Warrior's Song (22 page)

    "I was not jesting, sire."

    "Chandra."

    She twisted about to see her husband's face, his eyes narrowed on her face. She saw the anger in his eyes even though his voice, saying her name, had been soft, gentle almost. She looked down at her slippers. She had not meant to flout him. She hated herself at that moment— worried that she had unwittingly flouted a man, flouted her husband, who was a man and her master. Oh, God, she was becoming nothing at all.

    Jerval rose abruptly to his feet, his hand closing tightly about Chandra's arm. "My wife is tired, my lord."

    "And you, my lord," Eleanor said to her husband, "have drunk too much wine."

    "Nay," Edward said, his eyes resting with laughter on Chandra's face. He rose and slowly pulled a heavy emerald ring from his finger. "If you, my lady, can indeed beat me, the ring is yours. And will you, Jerval, give your colors to your wife so she may wear them on her sleeve?"

    Chandra heard a gasp from Lady Avicia.

    "You have to accept me in my wife's stead, sire," Jerval said. His fingers tightened over her wrist. "Tell him that it is so, Chandra."

    She wanted to howl, to curse every foul word she'd heard since she was a little girl, to tell her husband and the world that she wasn't a useless bit of nothing. But he knew that. He didn't care. He didn't want that girl as his wife. She said, "Indeed, sire, it is so."

    She watched Edward slide the ring back onto his finger, saw Eleanor tug on his sleeve. He leaned down to hear her softly spoken words. When he straightened, he said, "Perhaps, then, my lady, we can speak again on the morrow."

    Not two hours later, a messenger arrived from Oldham, from Mark. The Scots had attacked the demesne farms and killed many of Sir Mark's people. Retribution for Alan Durwald's murder, it was said. And Oldham itself would be next. There was anger and fear in the woods, both in equal measure.

    Chandra rode at the rear of the thirty men who left Camberley within the next hour. There was a full moon. It was late, very late. She thought of Mary, and what the messenger had told her. She'd known there was no choice at all, despite what her husband would probably say, despite what he would do to her. He would never forgive her, she knew, but she had no choice. Mary, the messenger had said, was begging to her come. She needed her.

    She waited until they were a mere mile from Oldham before she rode up beside her husband.

    At first he did not pay her any attention, his eyes straight ahead, his brow furrowed in thought.

    "I will be very careful," she said. "You need not worry about me. Mary is afraid, perhaps even in danger. I need to help her."

    Jerval slewed around in his saddle, not wanting to believe what he was seeing with his own eyes.

    "I can weave, I can mend your tunics, I can weed the vegetable gardens. It is time to let me do what I was trained to do. I can help you. Truly, I had no choice but to come."

    "I don't believe this," Jerval said, slapping his gauntleted hand to his thigh. "I just don't." He wanted to strangle her in that moment.

    "I'm here only because of Mary. She needs me. The messenger told me she is very afraid, and she asked me to come to Oldham. She is the only reason I am here. She is very afraid, both for Oldham and Mark."

    "You will not fight."

    "I know. I came to be with Mary."

    When they arrived at Oldham, Mark was preparing to ride out with his men. He was leaving six men to guard Oldham keep. "You have made excellent time. I thank you, Jerval. We hear that the Scots have ridden north. We are going after them. I cannot allow this to remain unpunished."

    "We will ride with you." Jerval turned to his wife. "You will remain here, with Mary." He paused a moment, then smiled an evil smile. "Aye, you will protect the lady of Oldham. Didn't you say that was the only real reason you came?"

    "Aye." He'd believed she'd lied to him. She hadn't. They rode into the inner bailey. Chandra leapt off her horse and ran to Mary, who was standing on the wide steps to the Great Hall, pale, her hands clasped over her belly.

    Chandra didn't hesitate. She pulled Mary to her, stroking her hands over her back. "It will be all right. There are enough men. Jerval and Mark will catch them, and it will be over. I will not leave you. Come inside now; you must rest."

    "You look like a warrior again."

    "Aye, I am
your
warrior, here to guard you."

    "Thank you, Chandra, for coming. Was Jerval angry?"

    "Only for the last mile."

    "Well, that is an improvement."

    "I didn't show myself until then."

    "Ah."

    Chandra shrugged. "It matters not. Now, we have six men to guard the keep?"

    "And you, Chandra, and you."

    It was nearly dawn when Chandra, who had finally fallen into a light sleep, awoke to a strange gurgling sound. It was deep and low and it sounded like— She jerked fully awake, her knife in her hand, realizing that what she'd heard was the sound of a man choking to death on his own blood. A man usually didn't choke to death by accident.

    It took her but an instant to realize the truth. The Scots weren't headed north with Mark and Jerval on their heels. They'd circled back. They were right here, and somehow they'd gotten into the keep.

    Jerval said, looking up at the bright moon, "We have come too far. There is no sign of them. It isn't right."

    Mark sniffed the air. "It's cold, too cold," he said, "and I don't like this either. It doesn't smell right. You're right. The Scots aren't ahead of us. I know it."

    "Then where are they?"

    "I don't know, but they're not in that copse of trees yon."

    "They wanted retribution for Durwald's death— that is what you told me."

    "Aye, one of our own men-at-arms told me that, said a bandit had told him to tell me that. That this was their first onslaught, that soon, not long from now, perhaps in the dead of winter, they would return and they would drive us from Oldham and torch the keep."

    "What was an Oldham man-at-arms doing at a demesne farm? Wasn't that where the Scots were?"

    "Aye. He fancies the daughter. He was there wooing her when the Scots attacked."

    "Why didn't they steal any cattle?"

    "If it was revenge they wanted this time, as my own man told me, why would they bother with cattle? Herding cattle would slow them down, give us a better chance to catch up with them. No, they just wanted to strike us hard, quickly, then retreat. Vengeance, that's what it is."

    Jerval said slowly, "I wonder why they had this man-at-arms tell you of their plans."

    "To boast of their prowess, I suppose. After they stabbed my man in the shoulder, they must have realized it would make an excellent jest to send him to me and tell me what had happened and what they planned for the future."

    Jerval was shaking his head as he said, "It doesn't make sense, Mark. Why would they give you warning of their intent? No, it simply doesn't ring true to me. Wasn't there another demesne farmer who managed to get to Oldham to tell you what was happening?"

    Mark nodded. "Both my man-at-arms and the farmer managed to make it to the keep, my man first."

    "Where is your man-at-arms? I would speak to him."

    "As I said, he— Alaric— was covered in blood, unable to fight. He just told us we must hurry, that the Scots hadn't gotten too far, that they'd believed him very badly wounded, and thus he couldn't get to me quickly. He was too ill to come and so he remained behind."

    And there was the answer, staring him in the face. He was an idiot. He'd moved too quickly, hadn't really thought about the attack, about the man-at-arms' words, hadn't weighed the possibilities, hadn't really assessed the Scots' intent, and he'd been brought low.

    Dear God, Chandra was at Oldham. He'd left her there himself to guard Mary, to sit with her and give her milk and pat her hand. Aye, he'd thought she would be safe, and there would be no danger for her. By the saints, he should be hanged for his stupidity.

    She was there with naught but six men.

    Jerval jerked back on Pith's reins, the destrier rearing on his hind legs. "We're fools, Mark. Alaric, the man who stayed behind with his wound— he stayed in the keep?"

    "Aye, he did. Why wouldn't he?"

    "I think he's a traitor."

    "Oh, God, you don't really think that it was all a ruse, do you?"

    "He's a traitor," Jerval said again. "It was a plan to get you away from Oldham, and me as well since you sent a messenger to me. We are bloody fools." Jerval turned in his saddle and yelled to the men, "We've been betrayed! Back to Oldham!" And all he could think about was his wife, so brave it frightened him, unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds, ready to face down the devil himself, willing to die for Mary. She was there with a traitor, and the Scots.

CHAPTER 22

Chandra quickly pulled on her woolen cap, stuffing her hair beneath. She stood slowly, her knife in one hand, her sword in the other, looking around. There was no one in the Great Hall save her and Mary. The servants were up in the solar, the six guards in the bailey or on the ramparts. She walked quietly toward the front doors, out of habit looking right and left, ready, her muscles bunched, her heart pounding, but her mind was cold and sharp. There was only silence now, and the first soft gray light of dawn pearling in the quiet air through the open front doors to the Great Hall. Chill morning air also seeped through the open front doors, shifting the silent air within. Oh, God, she thought, the front doors were open.

    The doors should be closed, the heavy wooden and steel bars firmly in place, but they weren't.

    Someone had opened them and she hadn't heard a thing. Mary was seated in a chair at the back of the hall near the huge fireplace, her cheek pillowed on her palms, finally asleep. No, Chandra didn't want to awaken her yet. Maybe there was nothing wrong, maybe—

    The six men-at-arms were all outside in the bailey— they had to be, aye, on the walls, watching, searching all around the keep for any sign of the enemy. Surely they weren't asleep. There was too much at stake here. Their lives for one thing. There'd been no attack. If there had been, there would have been shouts, cries of warning, sounds of battle, but there'd been only that one death sound deep in the man's throat. Where was he? As for the servants, she didn't know where they were, but none were here in the Great Hall. She'd believed the hall stingy in its size, but now, in the utter stillness, with that death sound still echoing in her ears, she believed it huge, filled with echoes and evil and danger, and she was alone, no one to help her.

    When she couldn't bear it any longer, she walked to where the front doors to the Great Hall were cracked open and gently shoved them outward. The man whose death sound she'd heard was lying there in his own blood, his eyes wide and staring. He'd been stabbed, then somehow managed to crawl this far. He'd wanted to warn them, but he hadn't made it. He'd just died, and that meant the enemy was here, waiting, probably watching her, wondering how many men were within the keep.

    No, she wasn't alone, not any longer. The Scots had managed to get into the keep. Were all the six guards dead? She had to assume they were. What to do?

    She held perfectly still, listening. She heard the sound of boots, not many, perhaps three men, coming toward the keep, over the uneven cobbles in the inner bailey. Soon they would see the dead man on the steps; they would see the front doors open.

    She didn't have time to get the doors closed, and it wouldn't have mattered in any case because she wasn't strong enough by herself to place the huge bars into their thick wooden slots on the doors.

    She ran back to Mary and shook her, saying quickly, "Don't be afraid, Mary, but there is trouble. I need you to get beneath this trestle table. The cloth on it is long and will hide you. Quickly, quickly."

    "But, Chandra, our men—"

    "They're dead. Hurry, Mary, you must hurry. You must protect your babe."

    Once Mary was beneath the trestle table, Chandra crept back toward the front doors of the Great Hall. More footsteps, at least six men, moving quickly now, with purpose. They must have discovered that there was no one in the Great Hall except two women. There was no more reason for them to hang back. How long had they been inside the walls?

    She stood there, knife and sword raised, waiting, waiting.

    Their leader came first through the front doors, and she saw him clearly in the dawn light, harsh now, steel gray, framing the wild-haired man dressed in his animal skins, his face pocked, his eyes flat and hard.

    Even though she'd never seen him before, she knew immediately that he was Alan Durwald's brother. Their features were so similar, even the way they carried themselves. It was like meeting the devil for a second time.

    The devil had come for revenge. Someone had betrayed them.

    He stopped when he saw her standing there, a boy facing him with a single sword and a single knife, both raised and ready to do battle, tall and slim, this boy, pride in those shoulders, pride bred into his very bones. What was he doing here?

    "What," Robbie Durwald said, coming to a stop, his voice filling the dead silence of the Great Hall, "a single little lad left to defend Oldham? What think ye of this, men?"

    The men behind him laughed. Some didn't because they were looking around, searching every corner of the hall, ready, nervous.

    "A little lad," Robbie Durwald said again, and he walked to the lad, pulling up a good six feet distant because he wasn't stupid and the lad could be good with a sword. "Who are ye? Why are ye here? Sir Mark leaves ye here unguarded?"

    Chandra said nothing at all.

    "Come now, answer me. What do ye here, lad? Where is the lady of the keep? I was told only she and her friend were here."

    "She and her friend left hours ago for Camberley, for safety."

    "And why are ye the only one here?"

    "I wanted to remain. I commanded the guards. You've killed them, haven't you?"

    "Aye, they're all dead, the miserable English bastards. Aye, everything came to pass as I believed it would. Ye English have cocks for brains, so easy it was. And now there is only ye."

    Then she realized what had happened, how they'd been betrayed. The man-at-arms who'd told Mark that the Scots had fled back northward had not been wounded at all. He was the traitor. He'd opened the gates; he'd taken off the bars from the front doors.

    "Well, lad, how wish ye to die?"

    "If I die, it will be after I've ripped out your guts, you filthy bastard. You won't feel it because you'll be in hell with the devil, just watching and weeping at your failure."

    The man paused then, staring at the boy, and something sounded in his memory, something Alan had told him, and then he'd shown him that beautiful rope of hair he'd sliced away from her. No, it wasn't possible. That girl couldn't be here. She was a lady and at Camberley. But Alaric had said it was only two women.

    "What be yer name, lad? Afore I kill an enemy, I like to say his name aloud and curse him to his death."

    "I am Alaric. Unlike the other Alaric, I am not a traitor."

    "Ah, the boy knows ye for what ye are, Alaric," Robbie Durwald yelled behind him. "Come forward and tell me who this lad is?"

    "No wound, I see," Chandra said, watching the man stride toward them. She wished she could run the man through his belly.

    "No," Alaric said, "there is no wound. Wait, Robbie. I did not intend for Lady Mary to be harmed. Where is she?"

    "She is gone, to Camberley."

    Alaric was shaking his head. "No, she did not leave Oldham. I was watching." Then he stopped cold and stared. "You're Sir Jerval's lady. You're that girl warrior."

    She didn't move, just smiled at him.

    "Aye, I believe ye're right, Alaric," Robbie Durwald said. "I believe I would like to have a lady serve me ale. What think ye, men?"

    "Robbie," Alaric said, coming forward to lightly touch his hand to the man's forearm. "We don't want to remain at Oldham any longer than we have to. Sir Mark and Sir Jerval aren't stupid. We got them out of here, but they will realize what happened, that we doubled back, and they will come back. We must take Lady Mary's dowry gold and leave, now."

    "They're English, Alaric, just like you. They're stupid and thoughtless. Just ye look— they left two ladies here unprotected at Oldham. What man would leave his lady unprotected?"

    "She's not a lady. I have heard the men talk of her. They say that she fights as well as they do, that she shows no mercy, that she will run a sword through your belly, smiling all the time. We must leave, Robbie, we must."

    "Ye bore me, Alaric. As I said, ye English are stupid filthy louts." He turned slowly about to face Alaric, slipped a thin-bladed knife from his belt and, fast as a snake, slid it into his chest. "Go to hell," Robbie said, watching Alaric's eyes go wide and unseeing as he fell silently to the stone floor.

    "Now, lady, for that is what ye are, despite yer boy's clothes, I wish ye to fetch me some ale. Aye, and ye will serve me, and then maybe ye'll sit on my knee and I'll let ye beg me for yer little life and that of Lady Mary. Aye, and I'll see that hair of yers. Alan had a foot of it wrapped around his wrist. Yer husband took it from him when he killed him. Where is Lady Mary?"

    "Alaric was wrong. Sir Mark sent her through the postern gate, to Camberley, to safety."

    "If I find her, and I will look very soon now, then I will kill her right in front of ye. Believe me, for I do not lie."

    "Mary," Chandra said very quietly. "Come out."

    Slowly, Mary came from beneath the trestle table. Slowly, she stood.

    "Ah, she carries a babe, does she? Sir Mark seduced ye, little one? Planted a babe in yer belly? But he married ye— a good man, all say, but I don't care about that."

    Mary stood straight and tall, her chin up. She said, her voice loud and clear, "My husband will kill you."

    Robbie Durwald threw his head back and laughed. "He's not here, if ye'll notice, my lady. He's probably near the border by now, chasing shadows and clouds."

    "It's nearly daylight now," Chandra said.

    "Aye, and he'll ride and ride because that's what he's supposed to do, thinking he will see us fleeing like cowards just over the next rise. An Englishman's brain can't work as quickly as a Scot's."

    "As well as your brother's worked?" It was out of her mouth before she could curse herself. She held herself very still. She had to keep him there, talking, bragging, because she knew to her bones that Jerval would come. And this wasn't the way to do it.

    Robbie Durwald jerked about to face her. "Ye don't sully my brother's name, hear ye? Ye don't insult him."

    She couldn't help herself, just couldn't. "He was the cowardly one. He came at Sir John's appeal to kill my husband, but my husband wasn't stupid. He was waiting for him because he knew Sir John had betrayed us, and he trapped him in his own web and he killed him, just as he'll kill you."

    "Ye think so? Go get me ale, wench, now."

    Mary said quickly, "I can call the servants to fetch you ale. I am very thirsty myself."

    "Nay," said Robbie Durwald, "I want the lad to fetch it. Go, lad, or my knife slides into Lady Mary's sweet belly." He saw her determination, that steel that came from deep within her, and he remembered what his brother had said—"I wanted to break her, but I don't know if I ever could have." He pressed the tip of his knife against Mary's stomach. "Now, drop that little knife and sword on the floor."

    Chandra didn't want to give up her weapons, but there was no choice. Slowly, she bent down and laid the knife and sword side by side on the floor.

    "Hurry, little lad, hurry."

    It gave them more time, Chandra thought, as she ran out of the Great Hall into the silent inner bailey. Durwald's men shouted at her, but she ignored them. There were three servants in the kitchens, hiding behind flour bins. She told them to stay where they were and keep quiet. She picked up two pitchers of ale and all the goblets she could carry and brought them back to the Great Hall. If only she had some poison to pour into the ale, if only— but there was no time to search about. He would hurt Mary if she didn't hurry— she had no doubt about that at all.

    When she came running into the Great Hall, it was to see Robbie Durwald standing even closer to Mary, his knife extended, its point resting just above her left breast. She saw him reach out his hand to touch her and something inside her broke. Once she had let Mary be raped, but not this time.

    She ran as fast as she could, the men parting as she came. She raced to Robbie Durwald, and yelled, "Don't you touch her, you bastard! Here!" And she threw a pitcher of ale in his face. His arm jerked up, and she kicked him square in his groin as hard as she could, grabbed the knife as it loosened in his fingers, and went down with him as he clutched himself and fell onto his knees. She jerked him up against her as he moaned and whimpered in agony, her arm tight around his neck.

    "Now," she said to his men over his moans, for she'd kicked him harder than she'd ever kicked a man in her life. He was nearly insensible with the pain, and for the moment he was helpless. She tightened her hold around his neck and lightly sliced his own knife across his throat. A thin line of blood welled up. His men stopped dead in their tracks.

    "Robbie, what should we do?"

    "He'll not answer you just yet," Chandra said, and jerked him back to keep him off balance. "All of you will drop your swords and knives, now!"

    "Nay," Robbie Durwald managed to say, and he brought up his hands to claw at her arm. She stuck the knife tip into his throat. Blood welled out. He froze.