Forbidden Love (12 page)

"Couldn't he have simply come on his own?"

"It's possible," Guyon admitted "Many of those who sailed with William are hotheaded and too impatient to wait for anything. But if he had the King's authority, he would go to any lengths to take what he considers his."

The two men stared at each other in dawning recognition. Being an experienced campaigner, DeBourgnon would be likely to delegate the smaller settlements to his brother while he . . .

"Alaric!"

The startled warrior came running at his master's command. "My lord?"

"Get the men mounted. We ride for the stronghold at once."

Behind him, buckling on his battle helmet, a grim-faced Guyon muttered, "And pray God we are in time."

The young man peering into the heat haze blinked rapidly. He was hot, thirsty, and bored. Moreover, he had not yet gotten over his disappointment at having been left behind at the stronghold. Perhaps his imagination was playing tricks on him.

No, there was definitely movement in the trees just beyond the clearing. He leaned forward, trying to get a better view. A flash of light bouncing off steel froze him for just a moment before he gathered himself enough to bellow a warning.

Below in the great hall where she was helping to care for the injured man, Roanna jumped to her feet Running outside, she found the stronghold in an uproar. Men-at-arms who moments before had been drifting close to sleep were suddenly upright and tense. Tight-faced thegns were barking out orders. The battle-hardened housecarls who in Colin's absence ruled over all were already on the palisade, making a quick assessment of the enemy.

Climbing up next to one of them, Roanna asked, "What is it?"

"Normans, my lady," the man grated, "gathering to attack." He raised his hand, summoning a man-at-arms. "Take her ladyship back to the hall and stay with her."

"That is not necessary," she assured him quickly. "You need not take men from the fighting to watch over me. I will see to my own safety."

The housecarl looked unconvinced. His courage was beyond question, but he did not want to consider the penalty should Lord Colin return and find his lady injured. About to argue with her, he was prevented by the sudden emergence of a line of knights taking up position at the rim of the clearing.

Their high shields extending from knee to shoulder obscured much of their forms, but the dull glint of chain mail was still visible, as were the conical helmets whose pronged nose pieces gave their wearers the look of carrion birds. Powerful war horses also protected at their most vulnerable points by widths of iron rings sewn to toughened leather pawed the ground eagerly.

Behind them, a detachment of archers on foot hurried into position. But it was on the man in front that Roanna's attention focused. Rarely had she seen such ornate armor. The metal hauberk that protected his torso was made not from links of chain, as was customary, but from overlapping strips of metal the fashioning of which must have driven some poor armorer to despair. His helmet was topped by a brilliant red plume that matched the crest emblazoned on his elaborately carved shield. The same emblem flew from the banner carried by his squire.

Aware that the worst thing she could possibly do at that moment was to further distract the housecarl who had to muster the stronghold's defense, Roanna hurried back downstairs. She found Brenna still in the great hall, although standing close enough to the door to get, a glimpse of what was going on outside.

Briefly, Roanna explained what was happening. No long discussion was needed for the two women to understand that attack was imminent With a minimum of words, they calmed the children who were also sheltered in the hall, set them to work preparing bandages and splints for the wounded who were sure to come, and started servants filling buckets with water from the two wells within the courtyard.

The water was soon needed. In an effort to weaken the defenses, the Norman bowman shot flaming arrows into the stronghold. Most gutted out against the palisade. But a few reached the vulnerable thatch roofs of the great hall and outer buildings and had to be swiftly drenched.

It was left to the women and servants to guard against a conflagration as the men-at-arms concentrated on readying vats of boiling tar and oil. No effort was made to return the volley after volley of arrows. At that distance, not even the most skilled archer would be likely to penetrate the Normans' armor. Wisely, the housecarl in charge chose to reserve their resources until they could do the most good.

They did not have long to wait. Stirring impatiently on his charger, the Norman lord gave the signal to bring up the catapult. Loaded with stones, it was laboriously maneuvered into position directly opposite the main gate of the stronghold. Straining men released the taut lines holding it in place. Their aim was slightly off. The barrage struck the wall to the side of the gate, sending up splinters of wood but otherwise doing little damage.

So well constructed was the palisade that subsequent attempts had only slight effect The repeated efforts, however, wore everyone's nerves to a fine edge.

"If only it would stop," Brenna murmured tightly, covering her ears with her hands.

Roanna surprised her by disagreeing. "We won't really be in trouble until they realize they can't break through the wall that way and try something else." She didn't add that she knew full well what the next tactic would be and dreaded it.

All too soon the impatient lord recognized that the catapult could not hold stones heavy enough to smash through the palisade. He shouted an order that sent his men scurrying to gather dry grass, wood, and anything else that would burn. Soaked in oil and set afire, the blazing missile struck the center of the gate.

Fire spread instantly as logs dried by the long summer days caught flame. Heedless of their own safety, Roanna and Brenna were among those who rushed to put it out. As they frantically filled buckets of water, the Normans began their advance.

Under protection of their shields, they were able to move ever closer to the stronghold's perimeter. The English archers picked off many, but still more kept coming. All too soon, the Normans reached the base of the wall.

The housecarl shouted a command to the women to get back, but Roanna and Brenna ignored him. They joined the men pouring vats of tar and oil down on the enemy and tipping over the siege ladders that began to appear along the palisade.

For a time the tide of battle was clearly in the defenders' favor. But as more and more burning arrows fell within the compound and the air grew thick with acrid smoke, two men recently admitted to Guyon's service made the decision to switch sides. They told themselves they were driven by horror of the satanic rites they had witnessed at the wedding. But in fact it was their disappointment at the lack of booty allowed by a lord anxious to keep peace with his people that made them welcome the chance to help loot so wealthy a stronghold.

Roanna's eyes teared, her face and clothes were streaked with soot. Pain gripped her lungs as she struggled to breathe. Terror flared through her as she glanced toward the gate, only to find it swinging open. Beside her, Brenna stumbled. Roanna just managed to catch her before she could fall. Together, they raced for safety within the inner bailey surrounding the hall where the stronghold's defense now centered.

With the wall breached, what had looked like certain victory began turning relentlessly toward defeat The thegns and housecarls fought magnificently, but they could not withstand the overwhelming might of their foes who now held an irresistible advantage as they brutally slashed and stabbed their way toward the great hall at the center of the compound

Realizing that only minutes might remain before this last defense was breached, Roanna's hand fastened on the dagger hidden in her bliaut. It was the ceremonial blade of her wedding day, but as sharp as any war sword. Grimly she pressed it into her sister-in-law's hand, rejecting Brenna's efforts to refuse it

There was little chance that either of them would survive what was to come, but the instinctive protectiveness of her nature demanded that she do everything possible to help her brother's wife.

In the next instant the two women were separated by the sudden surge of battle. Brenna vanished in the midst of screaming children and struggling fighters. Roanna was thrown in the opposite direction toward the back of the hall. Frantically, she glanced round for some weapon. If she was to die, she was grimly determined it would not be alone.

But the Norman who spied her crouched in a corner of the hall did not have death on his mind. At least not right away. Though the battle was far from over, he was so maddened by blood lust as to be easily distracted. Spurring his horse forward, he drove directly for her.

Roanna had a moment to recognize the ornately dressed lord who commanded the attack before she was trapped against the wall by the heaving sides of his mount. Sliding from the saddle, the Norman seized her brutally. The visor of his helmet was raised, giving her a clear view of his small, smoke-reddened eyes, grime-encrusted visage, and thick mouth. Her stomach heaved as his hard hands roamed over her at will, savoring the ripe softness of her body.

"God's blood, what a prize! My men can finish off those English dogs. You and I have other business, wench!"

Pulling her by the nape of her heck, he half carried, half dragged her into an alcove. Flung on the floor, Roanna lay momentarily stunned as DeBourgnon yanked off his helmet and sword belt. As she struggled to rise, his booted foot lashed out, catching her in the side.

"Stay still, bitch!" A vicious leer curved his wet mouth. "I advise you to do your best to please me. Otherwise, you'll spread your legs for every one of my men before this day is out!"

Roanna barely heard him. All her energies were concentrated on a desperate effort to get away. But her strength and speed could not match his. Before she could move again, he was on her.

The thin fabric of her surcoat and tunic gave way easily before his tearing hands. He grunted with pleasure as he bared her breasts, squeezing them brutally as he ground his hardness into her.

"You're too beautiful to belong to anyone but Algerson. All the better." DeBourgnon laughed thickly. "He must be lying dead out there by now. I wanted to fight him myself, but mis is almost as good." He ripped the remainder of her clothes open and forced his legs between hers.

Dizziness engulfed Roanna. Burning tears slid down her ashen cheeks. Her lungs labored futilely as she prayed for unconsciousness. The hard shaft of his manhood touched her thigh, forcing her to relinquish all hope.

In the next instant she was free. DeBourgnon was hurled from her, his face white with shock as he confronted the enraged giant looming over them.

"You wanted to fight," Colin growled.

Drenched in blood, his eyes glowing like molten steel, he looked as though he had stepped from the very bowels of hell. His hard features were drawn so tightly that they seemed no more than a mask symbolizing death. Each bulging muscle of his massive arms and chest moved like a living thing. Against the flickering flames, a dripping war sword flashed in his hand.

Frantically, the Norman glanced at the weapon he had so foolishly unbuckled, it lay beside Roanna, close to the remnants of her tunic she was dazedly gathering about her. Colin sneered, kicking the blade toward him.

"Pick it up. You will have a chance to defend yourself like a man before I skewer you like a pig."

DeBourgnon lost no time doing as he said Rearmed, some of his swaggering confidence returned. "You can't win. My men will have taken your stronghold by now."

So quietly that it was a moment before his words sank in, Colin corrected him. "Your men are dead or dying. The victory is mine."

He moved forward slightly, the weapon balanced easily in his huge hand. "A word of instruction, though it comes too late to benefit you. Never attack a stronghold when half its defenders are away. Because"—his heavily muscled arm lifted—"they are likely to return at the least opportune moment and"— the blade slashed downward—"catch you in a pincer from which there is"—DeBourgnon's weapon rose too late to block the blow; his scream ripped the air—"no escape."

Roanna averted her head swiftly. Colin had meant what he said about forcing the Norman to die like a pig. Razor-sharp steel pierced the gaudy armor just above his intestines. Blood and gore poured from him as he fell to the ground, writhing in agony.

Impervious to the hideous sight before him, Colin made no effort to end the other man's torment His face was expressionless as he stepped over the living corpse shrieking in mindless horror.

Roanna collapsed into his arms, hiding her eyes, "I thought there was no chance. . . . H-he was going to . . ."

"I know," CoUn muttered gruffly. Cradling her to him, he lifted her as easily as a child. His voice shook as he murmured, "It's all over now. You're safe, my love."

The truth of his words was evident moments later when he carried her into the main part of the hall. Groups of retainers and servants were working together to put out the remaining fires. A makeshift dispensary was already being set up to care for the wounded.

A few men and women were wandering dazedly, but most were well in control of themselves. They went matter-of-factly about the business of dispatching those of the enemy still alive within their walls and separating their own dead for burial.