Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) (24 page)

As peaceful as the days were for the two of them, however, the nights were filled with conflict.  They battled over who would lie on top in their bed, disagreed about whether to make love before or after supper, fought for the coverlet when they somehow wound up on the floor.  It was the kind of sweet discord Pagan gladly endured.  And over several nights, he grew convinced he was the most fortunate knight in the world, for how many men could say their favorite sparring partner was also their wife?

From high atop the battlements of the curtain wall, Deirdre wrapped her cloak more snugly against the misty afternoon and happily surveyed the commotion in the courtyard below.  Pagan’s improvements to Rivenloch over the past several days were impressive.  New planks replaced rotting timbers in the outbuildings.  Masons repaired the crumbling rock around the well and towers.  Stones were cut and carried in preparation for creating the second wall about the keep.  Pagan had men hammering at all hours of the day and children mixing daub and fetching tools.  Meanwhile, Deirdre and Miriel kept up the everyday operations of the castle and made certain there was an ongoing supply of oatcakes and ale to feed workers so they could continue their labor.

She smiled.  Even Norman-hating Helena would be impressed.

She turned then to gaze toward the forest and the faraway copse of cedars where she knew the old crofter's cottage stood, the place she suspected Helena had taken Colin.

Indeed, she was surprised they hadn't yet returned.  Surely with Helena's voracious appetite, she must be running out of food by now.  But Deirdre wasn't worried.  Helena was self-sufficient.  She'd be secure enough in the secluded cottage, and, according to Pagan, safe enough with his man.

Beyond the woods, over the distant hills, ominous columns of ashen thunder heads rose.  She scowled at them, hoping the rains would wait until the thatch on the new dovecot was finished.

Wiping the mist from her brow, she returned to observing the courtyard.  As she’d expected, it was only a matter of time before Pagan crossed the sward, in the thick of the activity.  He strode with confidence, carrying a bundle under one arm, waving at Kenneth as he passed, stopping to talk to his master builder.  Deirdre sighed, wondering if her heart would ever be still while Pagan was in her sight.

Her entire understanding of marriage had been transformed over the last few days.  Before, she’d envisioned an amicable alliance between the two of them.  Now she realized the bond between husband and wife was far more potent.  It wasn’t only that the physical intimacy they shared proved more of a pleasurable adventure than she’d foreseen, but their union created a strength of spirit exceeding their individual power.  As on the battlefield, two warriors could fend off more foes when they fought back to back.

Their union had created something else as well, at least if Sung Li’s prophecies could be believed.  The old woman could be damnably cryptic at times, but her omens were seldom wrong, and she’d informed Deirdre only this morn that a new heir of Rivenloch had arrived.

Deirdre rested a palm low on her belly, marveling at the possibility.

Passing the well, Pagan caught sight of her and stopped in his tracks.  For a moment he only stood, staring up at her.  God’s eyes, his gaze, even at this distance, warmed her to her core.  It was difficult to imagine having an intelligent conversation with him any time soon.

But she knew she must.  Turning toward the stairs, she prepared to go down to meet him, not to tell him of the babe, for it was too soon to rouse his hopes, but to discuss her father and what must be done about him.

Sadly, amidst the chaos of construction—the demolishing and rebuilding and altering of walls and outbuildings—the Lord of Rivenloch’s wits had grown progressively more feeble.  Now not only did he grieve for his wife, but for the very world dying before his eyes.  Rivenloch, his solid fortress, was no longer familiar to him.  And to a man as lost as her father, that change was crippling.  Deirdre feared he was fast losing all grasp on reality.

She couldn’t ask Pagan to stop the improvements.  They were essential.  There was but one thing to do, something the three sisters had put off as long as they could, and that was to remove Lord Gellir from power.  Indeed, it would not change things visibly.  The lord held little sway as it was.  But once power was officially transferred, once Pagan's designation was no longer steward, but lord, it would be irreversible.  And if Lord Gellir, in a moment of clarity, perceived that transfer as disloyalty...

Deirdre shivered.  As much as it pained her, she couldn’t risk Rivenloch’s safety for the sake of her father’s feelings.  Today she intended to ask Pagan to take permanent stewardship of Rivenloch, to replace her father as lord.

She meant to confront Pagan at once.  But when she saw the expression in his eyes as he met her on the spiraling steps, the one that said he was up to mischief, her mood couldn’t remain sober for long.  And as he hummed a merry tune, making her cares melt away, she decided perhaps the matter of her father could wait one more day.

“I have something for you,” he purred.

She grinned back.  “Is it the same something I glimpsed this morn beneath the bedclothes?”

“Saucy wench.  Is that all you think of?”

She would have continued their sly repartee, but she noticed the bundle he carried was swathed in expensive velvet.  “Ah, what have you here?”  She made a grab for it.

He snatched it out of her reach.  “Take care!”

“Is that for me?”

He arched a brow.  “Maybe.”

“What is it?”

“How greedy you are,” he teased.  “And on your birthday, too.”

Startled, she blinked.  While she reeled in surprise, he swept past her up the stairs.

“What do you mean, my birthday?” she asked, charging after him.  She frowned.  Was it her birthday?

He stopped suddenly at the top of the stairs, and she almost collided with him.  Then he wheeled about.  “You didn’t know?”

“You
did
?”

“Sung Li told me.”  His brow clouded with misgiving.  “‘Tis true, isn’t it?  A fortnight after Midsummer Eve?”

“I...I guess so.”  She no longer paid mind to such things.

They emerged upon the wall walk, and he dropped to one knee before her.  “Then here, my lady, is your birthday gift.”  He smiled, offering the velvet bundle in both hands.

Deirdre didn’t know what to say.  She hadn’t received a birthday gift in years.  A father who couldn't remember her name certainly couldn't remember her birthday.  And the three sisters, with typical Scots pragmatism and thrift, purchased little that wasn't essential.  Her fingers trembled as she reached out to touch the soft fabric.

“Open it,” he softly urged.

Carefully, she folded back the edges of the cloth, gasping in awe as she saw what lay within.  Nestled in the dark blue fabric was a bright blade of polished steel.  She quickly uncovered the rest.  It was a sword, a magnificent sword.  And there, engraved upon the hilt, were the figures of the Unicorn of Cameliard and the Dragon of Rivenloch, inseparably entwined.  She ran a thumb along the pommel, over the inscription. 
Amor Vincit Omnia
, it said.  Love Conquers All.

“Do you like it?” he asked, knowing full well she did.

A lump in her throat made her choke on the words.  “‘Tis the most...the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Try it.”

She took the hilt in shaky hands and lifted it, sighting along the blade.  It was flawless, as true as any she’d ever held.  And the balance...perfect.  It was a substantial weapon, aye, but so well made that it felt light in her hands.  She whisked the blade through the air, and it whistled sweetly.  “Oh.”

He grinned.  “Oh?”

Turning aside, she slashed left and right and thrust forward.  The sword was like a weightless extension of her own hand.  Such a blade could increase her speed and agility until she fairly flew at her opponents.  “God’s teeth.”

“Nay.  Only Toledo steel.”

She was too fascinated to appreciate Pagan’s quip.  While he retreated to a safe haven of the wall walk, she tested the weapon, spinning and lunging and whirling it over her head.

“This is...” she said, at a loss for words, “‘tis amazing.”

He chuckled.  “Oh, aye.”

“The balance.  The grip.  Everything is...”

“Perfect?”

She nodded.

“I’m having my armorer make them for all the Rivenloch knights.”

She spun and locked gazes with him.  “Indeed?”

“He has a half dozen made already.”

Such joy coursed through her now that she had to express it.  Pagan had remembered her birthday.  He’d given her the most incredible gift.  And he’d made yet another contribution to the defenses of Rivenloch.  She couldn’t be a more fortunate woman.

As calmly as she could, she replaced the precious blade across its velvet wrap.  Then she strode directly up to Pagan, wrapped her arms about him, and hugged him thoroughly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He returned her embrace.  “My pleasure.”

But as he held her, she noticed a subtle change in his grasp, a wary stiffening.  Without looking, she sensed that his attention was no longer focused on her, but on the far horizon.

“What is it?” she breathed.

“Well, by Lucifer’s ballocks, ‘tis high time.”

It was just like Helena to evade a sound scolding from Deirdre by charging through the front gates, bringing new drama to distract from the old.  But this time, Deirdre discovered, it was no ploy on her sister’s part.  The urgency in Hel’s eyes as she confronted Pagan was sincere.  Trouble was coming.  She and Colin had seen a huge company of English knights, marching toward Rivenloch.

Kidnapper and hostage had apparently come to a truce of sorts, for they’d limped across the hill together, Helena helping to support Colin, who’d been the victim of some mysterious injury he insisted was but a scratch.  Deirdre wondered at the truth of that, but there was no time for questions.

“Ian!” Deirdre barked.  “Sound the alarm.  Round up the crofters.  Gib and Nele, gather the herds.”

“Rauve!”  Pagan tossed him the key to the weapons chest.  “Gather the men in the armory.  And Adric, make sure the horses are stabled.”

Not to be outdone, Colin shouted, “Helena!  Take Miriel and find shelter with the other women inside the keep.”

But to his surprise, his command was greeted with stony silence.  Hel’s glare could have burned holes in him.  “Do not order me about, you pompous—“

”
Now
, wench!” he said.  “‘Tis no time to be playing games.”

She tossed her head.  “Have you learned nothing, sirrah?  Who took you hostage at knife point?  Who defended you from thieves?  Who saved your worthless—“

”Cease, the two of you!”  Pagan held up his hands.  “We’ve no time for this.  Helena, can you prepare the archers?”

“Of course,” she sneered for Colin’s benefit, then added under her breath, "if I can find them in the mess you've made of my keep."

“Then do so.”

Colin laid a palm on Pagan’s chest.  “Wait!  You can’t mean to let her stand atop the battlements.  She’s...she’s...a woman.”

Pagan smiled ruefully at his friend, clapping him on the shoulder.  Colin had much to learn about the Maids of Rivenloch.  “She’s perfectly capable.  Trust her.”

“Are you mad?”  Colin scowled, perplexed.  “You can’t let her—“

But Helena was already halfway up the stairs.

Pagan squeezed Colin’s shoulder.  “She’ll be fine.  Anyone who can singlehandedly abduct Colin du Lac...”

The usually cheery Colin looked miserable as he reluctantly nodded, gazing at the spot where Helena had disappeared.  Indeed, if Deirdre didn’t know better, she’d say the poor man was...smitten with his kidnapper.

The heartsick wretch needed distraction.  “Can you walk well enough to find my father?” she asked him.

Colin, glad to be of use, obliged at once, hobbling toward the stairs.

Meanwhile, Miriel led the women and children with calm efficiency, escorting them safely into the keep.  When all were accounted for, she took refuge there as well.

Ian drove the last of the cattle into the courtyard.  In the chaos, no one noticed the small shadowy figure slipping out the gates.  Angus closed them and dropped the portcullis, sealing Rivenloch to the outside world.  Only then did Deirdre breathe a sigh of relief.

“Well, my lady,” Pagan said to her after the knights were assembled and armed, “shall we see what we’re facing?”

They ventured up to the walk of the outer wall together, and Deirdre was pleased to see that Helena’s archers were in place, their bows at the ready.  As the sentries scoured the distant hills, one of them cried out, “There they are!”

Only the tops of their fluttering pennons could be seen as the foreign army crested the rise, but that was enough to strike fear into Deirdre’s heart, for they were great in number.  And there was no question that they marched inexorably toward Rivenloch.

She gulped.  “There are...so many.”

“Aye,” Pagan said, his lips curving into a scornful smile, “but they’re English.”

English or not, Deirdre counted at least four dozen mounted knights and an equal number afoot.  This had to be the alliance of rogue lords that had been terrorizing the Borders.

“No one fights the Knights of Cameliard willingly," Pagan reassured her.  "Once they know who they’re dealing with, they’ll lay siege rather than face our swords.”

Deirdre hoped he was right.  Pagan seemed to stake a lot on the reputation of his knights.

He studied the approaching soldiers.  “Still, ‘twould be useful to make them believe they’re outnumbered.”

“A show of force from the battlements?”

“Aye.”

Deirdre thought for a moment.  Then inspiration struck.  “We’ll use everyone.  Grooms, cooks, maids.  Tell them to hide their faces.”  She nodded toward the army.  “At this distance, none can tell knight from servant, man from woman.”

Pagan stared at her, stunned.  Then his face dissolved into a proud grin.  “Brilliant.”

But as she grinned back, her cheeks warmed by his praise, a Rivenloch archer cried out, “What the Devil...”

Pagan’s head whipped about to see what afflicted the archer, and his face sobered as he followed the man’s gaze toward the invading army.  “Bloody hell.”

Deirdre stared after him, at the gray horizon where the darkening clouds seemed to travel with the enemy, like the shade of death on the march.  Silhouetted against the sinister sky, an enormous wooden structure, pulled by two pairs of oxen, slowly rolled over the top of the hill.  It looked like a giant tower or the mainmast of a ship.  “What is it?”

His voice was flat.  “They’ve got a trebuchet.”

She blinked, then narrowed her eyes.  “What’s a trebuchet?”

He was too distracted to answer her.  Whatever the strange device was, it upset him enough that he began barking orders at once.  “Archers!  If they set up that machine, fire at those who wield it.  Do not let them use it.”

He lunged past her then, and she had to run to keep up with him as he charged down the steps.

“Do you have more bows?” he asked her as he hurried across the great hall.

“Crossbows.”

“We’ll need everything you have.  What about sulphur for Greek fire?”

She frowned.  She’d never heard of Greek fire.

“No sulphur,” he murmured.  “Rags we can soak in oil?”

“Aye.”

“‘Twill have to do.  And fetch candles, lots of candles.”

As much as she wanted to ask him what the bloody hell he was up to, she sensed his urgency, and she trusted his judgment.  As she left to find rags and candles, she heard him command the knights to the western battlements, bidding every free man to arm himself with a crossbow and bolts.  And again and again, among the men of Cameliard, she heard dire whispers of “trebuchet.”

Pagan cast an uneasy glance at the sky as he paced behind the archers.  Storm clouds bruised the heavens now.  It was only a matter of time before they loosed their store of tears.  He fingered the pommel of his sword, as restless as the gathering storm, as he watched the enemy make camp.

There was nothing more thrilling to Pagan than battling a foe with sword in hand.  Aye, he recognized the merits of other weapons—the axe, the dagger, the quarterstaff, the crossbow.  But they lacked the spirit of a fine length of Toledo steel in the hands of a trained knight.

To a warrior like Pagan, the trebuchet was an abomination, a machine of war that relied upon brute force rather than finesse.  It was a machine for cowards and barbarians too dim-witted to employ strategy.  Using such devices was loathsome and unchivalrous.

And so when Pagan laid eyes on the monstrosity rolling over the hill, a quiet rage began to simmer within him.  For the English to resort to using such a weapon, a beast of destruction that devoured everything in its path, leaving behind only shattered wood and broken rock, meant that they intended no siege, no negotiations, no compromise, and likely no prisoners.  Indeed, they probably meant to make quick work of the keep, to claim it before the sun set and before help could be summoned.

But what exasperated Pagan the most, what made guilt ride deep upon his shoulders, was the fact that because he’d been so eager to start construction on his inner wall, the sward surrounding Rivenloch was littered with great chunks of quarried rock—perfect, deadly missiles for the springing arm of the trebuchet.

The Scots had apparently never seen such a machine.  With any luck, Pagan thought, tightening his grip on his useless sword, they’d never see it in action.  But he had to get rags and oil to the archers quickly so they could fire a barrage of flaming arrows at the thing.  It was the only way to cripple it.

Deirdre emerged upon the battlements, her arms full of candles, a half dozen lads following with rags and oil.  He thanked God she wasn’t one of those whimpering wenches who might distract him from the task at hand, but a true helpmate.  Her face was etched with concern, but the dark fire in her eyes told him she was as fearless and determined as any of his knights.  Pride swelled his chest as he gazed upon her, pride and awe and...aye...love.  He loved his stubborn Scots wife.

He wished there was time to tell her how much.  When this was over, he silently vowed, he’d weary her ears with pledges of his love.  But for now, they had a castle to defend,
their
castle.

“When I give the order, make your arrows count!” he called out to the knights and archers.  “Aim for the trebuchet and those who control it.”

Deirdre studied the wooden tower, trying to puzzle out its workings.  “‘Tis like a catapult.”

“Aye, only far more powerful,” he said.  “A trebuchet can breach a castle wall with a single...”

Deirdre paled.  Pagan could have kicked himself for his careless words.  Deirdre might be a capable steward and a valiant warrior, but she’d never had to face such absolute menace to her stronghold.  Indeed, the worst threat imposed upon her up till now had likely been the King’s appointment of a Norman as her husband.

He gripped her by the shoulders and gazed forcefully into her eyes.  “Listen, Deirdre.”  Then he made her an oath, one he prayed to God he could keep.  “I won't let Rivenloch fall.”

For a moment, doubt lingered stubbornly in her eyes.  But he persisted, willing her to believe in him.  Finally she nodded.

“You’d
better
not,” she warned him, her gaze harsh, reminding him that beneath her soft flesh lay bones of rigid steel.  Then her eyes glittered mysteriously.  “I would leave our babe more than a pile of rubble.”

He blinked.  While they stared at one another, her words sank in, and he frowned in confusion.  What did she mean, “our babe”?  Was she...  Nay, it couldn’t be.  It was too soon to tell, wasn’t it?

Nonetheless, the possibility sent a thrill of secret wonder surging through his veins, leaving a strange turmoil in his heart.

He would have questioned her further, but already she was leaving his embrace to make herself useful, distributing candles to the archers.

He, too, had other matters to attend to if he was going to keep his promise.  “Soak the rags well in oil and affix them to the points,” he instructed the knights.  “Ignite them with the candles, and make sure they’re burning well before you fire.”

Helena poked her head above the stairwell.  “I’ve stationed sentries around the perimeter,” she told him, “in the event they try to undermine the wall elsewhere.”

He nodded his approval.  Deirdre’s sister might be impulsive, but she was admirably efficient and capable.  As dire as their situation was, as unprepared as the people of Rivenloch were for war, as outnumbered as the knights were, Pagan began to believe they might have a chance against the English, if they could cripple the trebuchet.

Then the first raindrop fell on his cheek.

“Shite,” he said under his breath.

Any other day rain would be welcome, for bad weather was the bane of besiegers.  But today, it would be England’s ally, dousing the fire of Rivenloch’s arrows.

Deirdre and Sir Rauve came to his side, glowering up at the rain.

“Shite," Deirdre muttered.  "We have to fire
now
."

Rauve shook his head.  “The thing is out of range.”

Pagan rubbed his jaw, weighing the circumstances as the rain began to pelt the sod like the hooves of a charger.  “We can't afford to wait.  If we don’t disable it soon...”

She squinted toward a break in the clouds near the horizon.  “How long will it take them to set up the device?”

Rauve followed her gaze.  “Not long enough.”

“Ballocks.”

“Let’s see what the archers can do,” Pagan decided.

Rauve turned out to be right.  The trebuchet was out of bow range, even for Cameliard's best archers.  The fiery shafts shot across the silver sky, only to plunge into the damp sod, several yards in front of the front line, then sputter out.

The enemy seemed impervious to the rain.  They continued their work, edging the trebuchet forward, protecting it with an array of shields that formed what looked like an enormous breastplate of scale armor.  Though they drew in range of the archers, no shaft could penetrate the steel mantle.  Even those arrows that happened to lodge fortuitously in the upper beams of the trebuchet were soon doused beneath the raging downpour.

Glaring up at the cruel sky, Pagan began to wonder if God might be English.