The Protector (13 page)

He turned away from her stunned expression. He went to prepare for the morning, and to pray that the angels did indeed watch over her.

T
WO HOURS BEFORE DAWN
Anna entered the lowest level of the keep and began leading her small army out of La Roche de Roald. Guards carried torches to light the way through the foundation maze.

Down some of the blind corridors she could see doors, their hinges rusted from damp and disuse. She wondered if any enemies of her ancestors lay interred behind them. The possibility of facing those skeletons kept her from ever exploring the chambers.

Since Drago's death, she had been the only one who could guide someone to the cliff stairs. But this morning, as a precaution against the worst, she had passed the secret on to Catherine.

It had been a short, sleepless night. Thoughts of the upcoming battle had made her restless, but so had reflection on Morvan's visit. She had succumbed too
quickly to his flattery and touch. Something inside her, beyond her control, had responded hungrily to his hold on her. Maybe fear of the battle had done that. Perhaps a part of her had wanted him to defeat her, so that she would have an excuse not to stand where she did right now.

His parting words kept running through her mind, suggesting that the part of her that welcomed this was bigger than any fear. Was he right? Did she enjoy it? Had playing the lord become an end in itself ? Did she look forward to this battle like a warrior, and not like a woman forced by circumstances to do the unthinkable? Was she, in the end, as unnatural as that? She, who never used mirrors, now had one thrust in front of her soul and she couldn't, for all of her trying, see what was truly reflected there.

She found herself in front of the postern door. She swung it open and the sounds of surf crashed against the granite vaults. Her army followed her to the beach.

The cliff rose ragged and uneven, at places soaring above the beach, at others dipping down to scalable heights. A mile north she turned to a path that led up the jumble of rocks to the forest above.

She heard the soft whinnies before she reached the clearing. Carlos had brought twenty horses from the farm. He pointed her to one tree. Tied there were three magnificent coursers with the lean lines and slender legs that bespoke their strong Saracen heritage. They were the fastest horses and would be the mounts used by Carlos and herself and Louis.

She slid her sword through the leather loops on her saddle's left side. She swung herself up, then bent to attach a quiver near her right leg.

Hands reached out and began tying the lower thongs
to their saddle rings. She gazed at the bright eyes of the man who owned those hands. Morvan looked back, the flickering torchlight making his face appear stern. Memories of last night's intimacies passed silently between them.

He rested one hand on her knee. “Stay close to the wall. Within our archers' range,” he commanded roughly.

She would not be effective then. “I will be careful.”

“If things go badly, ride back. Gregory will be looking for you. He will get you inside.”

She hadn't known that he had given Gregory special orders. She should have guessed that he would.

“If you are in danger, remove your hood. They cannot afford to harm you.”

He was telling her to let Gurwant take her alive and unwounded. She had already decided that she would not.

He reached up and pulled her shoulder down. His hand found her head, and he pressed her mouth to his.

Carlos began to lead the men from the clearing. Morvan stepped back to pull on his gauntlets.

“Do not blame yourself for not stopping me. And do not get yourself killed worrying about me,” she said. “Carlos will be nearby, and is better at this than you would think. God go with you, Morvan.”

“And with you, my lady.”

He mounted his bay. It was a fine horse, she reassured herself, with more stamina and speed than a destrier. In an action such as this it might serve him better than a warhorse.

They made their way through the forest. Finally Carlos gestured that they had arrived. The foot soldiers took positions to the right and left and formed their
lines. She, Carlos, and Louis moved their horses to the northern edge of the group. Everyone silently waited.

Slowly, the blackness beyond the low fires of Gurwant's camp began to change. Rough shapes emerged that formed into sleeping men and restless horses. The bodies by the central fire grew distinct first, and she saw to her dismay that not all of the men were sleeping. A few, including Gurwant himself, were already up and armored.

Something beyond the camp caught her attention. On the southern field motionless shadows loomed that could only be the English archers from Brest.

Suddenly a silvery gray light spread over the field. The distant shadows grew arms and legs and strode forward together. A whistling sound broke the morning silence as volley after volley of arrows from their longbows flew toward Gurwant's camp.

Anna's own archers ran from the forest and joined the onslaught, aiming as they had been told at the clutch of horses by the forest edge.

Hell broke loose. Battle cries rent the silence. Her knights and men-at-arms charged toward the confusion of Gurwant's camp.

She galloped past the camp with Carlos and Louis close behind. As she dropped her reins and began to let her own arrows fly, she saw Haarold and a small force pour out of the castle gate.

Their surprise attack had at least evened the odds. Many of Gurwant's sleeping soldiers never rose, and most of the others fought on foot, unarmored and un-prepared. Gurwant and his knights had managed to get horses, however, and the blond head of her adversary could be seen towering above the battle as he hacked with his ax through the melee.

The battle began spreading out. Controlling her horse with her legs, she galloped along the northern periphery, aiming her bolts carefully, trying to bring down the mounted enemies by hitting the horses that carried them.

Over and over she made her sweeping runs. Her blood coursed with fear and exhilaration. Despite an overwhelming sensation of danger, she had never before felt so gloriously alive and clearheaded.

She galloped toward the castle on another pass, then turned her horse. Her heart jolted. One of Gurwant's knights had broken away from the battle and now charged toward the northern field. He raised his sword as he bore down on young Louis, who didn't see the danger behind him.

She sighted an arrow to bring down the knight's horse, but suddenly Louis was between them and in the way. Slinging her bow onto her saddle, she unsheathed her sword and spurred her horse. The knight had just reached Louis when she ran her mount straight into his, swinging her sword just in time to deflect the death blow aimed at the youth's neck.

The blade grazed Louis's arm. His horse bolted out of the way, but hers and the knight's joined in a tangle of legs that sent them both crashing to the ground.

The impact stole her breath. Pain spread through her hips and legs. As the horses righted themselves, the knight moved laboriously under his armor, pushing himself up. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the reins of her horse, but he skittered nervously and she was not able to mount.

She smelled death behind her. She dropped the reins and turned. The knight had risen. He lowered his visor and faced her.

She grasped her weapon in both hands. The battle suddenly seemed far away, and the field very big.

She heard the knight laugh before he moved toward her.

Morvan knew exactly that moment when the outcome of the battle was decided. As he wielded his sword, forcing his way through the foot soldiers to meet the mounted knights, he noticed the enemy falling back. That meant moving toward the castle wall. The fate of Gurwant's army was sealed with those first steps of retreat.

It was Gurwant himself whom he wanted, and he worked his way toward that towering blond head.

A movement to his left caught his attention. He reared his horse just in time to knock down a swords-man thrusting at the animal's legs. The bay pivoted before settling down and he found himself facing north, where he knew Anna should be riding.

He did not see her. He quickly dispatched a man who challenged him, and looked again. His gaze lit upon two unmounted horses at the northeast corner of the field, and on a slender hooded figure facing off against an armored knight.

His vivid curses came out as a garble. He charged out of the battle, not caring whether he trampled foe or ally. He pushed forward, self-recrimination and fury mixing to a deadly boil. He knew, even as he watched for it, that Anna would not remove the hood and make herself known.

The knight struck. She deflected his sword with her own, twisted quickly, and broke away. It was a good defensive move, but it would not work again. Morvan gritted his teeth and pushed the horse harder. His stomach
knotted as he realized that he would not get there in time. He heard himself yell as the knight brought a crashing blow down.

Only Anna's quickness kept her from being clove in two, but the sword connected nonetheless and she fell in a heap to the ground. The knight prepared to finish her.

He did not see Morvan coming. Suddenly the thundering bay was upon him with a sword extended straight out. Under the force of this soaring blade, the knight's head flew from his body.

Despite the armor weighing down his body, Morvan jumped off the horse and strode quickly to Anna's lifeless form. He threw off his gauntlets, sheathed his sword, and dropped to one knee, coldly afraid for the first time in his life. The battle, the field, the sun itself receded as he stared at her inert shape.

He lifted her head and slapped her face hard. A gasp of relief escaped his lips when her eyes fluttered open.

The sound of hooves made him battle-alert again, but it was Carlos bearing down on them, horrified worry on his face.

“She lives,” Morvan shouted. “Stay and cover us. I am bringing her in.”

Carlos wheeled his horse around to face the fighting, his bow ready. “Take her mount,” he yelled. “It will outrun anything on this field.”

Morvan grabbed Anna under the arms, forcing her to her feet. Blood flowed freely from her hip. It was a bad wound, but it appeared that no bones had been crushed.

He mounted and pulled her up sideways in front of him, making her cry out. The sound wrenched something deep inside him, but the pain, he knew, had been unavoidable. With his right arm grasping her shoulders,
he took the reins in his left. As a last thought he reached up and pulled the hood from her head, and the golden curls tumbled out.

The pain had brought her to full consciousness, and she grabbed on to his armor for support as the horse galloped off. He spared an instant to look down at her. His glance took in the blood soaking her garments and staining the saddle.

The thought of how close she had come to death chilled him. An overpowering anger at her willfulness gripped him.

When they reached the gate they found the drawbridge down. He did not wait for the portcullis to rise completely, but charged in, ducking below its iron edge. He rode over to Gregory and slid Anna into his arms.

“She is sore hurt. Have her brought to Catherine and the women at once.” He gave her one last look before he rode back to the battle.

The pain was intense, but Anna felt less weak than at first. “Put me down, Gregory. I am too big for you and I can stand.”

He lowered her feet to the ground. She needed to lean against him for support, but her left leg held. “Help me up to the wall.”

“You heard him, my lady.”

“He is not my lord. I will go to the wall.”

He helped her hobble toward the stairs. “There will be hell to pay for this, I tell you. He's not a man what likes being crossed and you're losing a lot of blood.”

“Just tell him that I commanded you.”

He called for a guard and they managed to get her up
to the battlements. She grabbed hold of both men and surveyed the field. Gurwant's army was being pressed back harder now.

She saw Morvan's helmet and Gurwant's blond head in the thick of it, slowly moving through the fray toward each other. As Gurwant pushed forward his battle-ax fell on one of her guards. Even from a distance she could see blood explode from the skull.

The battle came within range of the castle and the archers on the wall began taking careful aim. As the rear edge of Gurwant's army realized their position, panic set in.

“Get me a crossbow, Gregory.”

“My lady, the day is won. Go now and have that wound tended.”

She watched cold blue eyes that were fixed on Morvan. “A crossbow.”

She had no doubt of Morvan's skill. Yet Gurwant's strength and skill were great too. Morvan could be seriously wounded, perhaps maimed. Even killed. The very thought filled her with a desolation so bleak she couldn't bear it. In that moment she felt that if Morvan fell nothing else would matter, not the battle, not even La Roche de Roald itself. It was foolish, of course. He was but one man and not even kin. He had been bred for this as surely as the destriers that she raised. Still her heart could not, would not, let her risk him.