Page 4
Story: Masters of Medieval Mayhem
CHAPTER THREE
T here was literally no way out of the tent.
Elle thought that she might be able to escape as Hereford went outside, but as it turned out, the sides of the tent were staked into the ground all the way around. She knew because she had checked. It was staked like that to keep the wind from blowing up the flaps and quite possibly causing the tent to lift up and go airborne, but it also made it quite escape proof.
She was trapped.
God help her.
If there was a positive side to the situation, small as it was, it was that her belly was finally full. Literally, the one positive thing about the entire situation, because other than that, she was still damp and cold and smelled of mildew. Everything about her stank. There was a small brazier in the tent, situated below a hole in the tent roof, but there was very little warmth coming out of it. Because of that, she’d yanked the coverlet off the cot nearby and wrapped it around her.
Huddled on the ground, she sat.
And waited.
She could hear voices outside the tent as men moved around. Damnable Saesneg, she thought to herself. Speaking in their Saesneg language. And she was expected to marry one of those bastards? She was strongly opposed to it, even after Hereford’s argument. The Welsh rebel in her thought the entire proposal was out of the question, but the reasonable side of her—the side that tended to be wise and calm—knew that she had no choice in the matter. She took Hereford’s threats seriously—she didn’t want to end up in France or some other place far over the horizon, with no hope of returning home. At least if she married a man of Henry’s choosing, she could stay in Wales. Marriage didn’t mean she had to be loyal to her husband.
It simply meant she could remain.
And continue her fight.
She had to talk herself into it, however. It was natural to rail against everything the English wanted, so she had to fight back her natural urges and convince herself that this was her best and only option, such as it was. She’d been honest with Hereford and laid herself bare, so he knew everything about her. There was nothing left for her to tell him. There was also nowhere for her to hide. She seriously wondered what was going to happen when Gruffydd was released from the vault. It had been a hell of a fight to get him there, and she’d had to betray him to do it, but she had honestly felt it was best for Brython and for the cause of her people. Gruffydd was too much like her father, too pliable to the English.
She wasn’t going to make the same mistake.
But, then again, here she was.
Somewhere in the midst of her tumultuous reflections, she dozed off. With the food, and particularly the wine, she’d become sleepy and hadn’t even realized it. She didn’t know how long she’d been out when she heard something snap, like the flap of a banner when whipped by the breeze, and she snapped her head up, eyes open.
There was a very big man standing in the tent that she didn’t recognize.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Elle’s attention was on his face, first and foremost, and she had to admit, almost immediately, that he wasn’t unhandsome. He had piercing gray eyes and blond hair, cut short, and a trim beard of nearly the same color embraced his firm, square jaw. In a world where male beauty was few and far between, he most definitely had been blessed with it. Even if he was English. But those eyes…
She had to admit that they’d give her a jolt.
A most confusing jolt.
But she tore her gaze away from his, moving down his positively enormous body and noticing the size of his hands. His fists must have been nearly as large as her head. He was covered in mail and protection, smeared with grime, and, as she studied him warily, he spoke.
“I see you are calm now,” he said in a deep voice that seemed to bubble up from his toes. “At least the tent is still intact.”
That voice.
She knew that voice. Instantly recognizing the man she’d hit on the top of the wall, she went into battle mode again. Her heart leapt into her throat and she tossed the coverlet off so her hands and feet would be free.
“So,” she hissed. “You’ve returned. I’m ready for you, Saesneg . Try your worst.”
He put his big hands up. “I’ve not come to do battle,” he said calmly. “Have no fear, lady. You’ll get no further fight from me.”
Elle was on her feet now, but she was crouched as if preparing to take a tackle from the man. But his words had her confused. Unsteady, even. She wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth.
“I am not stupid,” she said. “I know you do not mean it. Do not lie to me.”
“I do not lie.”
“Where are my commanders? My men?”
“Dead or dying or captured.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You would have me believe that?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Let us establish something from the start,” he said. “My name is Sir Curtis de Lohr. My father is the Earl of Hereford and Worcester, and upon his death, I will become the Earl of Hereford and Worcester. I am his heir and, as such, hold the courtesy title of Earl of Leominster and Baron Ivington. Do you understand me so far?”
Elle struggled against further bewilderment. “I understand,” she said. “But it means nothing to me.”
“It should,” Curtis said. “It should tell you that I am a knight of the highest order, a propertied warlord, and son of a man who has one of the greatest reputations for honor in England. I, too, share that reputation, so know from the onset that I do not lie. Ever. If I mean to attack you, you will know it. And if I mean to call a truce, I will say so. In this case, I would like to call a truce. Will you accept?”
The more he spoke, the more puzzled she became. “Why?”
He snorted ironically. “Because there is no longer any reason to fight,” he said. “Because I no longer wish to fight. Will you accept this?”
She had no idea what to say to him, but she came out of her protective stance. She just stood there, head lowered and brow furrowed, feeling confused and strangely lost. So very lost. After a moment, she lifted her gaze to him.
“What of my castle?” she asked. “What has happened to it?”
Seeing that she no longer looked as if she was preparing for an offensive, he went over to the table to see the remnants of the meal. There was still wine in the pitcher, and he poured himself a cup.
“It belongs to me now,” he said. “Your men are prisoners. Now, we begin the damage assessment and plan the repairs.”
He sounded as if it was the most normal situation in the world. Casual, even. Elle watched him drain the cup of wine, feeling more despair sweep her.
“Where… where are my men?” she asked.
Curtis poured himself another cup of the watered wine. “I told you,” he said. “Dead or dying or captured. Those that are captured are being held in the encampment.”
“What will you do with them?”
He looked at her. “What would you have me do with them?”
She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or if it was a genuine question. “I hope you will treat them fairly,” she said, forcing her bravery. “They are good men, loyal to their people.”
“That may be, but they have tried to kill me and mine,” he said. “I will ask you again—what do you want me to do with them?”
“Are you asking that question to be cruel? Because you do not truly wish for my guidance on the matter.”
“I am asking for your guidance on the matter.”
Now, her puzzlement was being overtaken by surprise. She stared at the man, studying him closely, looking for any hint that he was trying to demean her or betray her somehow. Because she couldn’t answer right away, he spoke again.
“Let me ask you a question, my lady,” he said. “Let us look at the situation from your perspective. If you were the victor and had three hundred English soldiers as your prisoners, what would you do with them?”
She hesitated. “Put them in the vault.”
“All of them?”
“What else should I do?” she said. “Send them home so they can rise up against me again?”
He shrugged. “Mayhap you should simply kill them and be done with it.”
She shook her head slowly. “Nay,” she said quietly. “Because more would rise up in their place.”
“And more would rise up in their place if you put them in the vault.”
The argument was becoming circular, and he was making good points, which was starting to frustrate her. “Then what should I do?” she said. “You seem to have all the answers. You tell me.”
Curtis had to lower his head so she wouldn’t see that he was struggling not to smile at her annoyance. “Would mercy not be the right course of action?” he said. “Show mercy and send them home. They will remember that if, and when, they are in a conflict against you again. They will know you are a woman of mercy, and they will behave kindly toward you.”
“Not kindly enough not to take up arms against me again.”
He shrugged. “That is the nature of the situation we find ourselves in,” he said, pouring himself a third cup of watered wine, now with the dregs at the bottom of his cup. “The English and the Welsh find themselves in a battle cycle. It has not always been this way, and it will not always be this way, but for now, it is the way of things. We will continue to fight until someone shows wisdom and bravery and decides to negotiate a truce against the enemy rather than a show of force. I do not think there is any man, or woman, alive that would rather fight than live in peace.”
By this time, she was listening carefully because he sounded a great deal like his father in the conversation they’d had earlier. Hereford had left the tent, and she had no reason to believe he hadn’t spoken with this man, his heir. Of course he had. That was why the man was here now, speaking of peace, when at the time of their first meeting, he’d been ready to throttle her. But now, he wasn’t.
He was speaking of peace.
She knew why.
“Your father has told you about me, hasn’t he?” she asked.
He had found a half loaf of bread on the table and was now pulling it apart. “He has,” he said as if it wasn’t anything to be shocked or astounded over. “You are Gwenwynwyn’s daughter.”
“I am.”
“We did not know he had a daughter.”
“So I am told,” she said. “And that was deliberate.”
He glanced at her. “Why?”
“Because no English warlord will take a warrior woman seriously,” she said. “We thought it better to spread rumors of a second son.”
“This has been going on for years.”
She nodded. “It has,” she said. “I saw my first battle at fourteen years of age.”
“That is very young, even for a man.”
“I was born to it.”
“So was I,” he said as he shoved bread into his mouth. He chewed a few times before continuing. “I suppose my father told you of the marriage plans.”
“He did,” she said, watching him eat. “He must have someone in mind.”
“He does.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “ You ?” she repeated. “But… surely not you!”
“Why not?”
“Because… because you are old enough to be my father,” she said, her tone quickly rising. “Moreover, you are his heir. He would not marry you to a woman who could not bring wealth or breeding to a marriage. I know how the English do things.”
He swallowed the bite in his mouth, a lazy smile spreading across his lips. “I am old enough to be your father if I was a child when you were born,” he said. “Christ, woman, how old do you think I am?”
Elle was off balance and sinking fast. This handsome knight, who had only grown more handsome during the course of the conversation—though she absolutely refused to admit that to herself—was to be her husband. The heir to Hereford and Worcester, the largest and perhaps most prestigious earldom on the marches, if not in all of England. He was an earl already, however, as the Earl of Leominster. Elle had grown up surrounded by politics and battles, so she fully understood the worth of Hereford and Worcester, and of earldoms and their properties.
The impact was not lost on her.
“I am not a suitable wife,” she said, shaking her head emphatically and turning away. “Your father is mad if he thinks so.”
Curtis had to admit that he was enjoying her resistance. He also had to admit that beneath that dirt and sweat and filth, he suspected she was a pretty little thing. She had eyes the color of cornflowers, so bright that it was as if they had their own light source. They were beautiful. But her face and hair were smeared with dirt and grime, so it was difficult to get a sense of her beauty.
And her voice… There was a sweet quality to it, but it could also be quite loud when she wanted it to be. He sensed that she had been raised around men and spent her life around men, meaning she behaved like one. There wasn’t anything ladylike about her. But if she were to become his wife, he was going to have to change that. Oddly, he wasn’t all that opposed to it.
He rather enjoyed a challenge.
Even one of this magnitude.
“You’ve not answered my question,” he said. “How old do you think I am?”
She rolled her eyes. “As old as the moon, as young as the hills—what does it matter?” she said. “Do you understand when I say that I am not a suitable wife?”
“I understand.”
“And?”
“And what ?” he said. “My father has made his decision. There is nothing either of us can do about it, so I want you to think very carefully about what happens from this point forward. I intend to be polite and respectful of you and your beliefs. You will get no grief from me. But you… you will dictate my actions, lady. You must decide how you want to build this relationship we are forced to assume. Do you want it built on battle? Or do you want it built on mutual understanding?”
Elle was coming to realize that nothing she could say was going to change any of this. Oddly, he didn’t seem horribly opposed to it, or, at least, he was hiding his reservation better than she was. He remained calm while she was about to blow the top of her head off. However, given her brief interaction with both Curtis and his father, she suspected that kind of resistance wouldn’t do any good. She’d exhaust herself and still be forced to go through with it, either with Curtis or with another man she’d never met. She might be worse off than she was with the heir. Not only was she defeated, she was being punished by marrying her enemy.
Demoralized could hardly encompass what she was feeling at the moment.
She felt as if she was facing death— hers .
“You do not sound as if you oppose this,” she said, turning away from him. “Can you honestly tell me that you want a wife like me? Have you taken a good look at me?”
Curtis looked her over. “I’ve taken a good smell of you,” he said, referring to that horrific mildew smell that was coming off her. “Do you always smell like that?”
She flared. “Not usually, but someone tried to drown me today.”
“And someone tried to throw me over the wall today.”
She was glaring at him as he tried desperately not to laugh. There was something about her in a rage that seemed humorous to him, like a wet hen. She was fluffed up and riled up and ready to peck him to death.
That thought had him biting his lip.
“If I had been successful, then we would not be having this conversation,” she said. “Unfortunately, I was not successful.”
He did smile then. “Your misfortune is my gain,” he said. “I do not really think you wanted to kill me, did you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Give me a dagger and we shall find out.”
That brought soft laughter from him. “Do you ever stop fighting, my lady?”
“I am not your lady. My name is Elle.”
She certainly wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. He merely lifted his eyebrows. “You are a noble-born woman, the daughter of a king,” he said. “You are a lady. In fact, you are a princess, and I will address you accordingly whether or not you like it.”
She scowled at him, preparing to retort but thinking better of it. For any statement she had, he seemed to have a better answer. Now, he was forcing her to rethink everything she wanted to say.
“You didn’t answer me,” he said after a moment. “Do you ever stop fighting?”
She averted her gaze. The cot was behind her, and she sat on it, heavily. “Against the English?” she said, incredulous. “If you must know, I’ve never been given a reason to.”
He suspected that might be the most honest thing she’d ever said to him, and he folded his big arms across his chest. “Are you telling me that you have never known a moment’s peace?”
She looked away, becoming uninterested in the conversation because she was exhausted and defeated, two unusual sensations in her world. Here he was, asking questions she didn’t want to answer after she’d already bared her soul to his father. That hadn’t gone particularly in her favor. She’d hoped to gain the man’s sympathy, but he took advantage of it. Therefore, Curtis’ questions were beginning to annoy her.
“What more do you want to know about me?” she said, irritation in her tone. “Do you want to know that I was a daughter born to a man who only wanted sons? To a mother who hated her Welsh husband and her Welsh children? She left after my brother was born, and we’ve not seen her since. I was raised by a grandmother who died when I was young, and after that, I simply fended for myself and learned how to fight from the Welsh warriors who took pity on me. My brother, though he was a year younger than I, was trained by the best. My father saw to that. But me… I was ignored. When my father died, Gruffydd and I took our place with my father’s men who were regent for my brother. I watched Gruffydd rise to succeed my father as Brenin Powys while I fought in his armies to preserve Welsh rule on Welsh lands.”
Curtis learned a great deal in that angry diatribe. Brenin Powys. That meant king in her language, and he could hear the bitterness in her voice as she spoke. She was a woman who had fought her way to the top and struggled to stay there, the older sister to her father’s successor.
“But your father was a supporter of the English king,” he said after a moment. “I do not recall Powys being particularly turbulent because of it.”
She smiled, without humor. “Not with the English,” she said. “But, as has been pointed out to me, the Welsh fight each other quite frequently. There is little peace between different Welsh princes, my father included. He supported King John, and that made him an enemy in his own country.”
“And you were put in the position of defending yourself?”
She looked at him, her eyes unnaturally bright within her oval face. “Nay,” she said. “I agreed with my father’s enemies.”
His brow furrowed. “Then you fought against your father?”
She averted her gaze quickly. “I did what I had to do in order to save my people,” she said. “Even if that meant undermining my father and my brother.”
“Then family means nothing to you.”
“Two men who have never done much for me do not have my loyalty,” she said. “If that is what family means, then nay, it means nothing to me.”
Before Curtis could reply, the tent flap snapped back and men were entering. He turned to see Roi and Alexander with a man between them. It was the same man that Curtis had seen with Roi in the bailey, barely able to walk. Clearly, he was a prisoner. As Christopher entered the tent behind them, the prisoner caught sight of Elle. Unexpectedly, he reacted.
“You!” he said. “ Roeddwn i’n gobeithio eich bod chi wedi marw, eich bradwr! ”
Curtis knew the Welsh language. Growing up on the marches, he and his siblings had learned it because the knowledge was imperative. Therefore, he knew exactly what the man said.
I was hoping you had died, you traitor!
Elle’s eyes widened, and she bolted off the cot, rushing for the man. But as she went, she managed to grab a large iron sconce that held six fat tapers. They weren’t lit because it was daylight, but the sconce was heavy enough to be used as a weapon. Curtis, however, was faster than she was—he could see that she intended to use the sconce as a weapon, and he rushed to intercept her, lowering his shoulder into her midsection. Up she went, onto his big shoulder, and the sconce clattered to the floor. Like a sack of turnips over his shoulder, Curtis had her firmly and was heading for the tent flap, but Christopher stopped him.
“Wait,” he commanded. “Curt, stop. Wait a moment.”
Curtis paused, but he had a tempest on his hands. Elle was twisting and growling, trying to shake herself loose from his grip.
“Let me go!” she demanded. “Put me down this instant!”
Curtis didn’t move. He continued to hold her with an iron grip, looking to his father for direction. But Christopher was looking at the rather short, dirty man between Roi and Alexander. He moved into the man’s line of sight.
“What is your name?” he asked him.
The man was looking at Elle with the same cornflower-blue eyes that she had. “Gruffydd,” he said after a moment, tearing his eyes away from Elle to look at Christopher. “I am Gwenwynwyn’s son, Gruffydd.”
“We found him in the vault,” Roi said quietly, looking at his father. “He said that his sister put him there.”
“I did!” Elle said, kicking her legs as Curtis tried to hold on to her. “He is a traitor to our people, and he should be kept in the vault until he rots!”
Christopher glanced at the struggling woman, speaking to Gruffydd. “That is your sister?”
Gruffydd sighed heavily. “It is.”
“What is her name?”
“Elle ferch Gwenwynwyn,” he said. “Take her out and burn her at the stake. She only means to kill us all.”
Christopher had his confirmation that Elle was, indeed, who she said she was. That was why he wanted Gruffydd removed from the vault in the first place, to confirm his sister’s identity. Gruffydd was the one loyal to the English, which was common knowledge, while his firebrand of a sister was a Welsh loyalist to the bone.
Christopher could see that, quite plainly.
He had been outside the tent while Curtis and Elle spoke, and although he hadn’t been able to hear much of what was said, the situation had been calm. That was all he truly cared about. No one was trying to kill anyone. But now, he had the brother, the heir to the Powys kingdom. He wanted to know what was happening from Gruffydd’s standpoint and how this situation at Brython had turned into a month-long siege. But even without that enlightenment, he could see the bigger picture—that the one they called the Wraith had held the castle against the English, imprisoning her English-sympathizer brother, but Christopher wanted to know why. He wanted to know if something greater was afoot.
He turned to Curtis.
“Take her back to your camp,” he said. “Do not let her out of your sight.”
Curtis nodded, Elle kicked, and he slapped her right on the buttocks to quiet her. Instead, it had the opposite effect.
She howled.
“Put me down!” she demanded as he carried her toward the tent flap. “Put me down, I say!”
Curtis didn’t answer her. As they passed through the open flap, she reached out and grabbed the sides of the tent, nearly pulling that side of the structure down before Curtis came to a halt. He was trying to dislodge her, but it was impossible to do that and hold on to her at the same time, so Alexander came over and peeled her fingers off the fabric. Unfortunately, he’d peel one finger off and it seemed to be replaced by two more. But he was patient. Eventually, he managed to pry her limitless fingers off the fabric, but that frustrated Elle so much that she slapped at him. He dodged the flying hands for the most part, watching her turn those slapping hands on Curtis as the man walked away with her still slung over one shoulder.
With a shake of his head, and perhaps a chuckle, Alexander turned back for the tent. Perhaps the battle was over for the rest of them, but Curtis was still fighting it, now single-handedly.
He had to admit, he didn’t envy Curtis.
Table of Contents
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