Lynn Wood - Norman Brides 03 (17 page)

The enemy soldier’s confidence was dealt a crushing blow when Michel parried the thrust of his heavy blade.  Too late the man realized he faced an opponent whose skill with a blade exceeded his own.  He was still raising his shield to deflect the blow even as Michel’s sword found purchase in the man’s soft middle.  He died in the company of his fallen comrades, his astonishment frozen into a wide-eyed death mask as he lay unseeing, staring up at the lightening early morning sky.

As the battle raged on, Michel lost count of the number of men he’d slain and pushed to the back of his mind his grief at the number of friends and comrades who fell beside him. Despite their own lives sacrificed in this contest, he knew that greater still were the number of enemy soldiers littering the ground around him, but as soon as one of their attackers fell it seemed as if two rushed to take his place.  Michel began to doubt his initial conclusion this assault was launched in order to take advantage of the confusion surrounding the succession of the kingship. The fierceness of the battle and the numbers engaged against them, as well as the staggering losses the enemy was willing to sustain, made him think whoever was behind this had another end in mind. 

They weren’t just after carrying off gold and wealth a quick raid would afford them.  He thought whoever was behind this assault was after Calei itself. Why settle for what they could claim in a single night’s raid, when if they could defeat the city’s defenders they could take advantage of the inner turmoil they concluded would result from the competition for the throne and claim not only the rule and wealth of the city but the rich treasure to be found in the surrounding mines?

He understood his faceless enemy’s strategy…to crush…to annihilate the defenders of the city so they could not rise against them and their rule.  Michel realized if he and his men had not arrived to reinforce the city’s defenders, that is exactly what would have happened. The thousand men who rode with him evened their numbers.  Without them, the city’s brave defenders would have been overcome.

Rage filled him.  He understood such was the ways of men and the evil of their hearts.  Hadn’t Barnabas told him there was no bottom to the well of evil in men’s hearts?  But the viciousness of the merciless assault they defended against struck him as the Norman invasion of Saxony failed to do and stirred in him a stake in the outcome he’d never truly felt before. All of a sudden the contest they waged was personal.  He took the assault against his grandfather’s homeland personally. He suddenly realized Calei was no longer simply his grandfather’s home.  It was his.  These men who fought by his side were his.  He’d be damned if he’d lose his destiny before he’d spent a single night as its ruler. 

With fresh resolve he cleaved a bloody trail with his sword through the line of enemy soldiers.  The clash of his blade rang out swift and sure causing the enemy to fall back before his righteous fury.  As if in response to his new ferocity, the long awaited signal for their remaining forces to attack sounded menacingly in the misty air of the unfolding dawn.  The majestic bells sounded in the air followed swiftly by the horns and shouts of their fellow Caleinians swarming down upon the enemy from the surrounding peaks.

Dismayed, the enemy forces were now forced to do battle on two fronts, defending both their front and rear flanks from attack.  The city’s tired, disheartened defenders emboldened by new men to fight by their sides and by the sight of their new king, careless of his own safety in his fury to defend their beloved homeland, wielded their swords with renewed vigor and might.

With the enemy cinched between them, it was only a matter of time before the Caleinian forces came together through the breech they cleaved in the ranks of the enemy lines. Still there was no break in the opposing soldiers’ discipline, no hint that they were on the brink of being crushed between the city’s defenders. They held their ground, drawing together in tight circles until the attackers became the defenders, like islands in a stormy sea threatened by a fierce storm. Michel was impressed by their courage even though on another level he could bemoan the useless waste of lives. With no pleas for mercy from their enemy, the Caleinians began cutting down the remaining enemy forces in a precise businesslike manner that was almost artistic in its display of savagery. 

The victors all wore wide smiles as the last of the enemy’s forces finally took off for the hills.  Michel motioned for his eager soldiers not to pursue them.  “They won’t be back and their retreat will perform a valuable service for those they sought to conquer and deliver our response to whoever sent them.”

“
Be careful my young king, not all of your enemies reside outside the boundaries of your fair kingdom.”

He was back.  Michel could be amused now by the mysterious voice’s dire warning, thinking he would really have to be careful about succumbing to the mystical nature of his new kingdom.   Another voice sounded in his ear, this one was also familiar but was spoken through the lips of a living man, though the chill his warning sent up Michel’s spine was more ominous than the amusement he felt at his imaginary companion’s warning.

“You’ve had a busy first day, Your Highness and an effective one, soundly defeating both your strongest challengers from within and without Calei’s boundaries.  Ironically, I find myself deeply in your debt.  Allow me to repay you in a manner befitting your royal status.”

Too late, Michel realized he would pay a deadly price for his recklessness and the excessive assurance only a man in his prime possessed of his own immortality. Only now in the split second before the assassin’s blade penetrated his yielding flesh did he comprehend how cunningly he’d been separated from his own men until he was surrounded solely by those of another contender for Calei’s ancient throne.

Too late he acknowledged his own foolishness in not only trusting in the pledges of loyalty from the men who, before he killed Raulf, had their own designs on his grandfather’s throne, but in dismissing the warning of the mysterious voice echoing in his own head. Had not the betrayal of close friends that led to the deaths of both his grandfather and his immediate predecessor been enough to put him on his guard? 

As if in an alternate world, one that proceeded with excruciating slowness, he felt the point of the sharp dagger pierce his back and carve upward, and knew his reign was destined to be a short one.  His cry of astonished protest at the ghastly pain assaulting him was smothered by a gloved hand so no sound emerged.  His strength deserted him with shocking swiftness and his knees crumbled, as his sword slipped from his grasp.  He was prevented from sliding to the damp, blood-soaked ground by the strong arms of his assailant coming around him to hold him upright.  As he lost consciousness, he thought he heard an echo of his own silent cry coming from the lips of his murderer.

Elena sat huddled along with the female members of Baron Timothy’s family in the tunnels beneath the family’s estate. Servants and the younger male members of the household retainers waited anxiously for word of the battle raging above ground at the entrance to the city.  Elena waited on the damp stone somewhat removed from the others, leaning back against the wall with her arms wrapped around her knees.

The air in the underground tunnels was dank and musty, but Elena barely noticed her uncomfortable surroundings. Her breaths came in short, terrified gasps, and not only because of the attack on the city.  Though the majority of her uncle’s years as king had been peaceful ones, this was not the first time she’d been sent to safety underground while she prayed fervently that Calei’s defenders would emerge victorious over their enemies.  Never before though had she been so overwhelmed with her worry. 

Earlier in the day she’d been overcome too, but then it was with joy when the news reached her of Raulf’s death and that Michel had been accepted by the heads of the remaining noble families as the new king of Calei. She spent the day in a dazed state of happy dreams and grand plans, alternately feeling laughter bubble up inside of her, a reaction she guessed to her dazed relief that Raulf would never be able to reach her again, and wiping tears from her eyes.  She did not even mind when Michel did not immediately ride out to Baron Timothy’s estate to bring her back to take up residence with him in the castle. She understood, better likely than the new king himself, of the constant demands his new responsibilities would thrust upon him.

When the sounds of the battle being waged above them fell silent, a deeper hush settled over their dark retreat, as all awaited the news of their futures.  It seemed to Elena as if long hours passed before Amele stood framed in the doorway, his skin and cloak streaked with blood and sweat and grime, his grave expression confirming her worst fears.  She would have sworn her heart stopped beating in her chest when her eyes met those of the older man’s.  She was unaware her head was shaking silently back and forth in agonized denial, as Michel’s close friend approached where she sat.

“No.” The hushed denial escaped her lips as the older man, his weathered face etched in deep lines, regarded her out of dark, grief-stricken eyes, squatted in front of her.

“Lady Elena…”

Elena closed her eyes against the scalding tears that forced themselves through her clenched lids and reached up to cover her ears in a futile gesture meant to prevent her from hearing the words she knew he was about to deliver.  The cruelty of having her newly resurrected hope snatched away from her fleeting grasp was too much for her fragile heart to contemplate.  She buried her head in her knees and prayed she was in the grip of some hideous nightmare.

“Lady Elena, you must accompany me now.”

She heard the words spoken in his deep, now familiar voice, but merely burrowed her head deeper between her knees and clenched her hands more tightly against her ears.

“Lady Elena, the king would want you to return to the castle.”  When she only ignored his quiet plea, he spoke the words that for a moment resurrected her dead hope and made her heart begin beating again.  “Lady Elena, the king is gravely injured.”

“Injured?” Elena parroted blankly, lifting her head from her knees so she could read the confirmation she sought in his eyes.

Both his expression and confirming nod were solemn and Elena recognized, though he was giving her the truth that Michel still lived when he came in search of her, Amele held no real hope of finding him alive when he returned with her to his friend and his king’s side.  It was obvious the older man did not expect his young king to recover from the grave injury he spoke of.  Fresh tears stinging behind her lids, she nodded silently and allowed him to assist her to her feet. 

Neither spoke to the astonished, silent witnesses of their exchange when Amele grasped her hand and led her back the way he had come.  When they approached the men who awaited them outside in the cool, early morning light, their expressions all mirrored the same disbelieving grief echoed in Amele’s eyes.

Elena allowed herself to be assisted to the saddle and waited numb while Amele mounted behind her.  His strong grip around her waist secured her in the saddle, so with nothing else to do with her icy hands she slipped them into the pockets of her cloak.  Inside, the fingers of her right hand came up against something hard and cold.  The stone!  She’d forgotten all about it, first in the excitement of the earlier joyous news she received, and then in the dread of night.  The stone heated in her hand.  She’d meant to return it to Michel before he left the previous morning for his meeting with the noblemen to claim his rightful place as the new king, but she never had the chance.  Would the stone have protected him against the wound that even now threatened to take his life?  Maybe it wasn’t too late.  Maybe the stone really was magic.

With irrepressible hope burgeoning in her breast, Elena clasped the stone in her clenched fist.  She was not taking any chances it would attempt to escape her grasp again.  To her surprise, the stone made no effort to do so, as if it too was in a hurry to be reunited with its rightful owner, and had reasoned out that accompanying her was the fastest way for it to achieve its objective. The distance to the castle was accomplished quickly as the crowds of shocked, grieving citizens hurried out of their way when they became aware of their approach.

Their small company came to a halt in front of the castle steps and Elena offered no protest when Amele helped her dismount then gripped her hand and pulled her through the throng clogging the entrance as ordinary Caleinians awaited word with tears glimmering in their eyes and staining their cheeks, on the fate of their new, young king.  The inside of the keep was no less crowded, but the soldiers gathered there, still in their blood-soaked cloaks and tunics stepped back to allow them to pass, the silence among so many strangely overwhelming in its oppressive weight.

Elena thought she was prepared for the sight of Michel stretched out, helpless, his skin deathly pale, his breath barely discernible, a bloody bandage wrapped tightly around his naked chest to stem the flow of blood.  Hadn’t she tended her uncle for long months in this same room, watched him lying in this same bed, his life slowly draining away?  But though she loved him as a father, her uncle was not her beloved.  If she needed proof of the depths of her feelings for the man who rescued her from another man’s lustful intent, it was evident in the blow she absorbed to see Michel in the same, helpless condition as her uncle, only he appeared in a greater hurry to depart this burdensome life.  Had Amele’s strong arm not reached out to steady her, she would have fallen to her knees at the sight.  Gathering herself, and making no effort to stem the flow of tears on her cheeks, she stepped away from Amele’s firm grip and hurried across the distance between the door and the large bed on trembling legs.

There she allowed her strength to desert her and she sank to her knees at his side, her hand reaching out to smooth her beloved’s long dark hair, matted with blood and sweat away from his pale face.  She reached into the pocket of her cloak and retrieved the stone from it. She glanced down at the odd jewel and was surprised when for a brief moment it seemed to gleam with a shining, white light, but when she blinked and lifted the odd gem to her face for closer inspection, the illusion vanished.  Elena grasped Michel’s limp hand at his side and pressed the stone into his palm, then closed his fingers around it, holding the stone captive in his closed fist as the unconscious man was unable to perform this service for himself.

Then she closed her eyes, rested her head against the strength of his still arm, and holding his hand in hers, she prayed to her heavenly father not to take her last hope, and the man she suspected would be her only true love, from her side.