Siege Of the Heart

SIEGE OF THE HEART

By ELISE CYR

LYRICAL PRESS

http://lyricalpress.com/

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

To my husband. Thank you, always.

Acknowledgements
 

This book evolved over the course of many years, and I’m grateful to a large number of people who helped me along the way.

First, special thanks to Eric, Lori, Gilly, Laura, Rachel, Andy and Sandra for all their suggestions and feedback on multiple versions of this story.

I also want to thank my editor, Paige Christian, along with Mary Murray, Renee Rocco and the rest of the Lyrical Press staff for their support and assistance in the publication of the book. I’m so glad it found a home.

Finally, thanks to my family for their love and encouragement. It has helped me more than you know.

1

December 1066

Northern Gloucestershire, England

At least she now knew the truth.

It was little comfort though, as Isabel Dumont watched the messenger ride out of the bailey. She let out a breath, a feathery cloud on the cold air. The messenger had declined her offer of hospitality, and she did not ask him to reconsider. Instead, she had seen to it his horse was watered and had pressed a gold piece into his palm to ensure his silence.

Snow had threatened all morning. Now it fell around her in fat flakes, but she did not move. She did not think she could. Her limbs felt heavy, almost waterlogged. Like the time Julien had knocked her headfirst into the river in a moment’s foolishness. And then pulled her back to shore.

That had been ages ago. Her brother’s message now had the same effect, leaving her winded and frozen in place.

Captain Thomas, who handled the training of Father’s men-at-arms, stamped his feet beside her. “My lady, if you wish it, I will make the announcement—”

“No!” The word ripped through her chest and rang in her ears. “No. You will say nothing. To anyone.”

His eyes widened. “But this cannot be kept secret.”

His disapproving tone cut through the numbness that suddenly filled her. She twisted away from him and looked out past the gates. The graying countryside swallowed all sign of the messenger. If only his words were as easy to erase.

“Your father—” Captain Thomas began.

She balled her hands into fists. “Do not say it,” she whispered.

Captain Thomas shook his head. “I must. Your father is not coming home. I know it was not the news you hoped for, but Julien’s message…”

He lifted a hand toward her shoulder, and she gave him a sharp look. He stopped mid-motion, his fingers dangling awkwardly, before resting his hand on his belt. She turned on her heel.

Captain Thomas hastened after her. “Wait!”

She wrapped her woolen mantle more securely around herself. She would not discuss it further. She could not. Not when she could scarcely think.

“My lady, please—”

She slipped her hand to the hilt of her sword—one of her father’s cast-offs—and the brush of the leather-wrapped handle against her palm made it easier to rein in her breathing. “You said there were reports of the Welsh attacking tenant farms to the west?”

“Yes. I was going to have Kendrick and some of the other men scout the area, but—”

“Good. I will join them. Tell the men to make ready.”

Captain Thomas’s mouth tightened. For a moment she thought he would disobey her, but he slowly turned toward the castle to do as she bade. Lord Bernard Dumont, thane to the king, had fallen. Now it fell to her to ensure the safety of the Dumont lands. Captain Thomas, of all people, should know what that meant.

Isabel thrust a bow and quiver of arrows from the armory over her shoulder and ducked into the stables, waving off the groom before he assisted her. She led her mount outside and fastened the leather saddle straps. Hardwin flinched when she drew them too tight and kicked his hind leg out in protest.

“Shh. I am sorry, boy.” She ran her hands over his sleek flanks. “I was careless.”

Kendrick and four more trusted men-at-arms filed out of the stables. Strong, steadfast men who should have been fighting by her father’s side in York. Not ordered behind to protect her.

Her father…

Isabel took a deep breath and pulled herself into the saddle. Captain Thomas’s gray head appeared next to Hardwin.
 

He tugged on her stirrup. “My lady, I must protest.” He threw a glance at the other men and kept his voice low, his lips barely moving as he glared up at her. “I am responsible for your welfare.”
 

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her welfare was the least of her concerns. She turned to the fair-haired Kendrick. “Ready?”

He nodded. If he observed her exchange with Captain Thomas, he gave no sign of it as he ordered the other riders ahead.

She pressed her heels into Hardwin’s sides. Captain Thomas trotted along with them, the stubborn man still clinging to the leather stirrup. She grimaced but kept her horse’s speed in check.

“Isabel…”

Before Captain Thomas had the chance to chastise her again, she leaned down as far as she could without losing her seat. “I need this,” she said through her teeth. “Can you not understand?”

His hand dropped away. She spurred her horse and did not look back.

Kendrick led the party west, past snow-covered fields and into the forest that served as their primary hunting grounds. The bare beech branches overhead hampered the falling snow, but the bitter wind still found her and her five companions. Isabel gave up trying to keep her hood in place, and her braids whipped out behind her as they rode.

Trees grew sparse as they neared the end of the hunting trail. After a few more strides, the horses emerged onto an open field.

Kendrick called for a halt. He kneed his mount around. “My lady, there has been no sign of the Welsh.”

She scanned the area. Only tumbling snow interrupted the stillness of the field. “Captain Thomas reported holdings to the west were raided less than a fortnight ago. The Welsh will not ignore an opportunity to strike now the Normans control England.” She met the gaze of each rider, ending with Kendrick. “We must be vigilant.”

Kendrick straightened, his golden curls dull in the leaden afternoon light. “We will, but I do not believe your father intended for you to lead a scouting party when he left you in our care.”

“Mayhap not.” She was certain her father had not intended for many things to come to pass. “But I will not compromise the safety of Ashdown. Not with so many of our men pledged to Harold’s army.” She yanked her hood over her head to escape the unrelenting snow and gave Kendrick a hard look. “And I would not be left behind, knowing I could be of use.”

“Your quarrel is with Captain Thomas, not me,” Kendrick said.

Looking between her and Kendrick, Godric snickered. “Indeed. We know well how persuasive you are when you want something,” the man-at-arms said to her. “I remember a certain young maiden who talked me out of my winnings at dice.” Godric quirked his bushy eyebrows, waiting for a response.

Isabel pressed her lips together as she cast about for an answer. “You should have known better than to gamble on a feast day.”

She could not muster a smile to soften her words, but Godric just laughed.

“So that is why you turned my coin over to Father Joseph? He’s been praying for my soul ever since.”

“What’s this? Not even a grin?” A touch of concern sharpened Kendrick’s voice. “What news did the messenger bring this morn to make you so foul tempered?”

Isabel’s head snapped up. The men stared at her.

They could not know. Not yet. Not when she could hardly believe it herself.

She breathed deep. Winter air lanced into her lungs. “I am fine, in truth. My father sent word of their victory at Stamford Bridge.” She spoke slowly, as if uttering the words could make it so.

“No new tidings then? We heard rumors of that battle and then Hastings weeks ago,” Kendrick said.

“The messenger’s mount went lame outside of Cirencester, delaying his travel here. At least my father sought to get word to me. He will return to Ashdown in a few days’ time.”

Her swift dismount silenced any more questions. Eagerly, the men followed her example. Isabel could not blame them. It had been a long, unfruitful ride and they would miss the midday meal, thanks to their outing. She straightened the padded tunic she wore over her kirtle, eager to stand after sitting in the saddle so long.

Kendrick ordered the two youngest, Edgar and Cuthbert, to scout ahead on foot while the horses rested. Blinking rapidly, Isabel looked to the cloud-choked sky and prayed they would be quick.

“I bet they did not have an easy time of it in Yorkshire,” she heard Martin say to the others, his hushed voice clear on the crisp air.

“They say one of Harald Hardrada’s Norse barbarians slew fifty housecarls before he fell defending the bridge,” Godric said with wonder. “For the army to march south to meet the Normans pressing from the coast so soon after the battle…”

“You heard the tales of the Normans at Hastings,” Martin said. “A lake of blood surrounded the hill where they made their stand.”

Isabel’s gaze fell to the ground, frozen mud and snow marred by hoof prints and booted feet. Better than blood.

“That is enough,” Kendrick said. “We still have miles of hard riding.”

Isabel looked her horse over, glad to find he had not gotten any scrapes from the trail. Kendrick broke away from the others and reached her side. “I am sure your father will return safely,” he told her quietly. “You need not worry.”

She patted Hardwin’s neck. Just as well he thought her merely worried. “Do not tell me that. You heard the reports of the Normans’ victory as well as I.”

“Yes, but once your father returns, he will set things aright.”