Lady At Arms, page 28
“No mercy,” Lizanne’s brother said, meeting Ranulf’s gaze, then continuing past him.
Two would die this day, Ranulf knew, but which two would live? Determined he would not be the one to spend his life’s blood upon this field, he readied his sword and advanced on Charwyck.
Lizanne prayed. And prayed. What followed was bloodier than expected, for Ranulf’s opponent was more than simply proficient with a sword. He was expert. Darth was a different matter, but not to be taken lightly. What he lacked in finesse, he redeemed in sheer strength and unpredictability, which proved dangerous for Gilbert whose speed and maneuverability was hindered by his lame leg.
Labored grunts and groans filled the air, curses were hurled like flotsam upon the waves, and blows were exchanged that left each man staggered and bleeding.
As Lizanne swung her gaze from Ranulf to Gilbert, she saw her brother parry a thrust that would have severed his head from his neck had he not anticipated it. Wrath roared from him, and he countered with a swing that sliced through the other man’s sword arm.
Darth stumbled back, grasped at the gaping wound from which blood flowed. Though his sword was of little use to him without the strength to guide it, he held it aloft as Gilbert cautiously circled him. And then her brother was upon him, sword thrusting, triumphant shout rolling like thunder over his opponent’s passionate death cry.
Lizanne nearly doubled over with relief. Gilbert was safe, now she had only Ranulf to worry about.
She swept her gaze back to him and caught her breath when she saw him falter in his battle with Philip as he glanced at where Gilbert stood over the body of his brother. In the next instant, his opponent made up the ground earlier surrendered by dealing a blow to Ranulf’s side.
“Nay!” Lizanne cried.
But her husband remained standing. With a shout, he deflected the next blow and forced Philip back a pace, then another. Steel rang upon steel with increased vigor as he sought and found the other’s flesh, repaying tenfold each injury done him.
Finally, Philip reeled backward, dropped his sword, and fell to his knees.
Victory at hand, the world soon to be set right again, Ranulf touched his sword to the man’s chest. “And now it ends,” he ground out.
Clutching his gut, Charwyck threw his head back. “I yield!” he shouted for all to hear, then slowly smiled.
Ranulf tensed. “Either way, you die, be it by my hand or the king’s order. My question is, will you die honorably, or as the poltroon you are?”
“I shall take my chances with Henry,” Philip retorted.
Ranulf pressed the point of his sword more heavily to Philip’s chest, causing the man to sway backward. But one push was all it would take to end this now and forever.
“You would kill a fallen knight who has offered himself up to you, Baron Wardieu?” Charwyck challenged his honor.
Ranulf clenched his jaws, battling with the conflicting inner voices that seemed intent upon tearing him in two. Finally, assuring himself the miscreant would meet the same end either way, he gave honor its due.
“Get up!” he ordered.
As Charwyck rose, holding a hand to the wound that had been his undoing, he taunted, “I had your wife, you know.”
Ranulf nearly leaned into his sword, but stopped himself. Every muscle straining, he lowered his sword.
Charwyck laughed and straightened.
Stepping behind him, Ranulf thrust the man ahead of him toward Gilbert. His anger was so consuming that he was unprepared when Philip rounded on him, arm thrown back, the newly risen sun glinting off the blade he held.
Before Ranulf could swing his sword up, Charwyck convulsed where he stood poised to release his dagger. A moment later, he toppled forward, an arrow shaft protruding from his back, blood spreading over his tunic.
Ranulf knew.
He raised his gaze and found the master archer whose accuracy and unhindered reflexes had spared his life. The bow still extended, Lizanne faced him from atop her mount.
Ranulf stepped over Charwyck’s inert form and went directly to her. As he neared, she lowered the bow, giving him his first close look at her.
’Tis not the time for rage, he reminded himself. Although he had seen she had been beaten, he was grateful he had not known the extent, for it could have clouded his judgment, and it might be he who lay dead on the field—as had very nearly happened before his brave, indomitable wife had stepped in.
Holding her gaze, he halted beside her mount.
With a strangled cry, she tossed the bow to the ground and slid off the horse into his waiting arms. Clinging to him, she wept against his chest.
Ranulf held her and stroked her hair. Even when her brother appeared and spoke soothingly to her, she refused to relinquish her hold on her husband.
Gilbert turned and crossed to where Lady Zara remained atop her mount.
“’Tis over,” Lizanne finally said, raising her tear-streaked face to Ranulf’s.
He gently cupped her cheek. “It is indeed.”
“What of your injuries?” She started to pull back as if to examine them, but he kept hold of her.
“Naught that cannot wait,” he assured her.
“Can we go home to Chesne?”
He smiled. “Aye, Wife. Home.” Then he lifted her into his arms.
Geoff was waiting with his lord’s destrier, a broad smile upon his face.
Ranulf set Lizanne in the saddle, mounted behind her, and drew her back against him. “I love you, Lizanne Wardieu,” he spoke the words he had thought never to utter to any woman.
Her head came around. “Truly?”
He lowered his head and kissed her. “With everything I am and everything I shall be with you at my side.” He drew back and looked into the shimmering green pools of her eyes.
“Have you loved me long, Ranulf?” she asked with wonder.
He had to laugh. “It seems as if forever.”
“But when did you discover it?” She reached up and played her fingers through his pale hair.
“Methinks ’twas when you crawled up that accursed tree and refused to come down, though I did not realize then that was what I felt. You see, I have had little experience with loving.”
“As I have had little. But then, we are just at the beginning, are we not?”
He nodded. “Aye, years and years ahead.”
“Forever,” she murmured and lowered her head to his shoulder.
He urged his destrier forward and, at a leisurely pace, preceded his men back toward Philip’s camp where, he was confident, Walter would have everything under control.
“I have something for you,” he said some minutes later and removed the dagger from his belt. “For such a valuable weapon as this”—he placed it in her hand—“you seem to have a difficult time keeping possession of it.”
She ran a finger over the hilt. “I fought him,” she murmured.
He felt every muscle tighten. “I do not require an explanation. ’Tis behind us.”
Lizanne sat straighter and raised the dagger. “Though I did not get the chance to carve him with this, it did serve its purpose.”
Ranulf stared at the hand with which she gripped the hilt. From wrist to fingertips, it was scratched, gouged, and bruised, and he knew Charwyck had beaten it against the rock in order to take the dagger from her. “Then he did not—?”
She shook her head.
He released his breath, lowered his head, and kissed her soundly. “Why do I continually underestimate you? ’Tis you who saved my life, and for which I will be ever grateful now that I have you.”
A mischievous glint shone from her eyes, and her dimple emerged. “Then you will not object to my practicing weaponry occasionally?”
“If it pleases you, Lizanne Wardieu, you may instruct every last one of my men—especially in the use of a bow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“A girl,” Ranulf breathed as the perfectly formed infant was placed in his arms. Cradling her carefully, he touched the silken hair sprouting in abundance from the small head.
“Flaxen,” Lady Zara murmured, standing on tiptoe to view her granddaughter. Cooing softly so as not to awaken her daughter-in-law, she placed a finger in one miniature flailing palm and smiled at the child’s strong grip.
“Do you think she will be as beautiful as her mother?” Ranulf whispered.
“Of course. Save for the hair, she has the look of Lizanne.”
“Do share,” his wife said from the bed.
Ranulf stepped around his mother and lowered the bundle into Lizanne’s waiting arms, then he kissed her.
As he straightened, she peered at her babe and breathed, “Oh, she is beautiful.” As she had barely had time to focus on her child before exhaustion had overtaken her following the birthing, it was her first real look at her daughter.
“Gillian,” she pronounced. “We shall call you Gillian.”
Ranulf frowned. “What kind of name is that?”
She kissed the crown of her daughter’s head, then settled back upon her pillow and smiled at her husband. “Since I can hardly name a girl Gilbert, ’tis the closest I can come to honoring my brother.”
Ranulf looked to his mother, but as if realizing he would get no support from her, he resignedly plowed a hand through his hair. “You are certain?”
Lizanne nodded. “As she has your surname, ’tis only fair she has one of my family’s names. But you may choose a name of endearment, if ‘twould please you.”
Ranulf lowered beside her and took her hand in his. “I must think on this a while. ’Twill have to be something wonderful lest she not care for her given name.”
Lizanne chuckled. “Oh, she will like it all right.”
“I must needs tell Walter,” Lady Zara said. “He was as nervous, I think, as Ranulf.” She turned, hastened to the door, and went in search of her husband.
Lizanne beckoned Ranulf closer. “Now I would have a real kiss.”
Eagerly, he complied.
Gillian gurgled, and he drew back to stare into the eyes of the gift Lizanne had given him.
“You are not disappointed she is not a he?” Lizanne asked.
He touched the new pink skin of his daughter’s hands. “Never.”
Gillian whimpered, her round face slowly brightened, and she began to thrust her legs beneath the swaddling cloth.
Lizanne and Ranulf looked at each other in silent question. Then, with a grin, Lizanne turned the babe in her arms and settled the little one to her breast. It took coaxing and several failed attempts, but at last Gillian set about satisfying her hunger.
“You have sent word to Gilbert?” Lizanne asked.
Ranulf was slow to answer, his attention upon his daughter. When Lizanne nudged him, he said, “Aye, ere long he will know he is an uncle.”
“Do you think he will come?” Worriedly, she nibbled her bottom lip as she reflected on her brother’s latest troubles with the Charwyck woman, Philip’s sister.
Ranulf shrugged. “Mayhap not straightway, but he will come.”
“’Tis that Charwyck woman again, is it not?” Lizanne grumbled.
He nodded. “It seems she is not making this easy on your brother.”
Lizanne fingered Gillian’s soft hair. “’Tis a pity she did not get word of Philip’s death until after she had taken her nun’s vows.”
“Gilbert will no doubt survive,” Ranulf assured her.
Then the subject was forgotten as they immersed themselves in the wonder of their child.
“Are you truly happy?” Lizanne asked later when their daughter slept and Ranulf stretched out beside her.
He propped himself up on an elbow and drew a finger down her throat. “Very.” He met her gaze. “Now I have two worth dying for.”
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Lizanne and Ranulf’s love story. If you would consider posting a review of Lady At Arms at one of the online retailers below, even if only a sentence or two, I would so appreciate it. Thank you for joining me in the middle ages. I wish you many hours of inspiring, happily-ever-after reading.
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EXCERPT
The Age of Faith series: The Unveiling, The Yielding, The Redeeming, and The Kindling introduced readers to the formidable Wulfrith family during Duke Henry’s battle for the English throne and his succession. The fifth book, The Longing, is the story of the enigmatic Everard Wulfrith and the much maligned Lady Susanna de Balliol. It will be available Spring 2014
THE UNVEILING
Book One in the Age of Faith series
There was but one way to enter Wulfen Castle. She must make herself into a man.
Annyn looked down her figure where she stood among the leaves of the wood. And scowled. Rather, she must make herself into a boy, for it was boys in which the Baron Wulfrith dealt—pages who aspired to squires, squires who aspired to knights. As she was too slight to disguise herself as a squire, a page would be her lot, but only long enough to assure Jonas was well.
Still haunted by foreboding, though it was now four days since it had burrowed a dark place within her, she dropped her head back against the tree beneath which she had taken cover and squinted at the sunlight that found little resistance in autumn's last leaves. If only her mother were alive to offer comfort, but it was eight years since Lady Elena had passed on. Eight years since Annyn had known her touch.
A thumping sound evidencing the wily hare had come out of the thicket, Annyn gripped her bow tighter and edged slowly around the tree as her brother had taught her.
Though the scruffy little fellow had not fully emerged, he would soon. She tossed her head to clear the hair from her brow, raised her bow, and drew the nocked arrow to her cheek.
The hare lifted its twitchy nose.
Patience. Annyn heard Jonas from two summers past. Would she hear his voice again?
Aye, she would see him when she journeyed to Wulfen Castle where he completed his squire's training with the mighty Baron Wulfrith, a man said to exercise considerable sway over the earl from whom he held his lands.
Annyn frowned as she pondered the Wulfrith name that brought to mind a snarling wolf, her imagining made more vivid by the terrible anger the man was said to possess. Since before William of Normandy had conquered England, the Wulfrith family had been known England to France for training boys into men, especially those considered seriously lacking. Though Jonas's missives spoke little of that training, all knew it was merciless.
The hare crept forward.
Hold! Jonas’s voice, almost real enough to fan her cheek, made her smile, cracking the mud she had smeared on her face as her brother had also taught her to do.
She squeezed her eyes closed. Thirteen months since he had departed for Wulfen. Thirteen months in training with the feared Wulfrith who allowed no women within his walls. Thirteen months to make Jonas into a man worthy to lord the barony of Aillil that would be his as Uncle Artur's heir.
The hare thumped.
Annyn jerked, startling the creature into bounding from the thicket.
Follow, follow, follow!
She swung the arrow tip ahead of the hare and released.
With a shriek that made her wince as she did each time she felled one of God's creatures, the hare collapsed on a bed of muddy leaves.
Meat on the table, Annyn told herself as she tramped to where her prey lay. Not caring that she dirtied her hose and tunic, she knelt beside it.
“Godspeed,” she said, hoping to hurry it to heaven though Father Cornelius said no such place existed for animals. But what did a man who did not know how to smile know of God's abode? She lifted the hare and tugged her arrow free. Satisfied to find tip and feathers intact, she wiped the shaft on her tunic and thrust the arrow into her quiver.
She stood. A catch of good size. Not that Uncle Artur would approve of her fetching meat to the table. He would make a show of disapproval, as he did each time she ventured to the wood, then happily settle down to a meal of hare pie. Of course, Annyn must first convince Cook to prepare the dish. But he would, and if she hurried, it could be served at the nooning meal. She slung the bow over her shoulder and ran.
If only Jonas were here, making me strain to match his longer stride. If only he were calling taunts over his shoulder. If only he would go from sight only to pounce upon me. Lord, I do not know what I will do if—
She thrust aside her worry with the reminder that, soon enough, she would have the assurance she sought. This very eve she would cut her mess of black hair, don garments Jonas had worn as a page, and leave under cover of dark. In less than a sennight, she could steal into Wulfen Castle, seek out her brother, and return to Aillil. As for Uncle Artur…
She paused at the edge of the wood and eyed Castle Lillia across the open meadow. Her disappearance would send dread through her uncle, but if she told him what she intended, he would not allow it.
She toed the damp ground. If he would but send a missive to Wulfen to learn how Jonas fared, this venture of hers need not be undertaken. However, each time she asked it of her uncle, he teased that she worried too much.
Movement on the drawbridge captured Annyn’s regard. A visitor? A messenger from Wulfen? Mayhap Jonas once more returned for willful behavior? She squinted at the standard flown by the rider who passed beneath the raised portcullis and gasped. It belonged to the Wulfriths!
Though the men on the walls usually called to Annyn and bantered over her frightful appearance, her name did not unfurl any tongues when she approached the drawbridge.
Ignoring her misgivings, she paused to seek out the bearded Rowan who, as captain of the guard, was sure to be upon the gatehouse. He was not, but William was.
She thrust the hare high. “Next time, boar!”
He did not smile. “My lady, hasten to the donjon. The Baron Wul—”
“I know! My brother is returned?”
He averted his gaze. “Aye, Lady Annyn, your brother is returned.”
