The Laird's Lady

Damn. Malcolm did not particularly wish to cross swords with an opponent scarcely older than a squire. After ten years of battle, Malcolm craved peace. But he would do whatever he must to secure the holding for his king and his clan.

“I have made it abundantly clear that I willna, sir, and I am afraid I canna afford to give ye more than a quarter of an hour to change yer mind, or ye will feel the brunt of our convictions in this matter.”

There was another pause.

“Then I accept that time, sir, to confer with my people in regard to your proposal.” The younger man disappeared once again, leaving Malcolm confident as to what the outcome would be.

He might have lost his taste for battle, but he had yet to lose a fight.

Rosalind hadn’t fought a battle before, but it seemed she needed to win one today.

In one breath she cursed Gregory Evandale for deserting her, and in the next prayed he would come back soon. Why hadn’t he married her before joining King Edward’s wars? He’d claimed he needed to acquire loyal men and the king’s approval for their marriage. Hadn’t he done so by now?

After descending the outer walls, she flew across the courtyard, the thin soles of her decorative slippers providing little protection from the hard stones. Men and women, young and old, busied themselves making preparations to defend the keep. Several large fires were already lit to heat cauldrons of water. Men hauled rocks up the walls with pulleys, along with garbage from the kitchens and, Rosalind guessed, the contents of the chamber pots. Beaumont’s crude knights moved stealthily up the walls, positioning themselves with arrows to shoot at a moment’s notice.

Looking about her, Rosalind knew they were makeshift efforts, but that could not quell the immense pride she experienced to see their hard work. She was almost to the keep when John intercepted her.

“Well?”

“We have a quarter of an hour in which to confer.” Rosalind snorted in disgust, her heart still slamming erratically in her chest after her confrontation with the enemy warrior. “The arrogant Scot thinks we will give in to him and his band of heathens without a fight.”

“Your father would be proud of you today, Rosalind. I know it with every old bone in my body.” John clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder before hastening off to continue preparations.

A wealth of emotion squeezed her insides, the familiar ache of loss accompanied by fear. Hope. Desperation. Heaven help her, she wanted to make her father proud. And her mother. And dear William, whom she’d adored…. Praying for strength, Rosalind darted inside to help Gerta in spite of the chills that wracked her weakened body. In all likelihood, their defense of the outer walls would not last long, maybe not even through the night. But the inner bailey and keep were much stronger and built to withstand a long siege.

Yet…

Something bothered her. She tried to push aside the pain in her pounding head long enough to think clearly. To plan her strategy and plot for all possibilities. She could not shake the sinking feeling she’d overlooked something.

For the life of her, she could not remember what. Cursing her illness and muddled thoughts, she hurried to the great hall to see Gerta barking orders to everyone in sight.

“We have less than a quarter of an hour until we must defend ourselves,” Rosalind shouted over the din of villagers scurrying to carry crates of harvest fruits and root crops into the keep. Gerta hesitated for only a moment upon hearing the message, then redoubled her efforts to move foodstuffs and other provisions inside the inner walls.

Scrambling up the stairs to her chamber, Rosalind dispensed with the last of her father’s robes as she sailed through the door. Throwing open the chest at the foot of her bed, she rummaged through her few treasured possessions—a gown of her mother’s, a poem Gregory had penned for her long ago, her box of herbs—and finally found her father’s jeweled dagger.

Although she doubted she would ever have use for a weapon meant for hand-to-hand combat, Rosalind felt more protected with Lord William Beaumont’s blade on her person. Perhaps she might gain a bit of her sire’s strength today when she needed it so desperately.

Glancing briefly into a small looking glass, Rosalind blinked in surprise at the banner of bright flaxen hair swirling about her shoulders. Since her parents’ death, she had worn her locks in a severe fashion, pulled tightly back in an intricate knot of braids. Even in her sleep, she’d kept the waist-length tresses plaited.

Her neatly dressed locks had not fit under her father’s head covering, however, so she’d unfastened them. Now it was rather disconcerting to see the abundance of hair floating around her body like a veil. For a moment, she almost resembled the girl she had once been before marauding Scots had robbed her of so much.

But she was that gentle girl no longer. The amethysts on the hilt of her father’s knife shone in the dull glass, reminding her how far she would go to protect her people. The fever that weakened her body gave her cheeks deceptively healthy color. Rosalind’s luminescent green gown shone none the less for being crammed beneath her father’s heavy houppelande and outer robe. She remembered her mother’s lesson that in order to command respect, your demeanor must warrant it. And although her hair floated recklessly about, all else about her person befitted her station.

Beaumont might not have a lord in place this day, but she remained mistress of the holding. As lady of the keep, she would not hesitate to take up arms to defend all that was left of her father’s dreams for his family and his people.

Thus armed with his blade, Rosalind prepared to lead her people into battle.

Chapter Two

“Ready? On three. One…” Wiping the sweat from his eyes two hours later, Malcolm shouted above the noise of battle. The cursed castle folk were fighting with the desperation of the damned. Scorched fur on his cloak and a smear of rotted quinces on his forearm only stirred his anger.

Devil take young Will Beaumont for risking lives in a battle he had no prayer of winning.

“Two…” With the last surge of the battering ram, his men would break through the outer ward and then the people of Beaumont would be trapped inside the keep, at Malcolm’s mercy.

“Three!” Twelve men, with Malcolm at the lead, hefted the battering ram on their shoulders and ran at the portcullis once again.

This time the shuddering crack reverberated through Malcolm’s bones as the stubborn oak gate relented. Victory teased him, close enough to taste. Beaumont was a mix of old and new fortifications, the four round outer towers strong and stalwart, but the northern gate a weak spot with its wooden reinforcements.

Now, Malcolm’s warriors poured through the freshly made breach into the outer courtyard, their boots pounding over the stones so heavily that the earth trembled with their weight.

They were close now. Beaumont would be a jewel in the crown of the Scots’ defenses along the borderlands, and Malcolm would make it impregnable. The keep had not been well maintained, with signs of old battles evident along the outer walls. Now that he was inside the village, he could see well-tended gardens between the crofters’ cottages. Underneath the stench of rotting kitchen remains tossed down on his men from the outer walls, he could still smell fresh hay from the nearby stables. Beaumont was indeed a prize.

Forcing his thoughts back to the victory now well within his grasp, Malcolm directed his men to imprison the enemy knights who scurried across the ward to the keep. Malcolm’s were faster, and more than a little angry that the English had fought them with flaming arrows, boiling water and worst of all, the contents of the castle chamber pots. His younger brother was still railing at having his garments soiled in such ignominious fashion.

But the Scots took their vengeance now. Fifteen of the nearly thirty men who defended the outer walls were quickly taken prisoner. Judging by the look of the captives, a mixture of old and young, the Beaumont defenses were on their last legs. No true warrior fought among them. Malcolm allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, knowing this siege would not last much longer.

His gratification vanished as an arrow sailed past his head, a mere hairbreadth from his ear.

“Christ’s bones,” he muttered as a fresh slew of arrows rained down upon the heads of his men.

Shouting orders to take cover, he sought the protection of a slender sapling, the outer ward of Beaumont boasting few trees or bushes. He slapped his helm back into place over his eyes, but the shower of arrows halted as quickly as it had begun.

No doubt such desperate men sought to use their arrow supply judiciously. Even so, two of the Scots were struck in the most recent onslaught, and six other of his men had been either killed or seriously wounded in the battle at the outer walls. A needless waste of life. He lay the loss of his comrades at Will Beaumont’s feet.

The cursed fool. Apparently Lord Beaumont possessed enough bravery to order a hopeless battle against his conquerors, but lacked the grit to participate in the skirmish himself.

“What say ye now, Malcolm?” Jamie McNair shouted from his position behind a small stone well. “Shall we poison their water?”

Malcolm stifled a chuckle, mentally thanking Jamie for diverting his dark thoughts. “Still a bit out of sorts about yer fine garments, I see. Ye’re not usually so bloodthirsty.”

Jamie plucked at the sodden fur lining his leather houppelande, his dark eyes narrowing. “’Tis ruined, brother, and well ye know it. Damn foot-licking English.” He glanced up at the walls of Beaumont and then back to Malcolm. “How do ye plan to get inside their keep?”

“We’ll explore the outside.” This was the part of battle Malcolm enjoyed the most—the tactical preparation, the search for a chink in the defenses. Once he ruled his own lands, he would use the knowledge he’d gained at war to maintain peace. “I’ll meet ye around the back of the keep and we’ll see what we’ve found.”

Beaumont Keep was hardly a feat of fresh construction with its low towers laced with centuries-old Roman bricks. Yet the four-rectangular-tower layout had proven solidly defendable when well manned and Malcolm had no doubt that with a bit of effort the keep could be impenetrable.

Not today, however.

“Och. Ye would bring down more pox-bitten English arrows on yer flesh and blood?”

Malcolm grinned as he prepared to bolt to the next tree, more than twenty yards away. “Stay low.”

He could hear Jamie muttering even as he started to run, until the unmistakable hiss of an arrow whizzing through the sky reached Malcolm’s ears. Resisting the urge to raise his small wooden shield above his head, Malcolm put all of his effort into reaching the tree before him. The hissing grew louder, forcing him to dive headfirst for the shelter of the thick walnut.

Thwack!

The force of the arrow roared through him as it struck the shield still clutched in his hand. Bemused, he stared as the flaming arrowhead ignited the shield with lightning speed. The heat of the burning wood finally penetrated his dulled wits, and Malcolm withdrew his grip from the rapidly disintegrating armor. Although not an heirloom, the shield had been crafted by Laird McNair for his son. Malcolm was disappointed to see it ruined, but it had served its purpose today, protecting him from what would no doubt have been a mortal blow.