Sword for His Lady (17 page)

The door flew open as Ambrose strode into the chamber and joined Ramon at the window. Yellow and orange light lit the night in a nightmarish scene.

“Raeburn?” Ambrose asked as he studied the view.

“I would bet my horse on it,” Ramon growled. His squire skidded to a halt and scrambled to dress his master. Isabel sat up and pulled the bedding to her chin. Beyond the window, the flames rose higher, brightening the midnight sky. Screams came with the breeze as the sound of men and horses from the yard joined it.

Mildred was panting when she arrived in the bedchamber, wearing only an under robe and her hair swinging in a long braid behind her.

“Come, my lady, there's people needing stitching…”

Everyone hurried but it wasn't quick enough. Each screech made Isabel cringe. She couldn't get into her clothing fast enough. The scent of smoke grew thick, nauseating her as she finally got her boots laced.

“Bar the door behind me, Isabel.”

She turned in horror, her lips moving but no words coming out.

“Do it!” Ramon ordered her softly. He was once more the man she'd watched ride up to Thistle Keep: his armor in place, his face only visible because his visor was raised. “And let no one in that is not me or has my head with them.”

Her belly knotted, threatening to send up the remains of her supper. She gasped and fought for composure. She should not distract him with pitiful emotions. She must stand tall and steady.

His
head…

“Isabel?”

“Yes. I will bar the keep.” No words had ever felt more difficult to get past her lips.

Ramon nodded once, firm and resigned to his duty. There was a clank and shift of armor in the hallway as Ambrose appeared. Ramon turned away from her and something inside her felt as though it tore.

She lunged after him, unable to bear the separation.

“And…I shall pray for you.”

Mildred reached out to stop her, grabbing her clothing. The fabric strained as Ramon looked back at her. His dark gaze looked her up and down, a flare of enjoyment in his eyes. His lips curved, his expression softening until another scream shattered the moment. Hard, cold reality returned. But Ramon nodded again, this time gently. More appreciative.

“My lady…there is great need…” Mildred stammered, unsettled by the sounds coming through the window.

Isabel gathered her composure and straightened her shoulders. “Aye. And we shall see to it.”

The sounds of men in armor filled the keep as Ramon and Ambrose descended to the bottom floor. Their squires followed and the few torches left burning through the night flickered off their armor. A steady line of villagers were fighting their way toward the keep, carrying the wounded with them.

The hall filled with the sound of weeping and the scent of blood. The sound of Ramon and his men marching decreased. The maids looked on with wide eyes as children huddled in corners, their faces wet with tears. Everyone waited on her word. She watched the last of the villagers make their way inside.

In the distance, the first sounds of battle rose: the cries of men charging forward with courage and the sound of swords connecting.

It might very well be the sound of Ramon dying.

“Bar the door,” Isabel commanded. She didn't have time to wallow in her personal fears and neither did anyone else. “Stoke up the fire. Boil water and bring in the stores…”

With something to do, her people started to move.

“Stop crying. If you've no skill to share, set yourself to praying for the men riding out to defend us.”

Children wiped their faces on their sleeves before they fell to their knees and folded their hands.

Isabel had only a moment for a silent prayer before someone pushed her healing basket into her arms. Those lying on the tables looked to her, their faces full of pain and their eyes filled with desperation. She fought back the sickness making her belly roil and squared her shoulders.

Water hissed as it was poured into the kettles, heat touching her cheeks as the fires were stoked and the bellows worked to push air into the coals. The sound of the doors being closed sent a chill through her heart. The hard lowering of the bar sounded like the top of a coffin closing. She prayed that it wasn't Ramon's. But she couldn't ignore the possibility.

* * *

“Damned bastards have fled to the high ground.” Ambrose gestured with his sword. The light of the fires shimmered off the blood on the blade.

Ramon looked up, but the night hid Jacques.

“The bastard won't even face you.” Ambrose spat on the ground.

“He craves only the prize.” Ramon looked around the village. A dozen homes were smoldering ruins now, the hen houses emptied, and milk cows missing from their pens. “Which he has for the moment.”

Ramon dismounted and walked over to a fallen man. He kicked the body, turning it over, but he kept his sword ready, in case this was an ambush.

The body flopped over, revealing a slit throat. Ramon noticed the Raeburn crest on the man's tunic. “Raeburn is usually not satisfied with livestock.”

He didn't care for the sense of foreboding brewing inside him. It churned and grew as he turned and looked toward the high ground that was still shrouded in darkness.

“It's trickery,” he decided. “Mount up! We ride for the keep!”

His men responded instantly. Horses snorted and armor shifted as they regained the saddle and turned their horses toward Thistle Keep. Only a dozen men were left behind to guard the village and help put out the fires.

Ramon kept his errant thoughts at bay as he covered the ground back to Thistle Keep. He couldn't lose his sense of command.

But he worried that Isabel had been headstrong and not barred the keep. He admired her spirit, but she was too naive to understand the sort of man Raeburn was. Trickery came easily to him, as did riding through a village with swords slashing to ensure that Isabel would have reason to open the doors of her keep to the wounded.

He prayed that he wouldn't be too late. Jacques wouldn't make the mistake of allowing her the opportunity to escape a second time.

Thistle Keep was set on the high ground, and the cleared yard around it allowed the moonlight to illuminate it. A man hobbled up to the steps, dragging one limp leg up the steps as he groaned with the effort. He fell against the door and pounded on it with his fist.

“Shelter…mercy, lady!”

His cries were pitiful, the moonlight shimmering off a wet patch in his tunic. The metallic scent of blood drifted on the night air.

The tiny window opened, giving the man hope.

“Mercy!”

There was a groan as the bar moved. Ramon urged his stallion faster as he raised his sword.

“Hold the door! Hold the door!” Ramon yelled.

Flattened against the sides of the keep, Jacques's men waited to push in the doors. The man looked back, surprised as Ramon and his knight bore down on him. He turned his head and let out a terrified sound as he realized he was surrounded.

The men cried out, raising their swords to meet the oncoming charge. Ramon veered off, riding behind the storerooms, and found what he sought.

“Jacques Raeburn!” he roared as he raised his sword high in challenge.

Jacques was with his captains, his helmet adorned with a gold baron's coronet. There was no honorable way to refuse the challenge, and his captains were guiding their mounts away as Ramon leaned into the charge.

Their swords met with a loud clang. Ramon used his knees to control his horse as he lifted his sword high and swung it around toward his enemy.

“Preying on peasants again?” he demanded as Jacques ducked and avoided the slice of the blade. “Dismount and face me!”

“Play the chivalrous fool if you like, Segrave!” Jacques replied. “Make an easy target of yourself and I'll present your head to my bride as a wedding gift!”

“Isabel will not be yours!”

Ramon guided his horse around for another pass but Jacques was retreating, his stallion gaining ground as it was allowed to run.

There was a thunder of hooves as Ramon gave chase and his men followed. But Jacques made the forest, the trees swallowing him and his men. The ample leaves blocked out the moonlight.

Ramon pulled up with a vicious curse.

“Agreed,” Ambrose said next to him. “That bastard has planned his game well.”

“Not well enough to claim victory.”

The knowledge brought little comfort. Ramon knew that the man would be back. He turned his mount around and swept the yard before dismounting.

“Rest while you can,” he advised his men. “You may be certain this fight is not finished. Post a watch and keep your eyes open! Or risk waking with your throats slit.”

He climbed the steps, reaching down to hook the peasant man's arm and haul him to his feet. The man shivered, barely able to stay on his feet.

Ramon pounded on the door. “Open the doors. We have vanquished the raiders for now.”

The small window opened. Ramon pushed his visor up and there was a muffled cry of joy from within. He heard the groan of the bar being lifted away by thick chains. The doors creaked as they were opened.

Relief didn't sweep through him until he spied Isabel.

When it did, it nearly buckled his knees.

* * *

Her insides quivered.

It had naught to do with the blood surrounding her. But everything to do with the knight returning to her.

And Ramon was coming back to her.

It was there in his dark gaze, the fierce light of determination as he swept the hall until he found her. She stared back, drinking in the sight of him. She straightened, rising from the patient she tended, drawn to Ramon.

Her
champion.

His captains crowded around him, drawing his attention. She looked back to the man she tended but felt relief surging through her.

And gratitude.

Without Ramon, they'd have been lost.

God help them. The sun rose, but her belly was knotted as she looked out at the burned shells of homes lost to the raid. She walked toward the cemetery with the rest of the people of Thistle Keep to bury those who hadn't been spared. The newly turned earth nauseated her. Father Gabriel intoned prayers in Latin. Widows wept and orphaned children stood looking bewildered beside the graves of their parents.

Isabel tended to the duty of finding them homes, finally taking one boy to the church, because with so many men recently departed for the Crusade, there was no home that could take another mouth to feed. Even though service to the church was honorable, her heart ached for the choices she was depriving the boy of. He sucked on his thumb, looking to her with hopeful brown eyes. One young monk offered him a hand.

Isabel nodded and stood outside the doors of the church. The little boy looked at the monk and finally reached up to grasp his hand. The monk's sackcloth barely fluttered as he led the boy through the church toward the corridors only those devoted to the holy order walked.

It was the only way to ensure he did not starve. But her heart was heavy as she walked back to Thistle Keep. The lack of sleep was wearing on everyone. No stone was being hauled today, as the men needed to preserve their strength in case of another raid.

Ramon appeared on the steps, still in his armor with his sword hanging from his waist. It was late afternoon, the sun beginning to set.

But night did not offer the restful respite everyone needed. It was full of threats, and a shiver went down her back as she looked at Ramon and saw his determination.

“Isabel.” His tone was grave. His expression tightened in distaste before he moved down the steps, with his captains and men following him. He stopped in front of her and hooked his hands into his belt. Sensation prickled on her nape as she faced him.

“Jacques sees you as a prize.”

She swallowed the lump trying to form in her throat. She'd be damned if she was going to let Jacques frighten her. He was to be detested.

“I know it.”

Ramon eyed her. “You will accept escort from my men.”

Two of them left their lord and walked to stand behind her.

She shook her head but Ramon continued without mercy. “From the moment you leave your chamber, lady, until you retire for the night.”

Ambrose was watching her from beneath hooded eyes, his carefree expression gone. In fact, it felt as though they were all different people than they had been just the night before. Playfulness seemed as lost as childhood to them all.

“Do not be difficult, Isabel,” Ramon implored her. “I do not wish to be unkind, but Jacques Raeburn will not stop until there is no longer a prize to be had.”

Ramon's gaze was hard. It sickened her to see it, but what horrified her was the grim resignation in his face. The same resignation was lodged in her chest.

“We will track him down,” Ramon promised in a deadly tone.

He didn't have to.

That knowledge flared through her. Ramon owed her naught. If he departed for his own land with his knights, she could not label him a blackguard. But he took care of his people, and he was building a keep on her land even though she had refused to wed him.

What scared her was the certainty in his eyes that he would find and fight Jacques.

She couldn't bear his death.

“Do not engage him,” she pleaded. “I will stay with the escort. Raeburn will tire of waiting and seek a new prize. A simpler one to claim.”

“I know him, Isabel.” Ramon spoke gravely. “He will not tire easily. There will be more blood spilled before he accepts defeat. I will not allow him to do this to your people, Isabel. It is my duty and that of my knights. But he knows such of my character and is likely counting on it.”

“Yet this is not your fight—”

He made a slashing motion with his hand. “I know Raeburn. He will not stop unless he is forced to. He will raze every field before giving up on his quest. You think I can turn my back?”