Dragonblade Trilogy - 03 - The Savage Curtain (16 page)

Closing the door softly, he faced
de Norville first.

“It would seem that twice you
have aided my wife and for that, I am deeply grateful,” he said. “Because of
your diligence to duty, I am putting you in charge of Berwick’s House and Hold.
That means that you will be in charge of security for the keep, kitchens and hall,
and always be mindful of my wife’s presence. It also means that you answer to
me and me alone as Guardian of the Hold.  Is this in any way unclear?”

It was a distinct promotion from
a mere sergeant in Norfolk’s ranks and Lane was visibly humbled. “It is clear,
my lord,” he replied. “I am greatly honored.”

“It is I who am honored,” Stephen
replied. “I will notify Norfolk and request your service. I am sure he will
agree when I explain circumstances to him.”

“Very good, my lord,” de Norville
responded sharply. “What is your first command for me?”

At this point, Stephen looked at
Tate.  “That depends,” he said. “We have a bit of a situation involving my wife
and I will defer to Lord de Lara at this point since it involves one of his
men. My lord?”

Tate stood with his arms crossed
and his legs braced, listening to the exchange between Stephen and Lane.  When
the attention focused on him, he lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully.

“You are not going to like what I
have to say,” he said to Stephen.

“Why not?”

“Your wife will have to
personally identify the man who attacked her,” he said. “The only way she can
do that is to face him to confirm that is indeed the man.”

Stephen lifted an eyebrow. “She’s
terrified of the man; you saw what a mere glimpse of him did to her.”

Tate shook his head. “Unless we
want to condemn the wrong man, I do not see where we have a choice. Think with
your mind and not your heart, Stephen.  She must closely identify the man to
ensure there is no mistake.”

Stephen knew he spoke the truth. 
Sighing heavily, he averted his gaze a moment, shifting on his big legs
thoughtfully.  “You are correct, of course,” he sighed again, thinking of
Joselyn’s reaction when she came face to face with the soldier who changed the
course of her young life. “Give her time to recover and I will take her
personally to find and identify this man.  Lane, you will accompany us.”

Lane nodded briskly. “Of course,
my lord.”

De Lara headed for the stairs. “I
will send a few more men to you to take the man into custody once he is
identified,” he said. “For now, I will begin to gather my troops for the return
to Forestburn Castle. I am anxious to go home.”

Stephen gave Lane a few more
orders, watching the man follow de Lara down the narrow stairs.  Returning to
his chamber, he found his wife standing in the middle of the room with Tilda
and Mereld inspecting the skirt of the orange surcoat.  He paused at the door,
his eyebrows lifted.

“What’s this?” he demanded
without force. “Why are you out of bed? I told you to rest.”

She looked up at him, great
distress on her face. “Oh, Stephen,” she breathed. “I am so sorry. I tore my
new surcoat somehow and we are attempting to determine how to fix it.”

He was not the least bit
concerned as he put his hands hips and walked over to her, watching as the two
old women discussed the best way to mend the dress. 

“I would not worry overly,” he
told her. “You have eight more that are serviceable.”

She looked miserable. “I must
have torn it when I collided with the sergeant,” she lamented. “I am terribly
sorry. I did not mean to damage one of your lovely gifts.”

He put his hand on her head,
pulling it to his lips for a kiss. “As I said, not to worry. It was an
accident.”

He went over to the bed and sat
down while the two servant women finished inspecting the skirt.  When they were
finished, they fled the chamber with plans for retrieving needle and thread. 
Stephen rose from the bed, shut the door behind them, and bolted it.  He turned
to his wife.

“Now,” he lifted his eyebrows at
her. “Are you sure you are well? Does your head still hurt?”

She smiled weakly at him. “It
does, but I believe your potion is making it feel a little better,” she
replied. “What was that powder, anyway?”

He wriggled his eyebrows and went
to her. “Mysterious stuff. Magic.”

She cast him a dubious
expression, knowing he was teasing her. “It is
not
magic,” she said
flatly. “What is it?”

He put his arms around her and
pulled her close. “It is made from willow bark. It cures all manner of aches
and pains. Do you not trust me?”

She snuggled against him. “Of
course I trust you,” she toyed with his tunic. “I just wanted to know what it
was, ‘tis all.”

“You are a nosey woman.”

“I know.”

He bent over and kissed her; it
was a gentle kiss that very quickly turned into something very powerful. It
seemed that with each successive touch, each new moment of discovery, the
flames of passion between them roared hotter and hotter.  There was clearly
something very special between them, something that Stephen was increasingly
eager to explore.  Joselyn’s arms snaked up around his neck and she clung to
him as his mouth ravaged her.  When he straightened, he pulled her with him and
her feet dangled almost two feet off the floor.

“A pity your head aches,” he
murmured against her cheek.

“Why?” she asked breathlessly.

“Because I cannot have my way
with you; certainly your head would prevent an over amount of enjoyment for
you.”

“I would not be so sure.”

He looked at her, grinning. “Are
you certain? You just had a tremendous fright. I would feel like a cad for
taking advantage of a weakened woman.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Being in your arms gives me the strength of Samson. You are the best cure for
my weakness.”

His smile broadened, his gaze
moving to her full lips as if contemplating their sweetness. “You are learning
the art of sweet words quickly.”

“I have a good teacher.”

His mouth captured hers fiercely,
suckling her sweet lips before plunging his tongue deep into her mouth.  He was
such a big man, so strong, and she was no match for his strength physically and
could not match the power of his onslaught. She had one weapon over him,
however, that she was not yet aware of; her sweet little hands to his head, his
face, somehow undid him.  He could feel them in his hair, on the sides of his
face, and he realized there was not anything he would not do for her touch. It
was such a small gesture yet a tremendously fulfilling one.   He kissed the
palms of her hands as they came near his mouth, returning to her lips once more
and suckling her breathless. 

Laying her on the bed, he
stretched his big body over her, his hand moving down her neck to her arm and
then to her breast.   He kissed the swell of her bosom as he gently fondled
her, thinking very seriously of removing her from her surcoat.  But a loud bang
on the chamber door stopped him.

It was loud enough to startle him
right off the bed.  Throwing open the door, he was fully prepared to ream
whoever had interrupted his passion but bit the words off before they could
come flying out of his mouth.  Lane stood in the doorway, his fair face tense.

“Trouble, my lord,” he said
shortly. “You had better come.”

Stephen didn’t ask questions; he
whirled to his wife. “Stay in this chamber and bolt the door. Do not open for
anyone but me or de Lara.”

Joselyn didn’t have a chance to
reply before he slammed the door.  She rushed to it, throwing the bolt,
wondering what the trouble was and feeling fear in her heart. Oddly enough,
though, the fear was not for her.

It was for her English-bred
husband.

***

 The Scots had returned.

About five hundred Scots had
poured in through the main gate of the city of Berwick, killing several English
soldiers as they launched their sneak attack.  They plowed their way through
the city straight to the castle and began to lay an unorganized, if not
aggressive, siege.

De Lara had been caught outside
of the city walls with the vast majority of his men and very shortly found
himself in a bloody battle with a few hundred angry Scots.  He had cursed
himself for being stupid enough to be caught unaware; it was apparent that the
Scots had waited until de Lara, the last of the great English earls still at
Berwick, was separated from the garrison inside the castle.  When the Earl of
Carlisle went outside the city walls to muster his troops for the return home,
the Scots had attacked. The old adage of Divide and Conquer was their war cry.

The Scots were indeed a furious
bunch. Smoke rose from fires near the city walls as groups of Scots began to
burn the city.  They were raging like children, aimless, simply attempting to
do as much damage as possible without thought to those they damaged. As Stephen
stood atop the battlements of Berwick Castle and watched, he began to
understand the pattern.  Surrounded by Lane, Sir Ian and Sir Alan, they made a
somber, calculating group.

“I would hazard to guess that
they are planning on burning the city,” he said to Lane, standing alongside
him. “They would rather burn it than see it fall into English hands.”

“It is already in English hands,
my lord,” Lane said frankly.

Stephen smiled ironically. “They
are so blinded by their bitterness that they will cut off their nose to spite
their face and call it Victory.”

Lane and the two young knights
snorted in agreement, watching the smoke grow heavier near the main city gates.
Dusk was approaching and a battle by night was not something Stephen
relished.   He wondered how de Lara was faring; they could hear sounds of
battle in the distance but were too far away to catch sight of what was
happening.  Ian was reading his mind.

“Shall we take a contingent of
soldiers to de Lara, my lord?” he asked. “There is no knowing how many Scots he
is facing.”

Stephen shook his head. “We
cannot risk a breach of the castle. We must stay locked up tight.  De Lara will
have to fend for himself until such time as we can gain the upper hand and send
help.”

Ian nodded, the sunset reflecting
in his dark eyes; he was a very tall, very slender man with large facial
features. His counterpart, Sir Alan, was average in height but powerful. He had
a rather wide-eyed appearance as he watched the city in smoke; Stephen passed a
glance at him, suspecting the battles for Berwick were his first battles as a
knight and he had not yet learned the art of viewing the blood and fear as part
of the vocation.  He was still young and anxious.

They began to see a flow of men
moving towards them from the interior of the city.  Hundreds of Scots were
moving towards them, howling like a barbarian tide and carrying several ladders
they meant to put against the walls of Berwick to gain access.  The castle
itself sat upon a hill with a massive curtain wall that stretched down to the
river.   Stephen could see a group of Scots moving for the river, knowing they
were going to immerse themselves in the water in an attempt to get around the
wall in order to gain access.   The siege was growing more critical.

Calmly, he turned to Ian and
Alan.

“And so it comes,” he said
evenly. “Disburse your men along the walls and ensure that the postern gate is
heavily guarded.  We will have a contingent of men coming from the river side,
so make sure you concentrate your men on that side of the castle.  Ian, you
have command of the river side of the fortress.  Alan, you have the rest of the
wall. Make sure it is properly covered. I will take the gatehouse.

The knights disbanded, going
about their duties. Stephen remained on the wall of the gatehouse, watching the
Scots as they charged the wall and began to put up their ladders.  His helm,
having been held in one hand, was placed atop his head and the chin strap
secured.  He was a knight in full battle armor, as deadly as any man who had
ever walked the earth. 

“Weapons!” he bellowed to the
soldiers on the wall.

The troops sheathed broadswords
and produced the smaller, shorter blades meant for close quarters combat. He
had about five hundred men in the entire castle.  Gazing at the group below, he
hoped it would be enough.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The siege of Berwick waged well
into the night and into the next morning.  It was apparent that the siege of
the city and castle had been planned since the defeat of the Scots at Halidon
Hill, for the men from the north came well prepared with ladders and siege
engines.  Arrows, some of them Welsh in origin with their long, spiny shafts
and serrated heads, had come flying over the wall and struck down several
soldiers in a series of barrages.  As daylight dawned, lovely and bright,
Berwick Castle was in yet another horrific battle in a history that had been
full of them.