Summer Siege (2 page)

An argument ensued,
one in which he insisted she would still marry Lord Oswald.

“But, Father,
Tristan wants to marry me!”

“Have you lost your
mind, child?! What would Tristan Dumont want with you?”

“He loves me,
Father,” Madeline insisted.

“
Pah
, your wits are addled by the cold. Stop speaking
nonsense, girl.
‘Tis
to Lord Oswald you will be
betrothed and no other.”

“Father-” Madeline
broke off as he loomed over her, his face darkening. Her father was no large
man but Madeline was still smaller than he and she knew full well the strength
of his fists.

“Even if your
fanciful notions were true, I would not see more of our land handed over to the
Dumont’s. Lord Oswald is one of the most powerful men in Nottinghamshire.” Sir
Edward’s chest began to rise and fall with anger as his daughter shook her
head. “You will marry him, do you understand?!”

“Pray I beg of you,
Father. I do not wish to marry a man I don’t love.”

“Love?!
Love has naught to do with
marriage.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the bottom of the stairs, his
fingers pressing painfully into her skin. “You will marry who I say and I will
not hear another word against it. Get out of my sight! I do not wish to mar you
again, for ‘
twould
not do to present you to the lord
looking so, but I will if I have to!” He raised the back of his hand to her in
a threatening move and she scurried up the stairs away from him.

Madeline found
herself confined to her chambers for the next couple of days, though she
forever peeked out of her window hoping for a glimpse of Tristan, knowing that
it would not be long before he put her father to rights.

Yet,
soon after she found herself waking to a different view.
With no recollection as to how
she had got there, she awoke in a luxurious room, awash with expensive fabrics
and carved furniture. A peek out of her small window and she discovered she was
two floors up, looking over a great bailey.

A visit from her father
quickly answered her uncertainties and he made it clear that she was to be held
here until her wedding day. She listened to him - to his great plans, to his
insults of her. She absorbed them all calmly; all the time certain that Tristan
would come for her. He would return and find out about her betrothal and all
would be as it should.

But the day of the
wedding came and still there was no sign of him. Her hope wavered and, when it
became clear that no rescue was coming, she took it upon herself to escape.
Burying herself under Tristan’s cloak, she took what valuables she could, some
trinkets and jewellery, and made her escape.

Escaping the castle
was relatively easy - it being filled with visiting nobles ready for the
celebrations - no-one paid any heed to her. However, escaping the sprawling
town was harder for she knew little of the place and had been drugged for her
arrival.
As she negotiated the winding streets and
side-stepped the busy locals, fear and anger consumed her.
How could
Tristan leave her to such a fate?

When she made it
out of the town she found herself walking through several smaller demesnes,
unsure of what to do next.

For a young, almost
penniless and handsome girl, life should have taken a turn for the worse, but
Madeline was lucky for once. Mayhap God had decided to smile down upon her that
day. As her thoughts turned from bad memories to good, she drifted off into a
deep, luxurious sleep, the smell of Tristan still lingering in her senses.

The morning meal was a stilted
affair, the jubilation of the villagers at mass upon seeing the return of
Madeline somewhat at odds with the sombre mood of the manor house. Madeline had
borne their blessings with a stoic, but stiff manner, and it did not fail to
pass anyone’s notice how little she bore resemblance to the optimistic girl
they had all known.

The hall was cold,
in spite of the increasing warmth of the weather, the few aged tapestries doing
little to ward of the chill of the night air still persisting in the walls. A
trestle table, large enough for ten men, stood in the centre while benches
patiently awaited guests. A large carved chair sat at one end and would
probably never be occupied again, it having belonged to Sir Edward. Tristan had
always avoided it, unwilling to seat himself in the same place as a man that he
had come to despise.

Sitting opposite
Madeline, Tristan watched her with unease as she picked at her food. Alice had
been right about her growing into a beauty – her thick red hair begged for him
to bury his hands under the tresses and her full lips stood out in stark
contrast to her pale skin. But her green eyes viewed the world coldly, as if
all the joy had been sapped from them. Her eyes flicked briefly to the large
chair as it dominated the modest room before staring back down at her trencher.

For one brief,
blissful moment he had thought she had returned to him and all those years
spent lamenting his inability to protect her from such a fate suddenly seemed
inconsequential, the thought of having her back erasing his sorrow. But
whatever had befallen her these past years had scarred her and guilt filled
him. He was taunted by the knowledge that if he had but returned from his
duties sooner he could have saved her from such pain. He ached to know what she
had been doing all this time but he feared the answers she might give, knowing
they may well vex him further.

“I will take you to
my father today. He will be gladdened to see you returned and you can speak
with him about the manor,” he announced abruptly.

The silence being
broken so suddenly caused Madeline to look up at him in surprise. “I thank you,
but I can make the journey myself.”

“That may be, but
if my duties are to no longer include the stewardship of Woodchurch I will need
to speak with him myself.”

She chewed
nervously on her lip. “I would not see you leave on my account.
‘Tis
clear you have done much for Woodchurch. In truth, I
did not expect you to be fulfilling such a duty. What happened to
Ranulph
?”

Ranulph
had been her father’s previous
steward and was as aged and as inept as her father. He had died shortly before
Sir Edward who, in his weakened state, had failed to replace him.

“He died,” Tristan
told her simply.
“Just before your father.”

Madeline gave a
small smile of satisfaction. She obviously had as little love for the man as he
did. “No doubt Woodchurch is well rid of them.”

“Aye,
‘tis certainly not suffering in their absence.
I have done what I can but there
is still much work to be done to see it through the next winter. I confess I do
not wish to see the villeins suffer but I will do as you bid.”

Tristan had found
he had come to enjoy the role of steward far more than that of a warrior. The
horrors of battle would forever linger with him and, while he conceded he was
certainly suited to battle, he took far more pleasure in seeing the lands and
people of Woodchurch thrive. It was not without its stresses – their stores
were woefully low and he was unsure they would survive the next winter – but he
had a sharp mind and enjoyed the challenges of managing a fief.

Madeline
interrupted his thoughts. “If it pleases you, I would see you stay on.”

“Aye, it would
please me.” He released a brilliant smile and she blinked at him with
uncertainty.

Tristan would
certainly relish the opportunity to stay close to her. He harboured thoughts of
how he would garner back her affections.

“Do you really
believe the French will come to Dover?”

“I do. ‘Twill not
be
long before we see Prince Louis’ men on our lands. The
French prince has all but conquered the south and he would be a fool to ignore
Dover.”

At the behest of
the rebel barons, Prince Louis had recently nigh on walked into London and
seized the throne. He needed only to secure Dover to ensure his ascension to
king. With little support, King John had escaped to Winchester. While John
Lackland
had been no great king, Tristan feared the
uncertainty that the French invasion would bring. His father was a staunch
supporter of the King and the Dumont lands would almost certainly be at risk if
Prince Louis gained the crown.

“You do not believe
there will be danger here, surely?” Madeline asked hesitantly.

Tristan regarded
her gravely. “I know not. But we are close enough to Dover to be at risk.”
Impulsively he reached across the table and gripped at her hand. “If I remain
here, I will not allow you to come to harm, I swear it.”

She looked at his
hand, wide eyed, and for an instant a silent victory trilled through him as she
failed to withdraw it, the velvety skin begging for the stroke of his lips.
Meeting his gaze, he saw her shudder and a smile curved across his lips as he
realised he was not the only one affected by their simple touch. Her eyes
hardened abruptly and she pulled her hand from his, clenching her fist in her
lap.

“Do not make
promises you cannot keep. Besides, ‘tis not me I fear for, I have long since
learnt to defend myself.”

She stood, adopting
a regal posture, and Tristan could not help but cast his eyes over her form
appreciatively. While she wore a simple green bliaut over her chemise, the
belted waist served to emphasise her shapely hips and breasts. It was clear
that the years had endowed her with a figure that most women would be envious
of.

Madeline bristled
slightly under his obvious perusal of her. “I have few gowns at my disposal,
but I can change if this is not fitting for an audience with Lord Reginald.”

“Nay, I meant no
offence, Madeline. You need not change for our visit.” He stood and in the pretence
of moving towards the door, he paused in front of her. Her eyes widened as he
leant forwards. “Indeed, I am sure my father will appreciate your loveliness
just as I do.”

Grinning to himself
at her startled expression, he walked swiftly out of the door to the stables.
He had discovered that he could coax some kind of emotion from her and resolved
that he would continue to do so until he broke through the stony wall she had
built around her heart. He
would
recapture her love.

***

Tristan’s family home lay to the
north east of Woodchurch and was but a day’s ride away. Madeline was
apprehensive about stepping foot in Ashford Manor once more. As a vassal of
Lord Reginald Dumont, her father had been obliged to spend much time in Ashford
and Madeline had enjoyed the journeys there. The manor house had always seemed
terribly grand to her young eyes but what she had really appreciated was the
warmth and hospitality of the family.

Glancing at
Tristan, atop his large destrier, it was easy to see how he had matured into
such a confident, admirable man. With the love of his mother and father, it
would have been difficult to be otherwise. Even the family he had fostered with
had cherished him. Aye, Tristan’s upbringing had indeed been blessed.

An
upbringing wholly unlike her own.

Her cold and
callous father showed little love for anyone, the death of her mother having
decimated any warmth in his stony heart. She had heard tale of her father once
being a loving person but she had never experienced such a man. The beatings
could have been worse, which she supposed she should have been grateful for,
but it was the lack of affection that thoroughly saddened Madeline. As a
naturally loving child, she struggled to comprehend her father’s remoteness.

And now he was
dead.

It struck Madeline
how the news of his death had rendered neither tear nor smile. Mayhap she was
not so dissimilar to her father after all; mayhap it was just a matter of time
before she too became entrenched in an icy vault of indifference.
Mayhap she
already was.

They travelled
rapidly along the forest path, the roads blessedly dry. Light flickered through
the leafy canopy causing Madeline to squint intermittently as the sun rose in
the sky. Their rapid progress was hindered slightly by Thomas, who was unable
to keep up their pace with his smaller mount, but Madeline was grateful for the
time to gather herself.

Would Lord Reginald
grant her back her family lands? Indeed, it was not unknown for women to
inherit from their fathers and she would have Tristan to oversee the management
of the lands. However, she suspected that it would be only a matter of time
before she was pressured into marrying, particularly when eligible suitors
learnt of her ownership of a small, but desirable, fief.

Marriage was
certainly not her intent. A wife had destroyed her father, and her stepmother
had fared no better. Nay, marriage had done naught for them and she would not
allow herself to be bound to any man. She had received a taste of vulnerability
and had no wish to repeat the experience. Five summers had taught her of her
own independence and she would fight to retain that freedom.

The clatter of
chainmail intruded on her thoughts and she studied Tristan’s impressive form.
Riding slightly ahead of them, she was afforded an opportunity to scrutinise
him at her leisure. He wore a brown leather surcoat over his heavy hauberk, the
armour a necessity for travelling through the forests. His belt held his sword
and dark hose clung to muscular legs. Golden hair curled at the neck of his
chainmail, luminous under the flashes of sunlight.

While she
acknowledged he looked impressive in his armour, she missed the simple shirt
and chausses that she had first seen him in. Glowing under the sun, his shirt
adhering to the shape of his powerful torso, he may have looked little like a
lord’s son but he looked exquisite nonetheless.

The rustle of
leaves caught her attention and, as she looked to the source of the sound, a
creature hurtled from the undergrowth, dashing in front of Cariad. The horse
reared in surprise, flinging Madeline from her saddle and throwing her down
with a thump. Her leg twisted underneath her as she landed roughly with a yelp,
and Cariad whinnied and jostled as Tristan grabbed her reins. He dismounted and
handed the bridle over to Thomas before striding purposefully over to her.

“Cursed boar,” he
muttered. His eyes cast over her with concern. “Madeline, are you hurt?”

Tristan knelt down
beside her as she pulled herself up to sitting.

“Nay,” she winced.
“See to Cariad, I am well.”

Tristan shook his
head. “Nay, she is well enough. Can you stand?”

He held out a hand
to help her up but she pushed it aside. “Aye, aye, fret not.”

As she attempted to
stand, Madeline fell back to the floor with a small cry. Her ankle throbbed in
pain and she cursed, much to Tristan’s amusement.

Tristan’s hand came
about her ankle and she recoiled at the touch of his callused fingers, her eyes
wide. A frisson resounded through her at this unpretentious touch and his name
fell from her lips in surprise.
“Tristan!”

“Oh, come now. ‘
Twould
not be the first time I have inspected your
injuries. You were quite the accident prone child remember?”

She scowled at his
familiarity. “As were you, but your forget yourself. I am not a child, Tristan.”

Tristan’s brow
creased at her sharpness. “Forgive me, Madeline, I intended not to startle you.
Will you permit me to see to your injury?”

“Aye, if you must,”
she relented, bracing herself for his touch.

His enormous hand enveloped
her ankle, the bronze of his skin contrasting with the pale creaminess of her
own, and she gritted her teeth as he probed the joint. The ache had already
eased considerably and she did not think she had done much harm, but the graze
of his fingers on her delicate skin was far more of a cruel torment than the
pain. A finger brushed against her calf and she narrowed her eyes at him,
trying to decide if it held any intent.

A look to Tristan’s
furrowed brow revealed naught but guileless intentions. It bothered her
somewhat. Did he not find her attractive anymore? Mayhap he never had. Madeline
struggled to remind herself that she did not want his attentions anyway as he
drew his hands away.

“
‘Tis
a little bruised I
think,
naught more.”

“I could have told
you that,” she muttered sulkily, her pride still injured. “Is Cariad harmed?”

“I will see.” He
strode over to the horse
who
was now considerably
calmer under Thomas’ attentions.  

As he looked over
Cariad, Madeline attempted to pull herself upright. Now that she was ready for
the twinge in her ankle she found she could stand, but was unable to put weight
upon the bruised joint. She stumbled slightly and in a trice Tristan was by her
side, gripping onto her arm.