Juliana Garnett (26 page)

It was virtually impregnable. That the enemy had managed to penetrate this deeply to the doors of the living quarters was a dire catastrophe.

And it seemed as if the battle would not end soon, for as she watched, more men poured out from doorways, ranging over the ward and up stone steps into guard towers. Arrows flew thick and fast, and the clang of swords was pierced by the roars from men’s throats. Flames had engulfed an outbuilding, raging unchecked. Yea, ’twas a fierce battle in troth, and she could do naught to aid them.

Not even during the siege at Montmorency those many years ago had she felt as close to peril. That now, when she was in the stronghold of the fiercest warrior in the land, she should be so endangered was astonishing. Only vile treachery could have wrought such a feat, and Annice shuddered to think who amongst them might betray his lord.

From below came a deep, echoing rattle. It sounded again, then again, measured and slow, as if a storm raged in the distance. Annice could not see directly below her windows to the doors that led inside but did see men fighting just beyond. Even as she frowned, it struck her as to the cause—a battering ram would make that sound as it pounded the doors. Holy Mary and all the saints—the enemy were storming the very doors that would allow them inside.

Jerking away from the window, she snatched up a decorative dagger with jeweled hilt, thrusting it into the links of her girdle. Then she changed shoes, putting on the soft leather ankle boots that Belle had included with her wardrobe. A chest brought from Stoneham had been placed in the chamber, holding necessities she might use during the days after her wedding. She knelt beside it, throwing back the heavy lid with some difficulty. A brief exploration
yielded her another poniard, this more utilitarian in appearance and function. That one she tucked into the garter holding up her hose.

Heart pounding, she rose slowly from beside the chest and lowered the lid. God’s grace, but that the enemy would be stopped before reaching the inner sanctuary of the hall. Where was Rolf? Was he unharmed? If he had been wounded, she would see his attackers dragged before the king and condemned to death … yea, would gladly lift the executioner’s axe herself to send their heads flying!

It could only be rebels storming the castle of John’s loyal baron. That she knew well. The king would not have sent men to take a well-situated keep such as Dragonwyck, especially when its lord had sworn fealty to him. Aye, only rebels would be this reckless, not caring if they incurred the king’s wrath.

Time dragged, and Annice wore a path between windows, peering from one, then the other, trying to see. If only someone would bring word—surely it had been hours, and still the battle raged. Was she to remain there indefinitely? Had they forgotten her in all the excitement?

Flinching as a spate of fighting grew louder, she drifted to the east window again and leaned out. Her breath caught, and her hands curled tightly around the stone ledge. She recognized the colors of the men below—the house of Mowbray. They were fighting furiously, and ’twas not for Dragonwyck’s cause.

Weak with despair, she lowered her head, cupping her forehead in a palm. William of Mowbray was a most outspoken rebel. Sir Rannulf had left his service, she’d thought, to come join the loyalist cause. Could she be mistaken? Could Sir Rannulf—a former vassal of Beauchamp—be the traitor among them? Pray God she was wrong. That one of her vassals should be accused …

A loud pounding on the chamber door jerked her upright, and she turned from the window, heart in her throat. It sounded again, a harsh rattle that portended a foe on the other side. But then she heard, loud and sweet, a familiar voice.

“Milady! ’Tis Belle! I beg of thee, let me in.…”

Annice was already running toward the door, grateful to hear Belle’s voice. She was alive, and now there would be two of them to watch and wait. P’raps she bore news, or had been sent from Rolf to fetch her.

It took her a moment to lift the heavy bar sealing the door, but with a loud scraping it was shoved aside. As she tugged at the door’s handle, it was roughly pushed from outside, almost knocking her down. Staggering slightly, Annice’s heart plummeted to her toes.

Belle did, indeed, stand in the doorway. But ’twas with a dagger poised at her throat, wielded by a man-at-arms in Mowbray colors. He grinned at her. “Very wise, milady. Bid us well come.…”

Hard on the echo of his words, three men rushed into the chamber, grabbing Annice by both arms to hold her.

Weeping, Belle wailed, “I did not want to betray thee, milady! But they would kill me ere I did naught do what they said.…”

“I do not blame thee,” Annice said, glaring at the soldiers crowding into the chamber. “I blame craven men who would hide behind a woman’s skirts to gain false entry.”

“False entry it may be,” one of the men-at-arms said shortly, “but we were bade to bring thee to our lord by any means. And that we shall do.”

Aghast, Annice began to struggle, realizing even as she did so that ’twas useless. She could only pray that Rolf would rescue her. And that he was still alive and unharmed.

Sir Guy painfully dragged himself from his cot, sword clutched tightly in one hand. It took him several minutes to reach the gallery overlooking the hall. One hand propped against the floor to hold himself up, he grasped one of the wood spindles with the other and pressed his face against it. Panting, he surveyed the scene below with horrified eyes. One of the huge doors leading into the hall hung askew, swinging slightly from a broken hinge. Daylight streaked inside, a hazy shaft spilling across the hall’s floor. Armed men fought furiously, swords clanging and glittering as they battled across the rushes.

The screams of serving wenches caught between opposing forces only added to the chaos. The excited baying of hounds clashed with the angry shouts of struggling men. A table toppled over into the rushes with a loud crash, sending up a geyser of straw and chaff. One of the wall hangings tumbled down atop two of the combatants. They struggled to free themselves, looking for all the world like the humped back of a dragon thrashing upon the floor.

“
Merde
,” Guy muttered softly, teeth clenched against pain, and the damnable fog still clouding his brain. He released the wood spindle and groped blindly for the hilt of his sword. His first instinct upon recognizing the sounds of battle had been to grab his weapon. He should have at least paused for his crutch. There he lay, dragging one leg, unable even to walk, he thought disgustedly. He should never have taken the second draft of herbs. The first had been enough. Now his mind was hazy with blurred images, coherent thought flickering in and out like sunlight through dark clouds.

Reaching up, Guy grasped the top post of the railing that enclosed the musicians’ gallery. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, using the hilt of his sword as a crutch. Then he leaned against the railing to peer down into the hall. Curse them … the rebels sought to cause trouble between le Draca and the king. If they could take Dragonwyck, they would have a key strategic position that commanded a goodly portion of Lincolnshire. With other shire rebels, it would be near impossible for John to conquer them.

And he would come once he heard, of that all could be certain. Whatever else the king was, he was also tenacious about those lands he considered his. He would promptly set out to subdue the rebels. The offensive would divide his forces in half, weakening him, but he would not care for that. Nay, the king was not as cagey as Richard had been when it came to strategy. That character flaw had most like prompted these rebels to attempt Dragonwyck.

Divide and conquer. Yea, ages old, the ploy still worked more often than not.

Guy breathed heavily with the effort to stand. Disabled as he was, to enter the fray would mean certain death. But
to hang back and watch was torment. He was no archer, but even a bow and quiver full of arrows would be better than helplessly watching slaughter.

And that was what the fray appeared to be. Caught by surprise and still wine-fogged, Dragonwyck men-at-arms fought valiantly but ineffectually. Few had managed to rally. But where was Rolf? The Lord of Dragonwyck should be amongst those below, defending the inner sanctum of the hall.

Guy searched the combatants but did not see him. Though it seemed like hours, the fighting had spanned only a brief time. Was Rolf even down from his chamber yet? Had no one thought to inform the lord of the assault? It was inconceivable that he had not heard the din of battle, even besotted as he might be with his new wife.

But Guy determined to investigate, to ascertain himself that Rolf was awake and aware.

It took him thrice the normal time to traverse the winding steps that led upward. By the time he reached the top, his leg was dragging even more painfully. He ignored it as best he could. Still, he was forced to pause for a rest, leaning back against the wall, dragging in deep gulps of air.

His sword clanged lightly against the stones, and he shifted it to the front, resting both hands on the cross hilt. God’s mercy, but the drug in his body still raged, making his ears ring and his head buzz as if filled with straw dust. He shook his head slightly to clear it, then went still.

Voices drifted down to him from the upper hallway. A woman’s voice was sharp and angry, and he recognized Lady Annice. Was she with Rolf? Ever was she annoyed with him, it seemed, but he did not think she would be speaking to him with that particular tone. There was contempt in her words, though he could not make out the content.

Cautiously, he withdrew in a stumbling gait toward a curtained alcove. Barely had the curtain shifted to hide him than the voices came into close proximity.

“You will ever regret this, you ignorant fool,” Annice said sharply. “When my lord hears what you have done, you will have scant time to bemoan your hasty actions.”

“When your lord hears of this,” a man’s voice snarled,
“he will most likely do exactly what is expected. ’Tis not my concern who he belabors for this deed, for he will naught have long to think on’t.”

There was a brief silence, and Guy could hear the stomp of boots and scuffle of feet over the stones. Weapons clinked softly. His fist curled in impotent rage over his swords hilt. There were several of them. If he tried to intervene, he would only be killed. If the attempt would save the lady, he would gladly die. But he knew that his death would not aid her. Any information he learned might.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Guy strained to listen.

“What of your lord!” Annice was saying scornfully. “He is aught but a peacock stuffed with conceit if he thinks to best Rolf of Dragonwyck. Do you think Sir Rannulf capable of meeting the Dragon in a fair fight?”

“Rannulf?” The man-at-arms laughed harshly. “ ’Tis not Sir Rannulf who is clever enough to concoct such a scheme as this. Nay, milady, you credit that cackling peahen with far too much intelligence.”

“If not Sir Rannulf,” Annice asked, her voice fading as they passed by the alcove and began to descend the stairs, “then ’tis the Earl of Mowbray who dares commit such folly?”

Another laugh greeted this question. “Thou art fool indeed to think that William of Mowbray would have the courage to dare such as this, milady.”

“Then who?” Annice demanded, her words hardly audible as they descended the curving staircase.

Almost stumbling in his eagerness to hear, Guy clutched at the curtain with a quick hand as he leaned closer. Barely drifting back to him on an errant current came the word, “Seabrook …”

Guy muttered a soft oath, fist tangling in the heavy material of the curtain. Thurston! Aye, that wily earl had intruded where he should not, for when Rolf discovered the truth, he would raze Stoneham Castle to the ground. Nothing but smoking rubble would be left.

Footsteps and voices faded away. Guy stepped cautiously from behind the curtain and glanced around. No one was in sight. Pricked with urgency, he started forward in a hobbling
gait, using his sword as a crutch. The tip dug into the stone with a scratching rasp, and he almost slid before he caught his balance. Then he moved to the wall, sliding his hands over the stones to support himself, grimly determined to reach Rolf.

He had to get to him, had to inform Rolf of the true identity of their attackers. With the invaders clad in the disguising colors of Mowbray, it was a certainty that the innocent William would be blamed. Anxious that Rolf quickly learn the truth lest he send out forces in the wrong direction, Guy began a cautious descent down the stairs. He was forced to go slowly, fighting the almost overpowering urge to rush.

Focused on his goal, he did not see the man behind him until too late. It was only the slight sound of a step and the casting of a shadow that gave him warning enough to lurch sideways, and the blow struck him on the side of his head. Pain blinded him, swooping over him with dark wings to usher him into oblivion. As he fell headlong down the stone steps, the anguished thought occurred to him that it would be too late to retrieve Annice from Thurston’s hands. Then all went black.