Medieval Ever After (4 page)

CHAPTER TWO

The smell of
smoke and death was heavy in the air now, just a few moments after midnight, as Stephen pulled Joselyn across the dusty bailey and towards the keep of Berwick. The moon was starting to emerge, just peeking over the northeast hills, and the land was illuminated a soft gray color. Joselyn didn’t say a word as the enormous knight pulled her up the steps into the keep and took her into the first room they came to, a small solar just off the main entry. Once inside the cold and dark room, he shut and bolted the door.

He had also let her go by that time. Clad in her tartan and a rough wool garments that were heavy and warm, she pressed herself against the wall as far as she could go while Stephen went to see about a fire. There was very little kindling but he piled it expertly, searching until he found the small piece of flint and stone used to light the fire. He managed to spark a small blaze on the first try.

So far, he hadn’t said a word. Joselyn watched him closely, struggling not to show her anxiety. He was big and evil-looking, covered with dark stains that she could only assume to be blood. He wore no helm, his short black hair glimmering weakly as the small fire grew in strength. He blew on it a few times and when he was convinced it was not going to die, he stood up to face her.

It was like looking up at the tallest tree; she had to crane her neck back simply to look the man in the face. Being Scots, she had seen her share of big men, but the English knight before her went beyond even what she had ever witnessed. Along with the black hair, he had a square jaw and straight nose, and the most brilliant blue eyes she had ever seen. They were the color of cornflowers and as he looked at her, they fairly glowed with curiosity, power and perhaps a bit of anger. She couldn’t really blame him. But she was very concerned about what he was going to do with her. After several appraising moments, he lowered his gaze and vigorously scratched his scalp.

“As you have been informed, my name is Stephen,” he said in a deep voice that seemed to bubble up from his toes. “I am a knight in the service of King Edward, as I also served his father. I am Baron Lamberton of Ravensdowne Castle in Northumbria and will inherit the title of Baron Pembury upon my father’s death. I am also formerly a member of the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of St. John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes and of Malta. I am therefore an accomplished knight with wealth and status and you, my lady, are to have the honor of becoming my wife.”

He looked at her as he finished his sentence. Joselyn stared at the man, digesting his words, her features registering shock, surprise and disbelief in that order.

“Wife?” she repeated, stunned. “But… but I cannot marry.”

“You can and you will,” Stephen told her, “and before you throw yourself into fits of hysterics, know that this is not my doing, but the king’s. He has ordered us to wed to cement an alliance between the rebels and conquerors of this city. To resist, for either of us, would be futile.”

Joselyn’s pale blue eyes were wide with astonishment. She felt so much shock at the announcement that it was difficult to comprehend. She also felt a great deal of fear and embarrassment, knowing that the reasons behind her resistance might very well negate the deal. They were reasons she’d not spoke of since they had happened. But now, cornered by the big knight who was to be her husband, she found the horrific reasons filling her thoughts. It was making her ill simply to recollect that which she had tried so hard to forget.

“But you do not understand, my lord,” she said, her voice quivering. “It is impossible for me to wed.”

“Why?”

Her face, even in the dark, flamed a deep, dull red. She knew she must tell him but it was a labor of the greatest strain to bring forth the words.

“Because I have been living in a convent since I was eleven years of age,” she replied. “I am meant for the cloister.”

“Those plans have now changed.”

“But they cannot!” she snapped, banking swiftly when she saw the look on his face. She had a healthy fear of this knight whom she did not know. “Please believe me, my lord, it is nothing against marriage in general. I have never been meant for any marriage.”

Stephen inhaled deeply, wearily, and rested his enormous hands on his slender hips. “I understand your commitment to the cloister,” he moved towards her slowly. “I, too, was committed to a monastic order but that is no longer the case. Sometimes the needs of country and king overshadow even those of the Church. Surely you understand that.”

She moved away from him as he came closer, the tartan falling away from her head. She had cascades of luscious dark hair, slightly curly, giving her an ethereal loveliness in the weak light. For as much turmoil going on inside of him, even Stephen noticed it. With her pale blue eyes, nearly black hair and finely sculpted features, she was an exquisite creature.

“I suspect my reasons for committing myself to the cloister are different from yours,” she inched away from him as he drew close. “Perhaps you recanted your vows, but I will not recant mine. My reasons are firm enough that I cannot ever marry.”

“Have you actually taken your vows yet?”

She almost lied to him but her truthful nature had her shaking her head before she could think. “Nay,” she murmured. “Not yet. I am due to take them after the New Year.”

“How old are you?”

“I have seen twenty-two years.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow and halted his advance; he could see that she was moving away from him. “If you have been in the cloister eleven years, why have you not taken your vows before now? If you were serious about becoming a nun, then you should have taken those years ago.”

She lowered her gaze with uncertainty. “I… that is, the sisters would not let me. Not yet. They said that I still had penitence to do.”

“Penitence for what?”

Her eyes flew to him and her breathing began to grow faster and faster. She swallowed, hard, endeavoring to retain her courage to say what she must. But she found she couldn’t look him in the eye as she spoke, praying he would understand her words and rush to the king to demand the betrothal be broken. In her deepest humiliation was her only hope that he, too, would be humiliated enough to fight it.
Spit it out, foolish lass!

“When I was eleven years old, my father took me and one of my brothers on a trip to Carlisle,” she spoke barely above a whisper as she sank onto a stool against the wall. “My father went into Carlisle quite a bit on business but it was the first time I had ever gone with him. I remember that my brother and I were so very excited to go to the big city; it was an enormous place with soldiers and people. My father took us to a street with vendors who had goods from all over the world. While my father was attending to business, somehow I wandered away. I remember smelling something sweet and delicious, and I went in search of it. The next thing I realized, someone grabbed me and took me to a grove of trees that was just beyond the border of the street. I tried to scream and to fight, but he was simply too strong. I was only eleven years old, mind you, and no match for the man. He had been one of the many English soldiers I had seen throughout the city. When he finally took me to a place where no one could hear my cries for help, he.…”

She suddenly trailed off, unable to continue. Stephen, however, was riveted to her dark head, suspecting with some certainty what she was about to tell him. There was a table in the room and he lowered his big body onto the corner of the table, his eyes fixed on her with sharp intensity.

“Go on.”

She was staring at her feet. Her head started wagging back and forth. “Please….”

“Tell me the rest.”

She kept her head lowered for the longest time. One big tear fell to the dusty floor, followed by a second. “He… he compromised me.”

“He raped you?”

She nodded, once. “My family committed me to the cloister because I was not a suitable marriage prospect being that I was no longer a virgin. I have been there ever since.”

“Yet you are here at Berwick with your family during the event of a siege. Why is that?”

She cleared her throat softly as she struggled for composure. “My mother needed me,” she said softly. “She has not been well for some time and my father called me home almost a year ago. With the loss of her sons, the madness has only gotten worse.”

“After eleven years away, he calls you home?”

“He did.”

“Do you not have a sister that could have attended to her also?”

“Maggie is already married and living in York. Her husband would not let her come.”

Stephen drew in a slow, steady breath, his eyes still riveted to her lowered head. The story, such as it was, had grown by leaps and bounds. He would not be made a fool of.

“You will forgive me if I do not believe you,” he said quietly.

Her head snapped up, her pale blue eyes wide with shock and outrage. “You do not…?” she could hardly grasp what he had just said. “You do not
believe
me?”

“I do not.”

She was beside herself. “Must I prove to you that my mother is not well? How would you expect me to do that?”

“I did not mean the story about your mother, although it does ring strange. I mean the story about the English soldier raping you at eleven years of age.”

Her mouth flew open with outrage. “Do you think I tell you this horrific story simply to gain your sympathies?”

He was unemotional. “Women will say or do most anything to gain their way. No matter what you tell me, you and I shall be married as soon as the priest arrives.”

Joselyn was beyond shocked; it never occurred to her that the man would not believe her. Her shock turned to rage such as she had never known and the fire of the Scots, so inherent to her soul, bubbled up like a great raging beast.

“Perhaps shallow English wenches tell stories that are meant to bleed the heart of sympathy, but I do not lie and I do not weave elaborate fabrications,” she seethed. “What I told you was the truth. I should have expected no sympathy from a dishonorable English hound that would hang a young boy and call it justice.”

Stephen merely lifted an eyebrow. “I did not hang a young boy. And he would not have been hanged had your father possessed any honor and stuck to his bargain.”

“He tried to keep his promise but his men would not listen,” she fired back passionately. “Do you not understand this? He wanted to honor the deal struck with the English, to surrender the city on the appointed date, but his men refused to do his bidding. So my father watched as you hanged my little brother, a sweet young lad who had never caused harm to anyone. He watched, weeping, as Thomas was hanged beyond the city walls. He cried his name as my brother breathed his last. Don’t you dare accuse my father of a lack of honor; you are hardly worthy to speak the man’s name much less judge him.”

Stephen still sat perched on the edge of the table, his arms crossed as she fired her speech at him with all the subtlety of an exploding trebuchet. He was, in fact, mildly impressed with her courage. And the more he watched her, the more intrigued he was with her unearthly beauty and inherent strength.

“Then your father is a poor commander,” his manner was cool. “Had he been a capable leader, his men would have done his bidding without question. It simply proves my point that the Scots are savages without honor, your father included. He is a weakling to have allowed his son to be hanged because he was unable to control his men.”

She stared at him, so much rage and disbelief in her mind that she could no longer verbalize it. Unable to stomach the sight of him any longer, she turned away from him.

“You contemptible bastard,” she hissed.

Stephen didn’t take offense one way or the other; he had no regard for what she thought of him. She was intelligent and well spoken, and she was undeniably beautiful. But the fact of the matter was that she was a stranger, and an enemy at that, now destined to be his wife. He was more displeased with the prospect than he had been when he had first entered the room.

There was no more point in conversation; they had said all that needed saying and anything more might see them start a physical battle. There was bitterness between them and a good deal of animosity, and with nothing more to do but wait, Stephen remained perched on the end of the table, watching the weak fire in the hearth and wondering what his future held for him with an enemy wife. He suspected he was going to have to be on his guard every hour of every day so she would not slit his throat while he slept. He suspected separate bowers would be in order, his with a big fat lock.

The night dragged on as the acrimonious mood settled. By his estimate, Stephen had been staring into the flames for almost an hour when there was a soft knock at the door. Rising, he went to the panel and unbolted it. De Lara was on the other side.

“The priest has arrived,” he told him. “Are you ready?”

Stephen didn’t say a word; he moved to grab his betrothed from her seat against the wall only to realize that she had fallen asleep sitting up. He paused, his hand on her arm, refraining from yanking her awake. For some reason, he didn’t feel like being overly cruel to the woman in spite of the harsh words between them; he watched her as she slept, the gentle curve of her face and the way her perfect little nose twitched now and again. It was rather fascinating. The longer he watched her, the more entranced he became.