounded by Lane, Sir Ian and Sir Alan, they made a somber, calculating group.

“I would hazard to guess that they are planning on burning the city,” he said to Lane, standing alongside him. “They would rather burn it than see it fall into English hands.”

“It is already in English hands, my lord,” Lane said frankly.

Stephen smiled ironically. “They are so blinded by their bitterness that they will cut off their nose to spite their face and call it victory.”

Lane and the two young knights snorted in agreement, watching the smoke grow heavier near the main city gates. Dusk was approaching and a battle by night was not something Stephen relished. He wondered how de Lara was faring. They could hear sounds of battle in the distance but were too far away to catch sight of what was happening. Ian was reading his mind.

“Shall we take a contingent of soldiers to de Lara, my lord?” he asked. “There is no knowing how many Scots he is facing.”

Stephen shook his head. “We cannot risk a breach of the castle. We must stay locked up tight. De Lara will have to fend for himself until such time as we can gain the upper hand and send help.”

Ian nodded, the sunset reflecting in his dark eyes. He was a very tall, very slender man with large facial features. His counterpart, Sir Alan, was average in height but powerful. He had a rather wide-eyed appearance as he watched the city in smoke. Stephen passed a glance at him, suspecting the battles for Berwick were his first battles as a knight and he had not yet learned the art of viewing the blood and fear as part of the vocation. He was still young and anxious.

They began to see a flow of men moving towards them from the interior of the city. Hundreds of Scots were advancing towards them, howling like a barbarian tide and carrying several ladders they meant to put against the walls of Berwick to gain access. The castle itself sat upon a hill with a massive curtain wall that stretched down to the river. Stephen could see a group of Scots moving for the river, knowing they were going to immerse themselves in the water in an attempt to get around the wall in order to gain access. The siege was growing more critical.

Calmly, he turned to Ian and Alan.

“And so it comes,” he said evenly. “Disburse your men along the walls and ensure that the postern gate is heavily guarded. We will have a contingent of men coming from the river side, so make sure you concentrate your men on that side of the castle. Ian, you have command of the river side of the fortress. Alan, you have the rest of the wall. Make sure it is properly covered. I will take the gatehouse.

The knights disbanded, going about their duties. Stephen remained on the wall of the gatehouse, watching the Scots as they charged the wall and began to put up their ladders. His helm, having been held in one hand, was placed atop his head and the chin strap secured. He was a knight in full battle armor, as deadly as any man who had ever walked the earth.

“Weapons!” he bellowed to the soldiers on the wall.

The troops sheathed broadswords and produced the smaller, shorter blades meant for close quarters combat. He had about five hundred men in the entire castle. Gazing at the group below, he hoped it would be enough.