Читать книгу The Maiden And The Warrior - Jacqueline Navin - Страница 8

England, 1180

Lucien de Montregnier stood over his opponent, his sword pressed against the tender flesh of the other’s neck so that the wicked edge raised a thin line of blood. Every fiber in his body was alive, humming with emotion, his mind exploding with a heady mixture of bitterness and joy. This moment, the one for which he had waited an eternity, was at last here. He had dreamed of it for so very long that the intensity filled him with exquisite, almost painful, rapture. His breath came in great gulps and a thunderous pulse pounded in his ears, but his hand was steady.

His captive said, “I will pay any ransom you demand.”

De Montregnier grinned, feeling a surge of victory that left him trembling. “I have enough riches,” he replied.

He could see by Edgar du Berg’s sly expression that his mind was racing over possibilities. Patiently Lucien waited, watching every nuance of the other man’s face, savoring the intoxicating knowledge that he had this man, his long-despised enemy, at his mercy.

Apparently du Berg decided on his tactic, saying, “Let us bargain, like reasonable men. I have no quarrel with you. I do not even know who you are. You have attacked me without cause, and have fought for two days. You were very clever to strike the day after my wedding, when my men and I are the worse for the night’s revelries. I can tell you, that is why it was so easy for you to breach the outer walls.”

“You are lazy, du Berg, and too sure of your tyranny. That is why I defeated you.”

Edgar spread his hands out before him. “What I do not understand is your challenge to settle the matter between us. You had already won. Why did you wish to fight me alone?”

“Alone?” Lucien drawled, jerking his head to the tree line to his left. Beyond the clearing, Edgar had his men in hiding.

Du Berg tried to laugh. “You did not truly think I would come unescorted. What if it were a trap?”

“You excel at deceit, du Berg, but your men do not bother me as long as they do not interfere. In fact, I have made certain that they will not. You see, behind them, a bit farther into the woods, I have a few men of my own. Have you not wondered why they have not come to rescue you?”

The widened eyes and dropped jaw of his adversary were satisfying. Until this moment, Lucien realized, the bastard had not really thought himself in danger.

“You do not fight fair!” du Berg cried. He was losing the thin veneer of control that had fed his bravado thus far.

“I have merely evened the game. It is just you and I, as it should be, for the matter we have to settle is personal.”

“Who the devil are you?” du Berg shouted. His voice cracked with strain.

Lucien held his gaze for an interminable period. Taking a deep, uneven breath, he said, “Do you recall the name de Montregnier?”

Du Berg’s face registered puzzlement, realization and, finally, naked fear. “You are the boy. Raoul’s son. I thought you dead.”

“You should have gone with more reputable murderers,” Lucien rasped. “They saw a second purse in selling me as a slave. They sent me to hell, du Berg, and like the demon I have been called, I have returned.”

Du Berg tried to scrabble backward, but an increase in the pressure of Lucien’s blade stopped him. Pinned, the man froze, his Adam’s apple bobbing precariously as he swallowed. “Do you want Thalsbury back? I can give it to you.”

“I will have it in any case.”

“De Montregnier, listen to me,” du Berg rushed, “I will restore your lands. Think on it—’tis a good offer. The days of anarchy are gone. King Henry will not appreciate his nobles killing themselves in revenge wars. You may do better to deal with me.”

“I would just as soon deal with the devil,” de Montregnier answered.

“Be reasonable, man! I can give you more alive than dead. You will never succeed—we have common law now in England.”

Lucien’s voice was very quiet, almost soft, as if he were imparting an endearment. “For my father’s life, I will take revenge. And for my own losses, I shall take everything that was yours for my own.”

Du Berg’s mouth worked mutely, sweat pouring in rivulets from his temples. De Montregnier saw the intent on Edgar’s face even before a single muscle twitched. In a sudden move, he knocked aside de Montregnier’s weapon and lunged forward, reaching for a concealed dagger and bringing it to bear with a flash of reflected light as bright as a torch in the night.

Lucien stepped aside at the last moment and the deadly thrust slashed harmlessly through the air. Du Berg staggered back, still brandishing his blade. He shouted, “What do you want?”

“Your death,” Lucien answered, and in one swift motion brought his sword up and then down again in a controlled arc. The blow landed with a satisfying whack! and a spray of blood, nesting the blade deep into Edgar’s side.

Eyes wide, he stared at Lucien. Not angry or afraid, simply surprised. Then, slowly, pain flooded his features and his eyes rolled up into his head as he collapsed.

Dispassionately de Montregnier yanked out his sword. He stood very still for a moment, staring down at Edgar’s crumpled form. It was a long time before he turned away.

Edgar’s men ran forward. Without a glance, Lucien mounted, calling over his shoulder, “See that he is buried. Have the grave blessed if you can find a priest that will do it, but do not bring the body back to Gastonbury. The barony is mine now, and I’ll not have his rotting flesh despoiling the land any longer.”

Alayna of Avenford stood among the crowd gathered in the bailey of Gastonbury Castle. It had been a long day, one she had spent tending the wounded in the makeshift infirmary set up in the chapel. After two days of war—and that coming so quick on the heels of her disastrous wedding—she was numb, but with fatigue or relief, she was not sure. The news had come hours ago that the Lord of Gastonbury had been defeated by the leader of the attacking army, and, God have mercy on her, she was glad.

Edgar was dead, yes, and a blessing it was, but she had only to look at the faces of those around her to realize that her providence was their tragedy. These were the families of the wounded and the dead, facing an uncertain future at the hands of their conqueror.

A hand fumbled for hers, and she looked to see her nurse, Eurice. The older woman’s face was lined with worry. “Sweetling,” she whispered.

Alayna shook her head. “Rest easy. I am well.”

Eurice’s sharp eyes were troubled and searching. It was not difficult to surmise what was worrying her. “He did not harm me, Eurice. In fact, Edgar could not even remove his clothing, he was so far gone with drink. By the time he came up to the chamber, he was barely standing.” It was true she was still a maid. Wed only a pair of days ago, already a widow, she had been spared the revolting ordeal of submitting her body to her despised husband. On their wedding night he had been too drunk, and the call to arms the following morn had saved her from Edgar putting the matter to rights. “Whatever this war brings to these poor folk, it has won me my freedom.”

Eurice was not reassured. “I do not think it will be that simple, child. War rarely benefits the defeated.”

Alayna shook her head, releasing dark tendrils of hair from its loose knot. “We are not of the defeated. I was forced into this marriage, and now God has provided an end to it. I do not belong to Gastonbury, but once again to myself. As soon as I can get a message to Mother, she will send her men to see me home.”

“You are impetuous, child,” Eurice scolded. “You were Edgar’s bride, and his enemy shall not overlook that.”

“But I was not!” Alayna insisted. “I am a virgin, still, and so no widow in truth, for I was never a wife.” She narrowed her eyes as the faraway sound of hoofbeats began as a low, distant rumble. The victorious army was arriving. “And I will go home,” she vowed.

The gates had been flung wide to admit the invading forces. Despite her brave words, Alayna clutched Eurice’s arm and squinted in the glare of the late afternoon sun, surprised to note that her heart was racing and she was holding her breath as the soldiers appeared, seeming to be a solid mass silhouetted against the light. They moved forward as one, the sound of their approach rising to a steady thunder.

The amorphous form took on the shapes of individual men. Their leader rode on point ahead of the others, flanked by the mounted knights, then followed by footed soldiers who fanned out behind. They spilled into the courtyard, filling it and pressing the crowd back. When the last of the soldiers had come to a stop, the leader kicked his destrier forward so that he stood alone. All was silent as the people of Gastonbury and their conqueror regarded each other.

Alayna heard someone behind her hiss, “He looks like a devil!”

Indeed, his dark countenance and grim expression did put one to mind of a demon. He had a long mane of unruly black hair, matched by brows that hovered in a scowl over eyes of piercing black. They glowed like coals as he stared unwaveringly into the crowd. A close-cropped beard, cut so short it looked like only a few day’s growth, ran along his jawline and chin, connecting to a thin mustache. His nose was strong, his cheekbones sharply defined. Upon his left cheek, high up next to his temple, a jagged scar showed starkly against his sun-darkened skin. It did not detract from his looks, only enhanced the sinister attractiveness he wore with ease. He was large, broad shouldered and hard muscled in the manner of a man taught well in the arts of war.

Alayna felt something curl tightly in the pit of her stomach, something within that reacted to the power of him, the unaffected handsomeness, the commanding presence and arrogant air that would make the most stouthearted tremble. Even if he had not ridden in front as was his due, she would have recognized him as the leader from the effortless mantle of authority he wore.

“I am Lucien de Montregnier,” he announced without inflection.

There was a reaction to that name. A few people gasped and a low murmur echoed among the throng, but it died quickly. Alayna looked about, curious.

“Lord Edgar is dead,” he said. “His defeat gives me this castle and all holdings tied to it.” His voice held neither apology nor brag, merely stated fact. “As the victor in this challenge, I declare that I am your new lord until the justice of these events can be determined by a representative of King Henry, which is what the law commands.”

Alayna watched his eyes scan the crowd, then settle on her. There was something there in that dark gaze that held her captive, even while she did not comprehend it. He frightened her in a different way than Edgar had. Of Edgar, she had feared his brute strength and unbridled cruelty, both of which she had sampled during their brief acquaintance. Yet, there was something far more dangerous in this man’s look. She was unable to turn away.

“I will require an oath from each of you to be sworn to me, one by one. Those of you who will not do this will be held until the king’s justiciar arrives. If justice does find me rightful lord of this burh, you will be given another opportunity at that time to make your choice but you will be fined. If you still do not wish to serve me, your properties will be assigned to one who will.

“However, if the king’s man should disavow my claim and declare that I have no right to these lands, I will personally recompense any man who was unjustly imprisoned.”

A chorus of incredulous murmurs rippled through the crowd. Lucien held up his hand to quiet them. “I do this to assure you that while I will tolerate no disloyalty, I will deal fairly with you. But I will not allow dissension to reign free, so I counsel you to think carefully before making your choice.”

This said, he swung down from his saddle and moved through the crowd with a long stride. The populace hurriedly parted a path for him. Heading straight for the keep, he bounded up the steps, flung open the tall studded door and disappeared into the hall.

One of the other men, a handsome knight with shining blond hair, outfitted splendidly in a vest of well-kept chain mail and silver armor, called from his seat on his horse, “Your new baron awaits each of you in yonder hall.” He grinned. His good looks were incongruous with the stained weapons he bore and the gore smeared over the fine silver plate.

From behind the knight who had just spoken, a large man loped into view. His long hair, of a shade so light it was almost white, fell past his massive shoulders. A Viking, that was plain to see by both his size and his coloring, but even that race of giants must take notice of this one.

“Agravar!” the other man called, laughing. “Lord Lucien will be most displeased if you frighten half of his new villeins to death!”

The Viking tossed his head in wordless response before he disappeared into the castle. The fair-haired knight cast a conspiratorial look to one of his fellows, apparently pleased with his jest.

“Dear Lord,” Eurice breathed in Alayna’s ear. “They look evil. That fair one has the handsome face of an angel, but ’tis Lucifer I am thinking he resembles! And what in the name of all that is holy does he find so funny? He mocks us, I think.”

“Who among you is the Lady of Gastonbury?” that same knight called.

Faces turned toward Alayna. Stunned, she answered in a small voice, “I am.”

The man dismounted. As he strode toward her, he smiled. “I am Sir Will, a mercenary of Lord Lucien’s. He has asked me to bring you to him.”

“Why me?” Alayna asked, casting an anxious look about her as if someone would step forward and protect her from this dreadful duty.

Sir Will shrugged. “You are the lady of the castle, are you not? You are to be the first to make your pledge to him.”

Alayna wanted to refuse, feeling a strange premonition. How odd. She usually teased Eurice unmercifully for all of that one’s belief in such notions. Yet, there it was—a fear inside her. She did not wish to confront this dark warrior all by herself. Looking to Eurice, the old nurse just shook her head.

Premonition or not, Alayna had no choice but to nod her acquiescence.