Chapter 19

Raven would not peacefully abide the tears of a weeping woman. He sat up in bed, flung the covers aside, got to his feet, and stood over his wife.

"Abrielle, this cannot continue," he said sternly. "I canna longer seduce ye by force. I willna take ye again like this. 'Tis time for ye ta come ta me."

His easy assumption of his domineering role in her life did more than put Abrielle into a high temper, it caused her tears to dry up as quickly as they'd come. She flung the quilts back from her side and jumped to her feet, facing him across the bed.

"You'll be waiting a long time, Raven Seabern. You may have taken my wealth, but you won't have my heart and soul to crush when you leave."

"Why…" He hesitated, momentarily distracted and captivated by the sight of her bunched nightgown sliding over her curves, then he blinked and frowned. "Why would I leave?"

But she would say nothing more, only flounced back into bed and refused to face him. Raven wanted to spin her around and make her tell him exactly what she meant, and he wanted to scoop her into his arms and back into bed, no matter that he'd barely finished making his pledge not to take her again until she came to him, or that he'd thought himself sated from their lovemaking. Gazing at her barely hidden curves, he feared he would never be completely sated. He was a fool to let her flummox him this way, but not enough of a fool to storm off as he was sorely tempted to do at that moment. He would not give his infuriating bride that satisfaction. Nor would he deny himself the pleasure of sleeping near her body, even if he couldn't touch it thanks to his damn pledge. Aye, a fool to be sure, he thought as he too got into bed, folding his arms behind his head to keep from reaching out to her and staring at the ceiling.

ALTHOUGH THERE WAStension in the new Seabern household, there came a growing strife in the rest of England. Never before had so many heralds been sent out at one time to deliver dispatches to various parts of the realm. The news they bore was grave indeed. Having gone to his castle at Lyons-la-Forêt with every intention of hunting in the surrounding forest, Henry I, youngest son of William the Conqueror, had fallen ill and within a week had died. His death ushered in not only a time of grievous mourning but also a harrowing and lengthy epoch for the whole of the late monarch's realm.

Henry's first queen had been a Scotswoman, sister of King David himself, and their daughter, Maud, was his choice to succeed him on the throne. He had won concessions years before from all his noblemen that they would support her when he died. Although the noblemen found it difficult to generate enthusiasm for Maud, they feared if they bound themselves by fealty and oath to the late king's nephew, Stephen, they'd lose whatever they had managed to gain throughout Henry's rule, whether ill-gotten or justly deserved.

Had not the king been at odds with his daughter and her husband at the time of his death, Maud might have been wont to hasten to her parent's bedside and claim her rightful inheritance before anyone could usurp it. Instead, within a matter of days, Stephen had managed to impose himself as king within the minds of the nobles and was soon aggressively defying anyone who might have found fault with that idea. Although Stephen would not be officially crowned for several weeks, Maud's continued absence from England seemed to solidify his authority. In the ensuing days, it became apparent that the kingly domain was being plunged into the darkest form of strife, a far cry from the peaceful rule that Henry had managed to maintain throughout his years on the throne.

ON THE SIXTHday of their marriage, Raven was called away to confer with King David on Scotland's newly strained relationship with England. Abrielle stood in the chill air of the courtyard beside her mother and watched Raven speaking with his father as he awaited the arrival of his squire and the three other men-at-arms who'd come with them from Scotland.

Elspeth put her arm around Abrielle. "You will be sorry to see him leave, I am sure."

Abrielle nodded, surprised at the veracity of her mother's words in spite of the fact that she and Raven continued to be at odds over the state of their marriage. The last several nights had been spent in the same bed, but they were separated by a chasm of misunderstandings and anger.

"Perhaps…" Elspeth continued slowly, watching her daughter, "the time away will allow you both to see your marriage more clearly."

Abrielle turned to gaze at her mother, sarcasm quirking the corner of her mouth. "And you are so certain that we have things to sort out between us?"

"I see my daughter's pain. I want you to be happy, Abrielle."

Abrielle pulled her cloak closer about her throat and turned cool eyes back to her husband, who was now leading his horse through the courtyard toward her. "Mama, you assume that two countries are not about to come between us. You assume that Raven prizes our wedding over his obligations to his king."

Elspeth opened her mouth, but then could say nothing, for Raven had arrived. He stood before Abrielle, looking down at her solemnly. She looked beautiful and proud and aloof, all part of the contradictions that made up his wife.

Softly, she said, "Farewell, Raven. Come back unharmed."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, inhaling the sweet scent of her. He hadn't wanted to leave without the final comfort of her embrace, but wouldn't force her hand.

"I shall return soon," he said, then turned away and mounted Xerxes, his loyal stallion. With a nod to his father and her parents, he rode out of the courtyard and headed north.

In the days and weeks that followed, a grim harvest of death, violence, and thievery was rampantly reaped by those seeking to benefit themselves in whatever dreadful form their unbridled maliciousness and greed chose to be exhibited. Pillaging became commonplace throughout both Normandy and England, to the degree that no man was safe from aggression or butchery even in his own home. It seemed especially rampant upon the roads, where innocents were now being frequently set upon by those bent on thievery and other grievous acts of violence.

Abrielle sheltered and healed more than one victim, and she thought often of Raven traveling such dangerous roads between two countries. He was her husband, and for that reason alone it was natural for her to want him to come home safely. Yet she also bore him tender feelings from her woman's heart, feelings that were growing steadily stronger even as they were battered by sadness and regret and confusion. Was this to be her life, always watching Raven ride away, always wondering who might kill him because of the country of his birth? Or would he have to fight with Scotland against Abrielle's own people? There was a time when she'd vowed never to open herself up to the pain of falling in love with him; now increasingly she wondered if she had any more choice in the matter than she had in marrying him.

IT DIDN'T SEEMto matter whether one was loyal to Stephen or to Maud, there were many who were intent upon reaping, either by arbitration or by force, whatever benefit or profit they could garner from the discord now raging within the kingdom. The knights and men whom Vachel had once commanded came riding again to his defense, splitting their forces between Vachel's home and Abrielle's. These knights as well as the foot soldiers and the families that belonged to each accepted Vachel's invitation to take up permanent residence within the protective stone walls surrounding the keep. Many already living there were wont to agree that the knights' presence calmed some of their fears, for beyond the gates, it now seemed apparent that neighbor was turning viciously against neighbor and kith against kin in this turnabout world whence all reason had been vanquished.

It was to this very same keep that the three Graysons and several of their loyal knights fled in haste during the dark of night. Like the knights and foot soldiers who had fled from the terror encompassing their land, the Graysons came seeking shelter, bringing their most costly possessions as well as trunks filled with clothing and basic essentials. Their flight, however, was not without incident, for a miscreant's arrow had pierced Lord Grayson's shoulder while he was helping the servants load his small family into the conveyance. It was only after they had thrown several valuable items from one of the carts that the rapacious scoundrels flew upon the spoils and began to squabble over them, in their greed allowing the family to escape their murderous intent.

Upon their arrival, servants helped Reginald into the keep, followed by Isolde and Cordelia. Already alerted, Abrielle and Elspeth were in the process of turning down a bed and spreading clean but older linens over the sheets already covering the mattress when the servants bore Reginald into the chambers. Isolde and Cordelia were clearly distraught over the wounding of their loved one, but were encouraged when Vachel assured them that his lordship possessed a hearty stamina and was not one to be easily undone by a culprit's arrow. The women were then urged to return to the antechamber, where they would remain until the arrow could be extracted. Abrielle sent a servant to bring mulled wine for the women, hoping it would suffice to soothe many of their qualms and perhaps help to relax them as they kept vigil together. But Abrielle herself went into Reginald's bedchamber. She had never removed an arrow, unlike Cedric, so she was going to assist him as needed.

With the further assistance of copious tankards of strong ale for the patient, Cedric was able to remove the arrow and then sear the wound with a red-hot poker iron. Afterward, a bleary Reginald gratefully offered him a tankard of ale. By the time Elspeth, Cordelia, and Isolde entered the chamber, Cedric and Reginald were chortling together as if they had just shared some wildly humorous tale.

Cordelia's gaze seemed naturally inclined to meet the vivid blue eyes of the elder Scotsman, and in response he gave her a wink and a lopsided, white-toothed grin, readily bringing a blush to her cheeks. "'Tis certain I am that the stars have come out ta shine upon me this eventide," he avowed with a deep chuckle. "If na, then it must be the radiance of m'lady's smile I'm seeing afore me."

"To be sure, sir." Cordelia gave a winsome dip of her head. "You likely saved my father's life, and for that I will always be grateful. Indeed, I should like to commend you for your proficient removal of the arrow, as well as Abrielle for her capable assistance."

"My humble gratitude for your generous praise, m'lady," Cedric replied, inclining his head briefly in appreciation.

Abrielle simply squeezed her friend's hand, happy beyond words to have her companionship in such dreadful, trying times.

Isolde slipped her hand within her husband's as she asked in wifely concern, "How are you feeling?"

His lordship grinned up at her. "Rather mellow now with the worst of it behind me. 'Twas to my great benefit that Laird Cedric was here to tend me. I've suffered worse from physicians who've tended simpler wounds. The laird is certainly a good man to have around."

Cedric swept her a clipped bow. "I'll be leaving ye in Abrielle's capable hands. My new daughter by marriage is a fine healer. Now I must be off. There's still training ta be doing on the tiltyard this day."

"Be careful!" Cordelia urged as he hastened through the door. "We would see you again soon."

Casting a glance over his shoulder, he gave the young beauty a wink. "I'll be coming back, m'lady, mark my words."

As Isolde and Elspeth began to fuss over a drowsy Reginald, Abrielle left them with crushed herbs to use in a poultice, before Cordelia drew her into the antechamber.

The two friends hugged each other for a long moment, until at last Cordelia backed up a step, gripping her friend's arms as she examined her face. "You don't look all that different now that you're Raven's bride."

Abrielle sighed. "Oh, Cordelia, it did not feel like a true wedding without you."

"I trust it was a true wedding night," Cordelia offered with a sly grin.

Abrielle groaned and turned away. "Even friends should not discuss such intimate things."

Cordelia pulled her back to face her, her own smile dying. "Abrielle? When I last left, you were treating Raven as just another suitor, one you'd already asked to leave the castle. The next letter I received was the awkward announcement of your wedding, without any good details."

"I…wished you to have the news with haste, so I did not take the time to write more."

"He is a ‘bonny lad,' as a Scot would say. So why do I see shadows in your eyes when you talk about him? And do not say that you're simply worried about him in his absence, for I shan't believe it."

Abrielle had never withheld anything from her friend, so she briefly sketched the details, from their discovery alone together to the wedding.

"So 'twas not a joyful ceremony, I take it," Cordelia said drily. "But surely he's a far better man than Desmond de Marlé."

"Who could hurt me far worse than Desmond ever could have if I allow myself to become vulnerable," Abrielle whispered, hugging herself. "You know that from the start I have not been able to trust his motives where his courtship of me is concerned."

"Abrielle, you are a wondrous woman whom any man would be glad to marry for herself alone. Raven is lucky to have won you, regardless of the manner, and I am sure he knows it."

"I wish I could believe that," Abrielle replied. "But even if I did, it is so much more complicated than that. He's a Scot, Cordelia. If we go to war with them…"

"Has he demanded that you change your allegiance?"

"Well…nay, but—"

"Then you and he will work it out. Countries may be fighting, but husband and wife do not need to."

So torn about her emotions was Abrielle that tears stung her eyes. "'Tis not that simple. If I let myself love him, and he has to leave me over a coming war, how will I bear it?"

"Abrielle, none of us can predict the future. If we all base our deeds on things that might happen, we would cower in our beds without any decision being made. You just have to allow love into your heart."

"I know not if I can," Abrielle whispered at last.

CONSIDERING THE CARNAGEand aggression now occurring throughout the kingdom, it was not at all surprising when Thurstan de Marlé realized that he had found the perfect tool to use against Raven Seabern. The Scot had taken what was Thurstan's from the beginning—the de Marlé keep and the wealth that went along with it. It was time for Thurstan to send the Scot back where he came from—or even to the very grave itself. But first he would take the castle itself, while its new lord was away.

It was easy enough for him to visit the various lords of the region, to take advantage of their worries about the peace and safety of their homes situated so close to Scotland. Thurstan encouraged all to besiege Raven's new base of power, telling them that they could "hold" it for England rather than Scotland. The Scotsmen should not be allowed to gain any more English territory.

And with their insecurity and fear, the northern lords listened, allowing Thurstan, kin to Weldon de Marlé, who had been so respected, to lead them. Thurstan, in turn, was compelled to allow Desmond's half sister, Mordea, to ride at his side. He was still holding her fast, urging her on in her hatred, waiting for the day he might need her evil skills.

With no warning, Thurstan and a large contingent of noblemen, knights, and mounted men-at-arms came thundering across the land on horseback, sending the serfs fleeing in fear for their lives toward the safety of the stone fortification. Riding on a shaggy steed beside Thurstan was Mordea, with her long, frizzy hair flowing out wildly behind her. A large gray wolf 's pelt had been wrapped about her darkly cloaked shoulders, beneath which she wore a breastplate that protected her stout chest.

Upon letting the frightened serfs into the courtyard, Vachel ordered the drawbridge to be lifted behind them to forestall the entrance of the rabble following on their heels. He then selected several of the best riders from among the serfs and bade them to arm themselves with swords and pikes before leading the group through the lower passageway to the postern portal whence Abrielle and Nedda had previously been abducted. Since that occasion, the lower depths had undergone beneficial changes, part of which included a stable wherein a few of their fastest horses were kept in stalls near the outer door, allowing the keep's inhabitants to promptly give chase should miscreants attempt another abduction. From there, Vachel sent several mounted riders racing off in different directions with the hope that they would be able to alert their allies and persuade them to come in haste and lend their assistance in defeating the unprovoked aggressors who now sought to take possession of the keep. But most of the northern lords had long memories, and they would most likely believe that the Scots should be swept from England.

Holding a flag of truce, Thurstan rode forward alone, garbed entirely in black except for a metal breastplate covering his chest. He reined in his horse within hearing range of the men on the battlements.

"For most of you within the castle, we have no quarrel. If you surrender yourselves, you will not be harmed. But the lords of Northumberland will not allow Scotland this incursion into our land. We mean to hold this castle for England."

Vachel stood with his legs wide, his hands braced on his hips, and shouted, "I speak for Lady Abrielle, the rightful lady of this castle, as you well know. Though its lord may be a Scot, the castle and lands are for England, and Lady Abrielle stands firm on this matter. Cease this violence at once, before innocent men are killed."

Thurstan rode away, lowering his flag, having made his attempt at peace. Uneasily he told himself he would have been content with their surrender, but some deep part of him relished the thought of earning his prize, fighting for what he believed was his. And with the modest army he had amassed with the help of his neighbors, the siege would be a glorious one.

On the battlements, Vachel and Cedric stood side by side, watching Thurstan depart.

"Keeping it for England, is he?" Cedric said darkly.

"He cannot possibly think we believe such nonsense," Vachel replied, "although apparently the rest of Abrielle's neighbors do."

"Do ye believe the castle is ready?"

"We could have used more time, but Raven has been diligent in seeing to the preparations. No doubt he sensed the coming unrest."

"Or at least the animosity of these border lords," Cedric added, shaking his head. "How go the women?"

"Well. Elspeth and Abrielle have assigned everyone tasks to keep them busy—less chance for an outbreak of panic to spread. They're readying arrows, preparing for injuries, and of course seeing to food and drink for weary men." Vachel hesitated. "Think you that Raven will return in the middle of this? I rather hope he stays away until it is over and we are victorious."

"I know not what King David has planned for him," Cedric answered. "But I know my son, and if he has heard of Thurstan's attack, he will come. But until then, we know what we have ta do."

"My thanks for your help," Vachel said.

"This is a battle that affects your family and mine." Cedric clapped his shoulder.

Cedric selected the best archers from those same ranks and positioned them within the battlements for the purpose of dissuading the soldiers who were seeking to lay floating bridges across the stream. In a matter of moments, arrows began raining down upon the intruders, who promptly dove behind whatever tree, rock, or barrier offered protection.

Cedric strode behind the serfs, urging them to aim true and make every arrow count. He was quick to praise their skills, buoying their resolve to defeat the aggressors perhaps even more than their disdain for Thurstan could. Though such deeds would be in defense of the keep, killing a freeman set the serfs a-jitter, knowing they could suffer various degrees of punishment for that offense. They were wont to look to Cedric for guidance. His soothing brogue calmed many, assuring them that their new lord, Raven Seabern, would expect them to protect their lands and families. His assurances did indeed result in a truer sighting, for in a matter of moments, there were many within the enemy's camp who had either been killed or seriously wounded beneath the unrelenting onslaught of arrows.

Upon espying Thurstan's soldiers laying out reinforced planks for the purpose of crossing the moat, Vachel recognized the need to discourage them. He directed the serfs to prepare hot cauldrons of rendered fat to be dumped upon those who would soon be making an effort to scale the stone walls. Leaving the Scotsman to carry on with such tasks, Vachel began directing other defensive measures for the security of the keep, of the sort that he had ofttimes used during the Crusades. He also called for a pair of recently constructed catapults to be loaded with large stones should there come a need.

Even while those within the edifice were involved in preparing their defenses, the enemy was wont to evidence their confidence that they'd be there for some time by setting up camp beneath the protection of the trees just beyond the clearing. At the fore of the moat, they brought up battering rams which they obviously meant to utilize in their assault upon the drawbridge. Thurstan could be seen directing those who had ridden in with him. He swept an arm about as he motioned for his men to bring up one of a pair of wooden bridges to the fore. Upon standing the first half on end on the far shore, they allowed it to fall into the stream. Buoyed by the many animal bladders filled with air, the piece barely dipped beneath the surface of the water.

A volley of arrows rained down upon the intruders from the archers occupying the battlements, wounding a goodly number of the enemy before they managed to raise the shields that had been slung over their backs. In a few moments, another group of men, bearing another section of the bridge, scampered to the far end of the first, whence they allowed the piece to fall into place across the remaining half of the moat, only a step or two away from the narrow spit of land that remained in evidence beneath the raised drawbridge. The original bridge was of such heavy and enduring quality that it was almost impervious to axes and such weapons. Nevertheless, men bearing large bundles of dried reeds and other flammable plants began rushing across the two sections in a quest to pile up what they bore onto the section of earth showing beneath the raised drawbridge.

Their intentions were obvious. Since the original drawbridge was too heavy and sturdy to hack asunder in any reasonable length of time, they were obviously going to attempt to burn it down to gain entrance into the keep. Several of Thurstan's men were already being supplied with lighted torches in preparation.

Vachel sent a half-dozen serfs scurrying in haste to the kitchen to bring back cauldrons of scalding water. By the time they returned to the battlements, the brigands were already igniting the dried bundles that had been heaped up against the bottom of the drawbridge. The contents of the huge pots, borne on sturdy poles by pairs of serfs, were promptly dumped onto the burning bundles as well as upon those bearing the torches. Upon being drenched with scalding-hot water, the brigands ran screaming in agony across the makeshift bridges even as more cauldrons of water were being dumped on the burning reeds.

Inside the keep, Abrielle, Elspeth, Isolde, Cordelia, and the women who normally worked in the kitchen continued to fill huge cauldrons, this time with rendered fat. The fire beneath the cauldrons was nearly roaring with the intense heat they had created, but it hastened the melting of the lard until the latter began to bubble and spit. Slightly smaller kettles were then filled and borne by strapping serfs to the battlements. The contents were dumped forthwith upon those in the process of scaling the ladders. Agonized screams readily accompanied the descent of those drenched by the scalding oil, and though others sought to take their places, recurring waves of fat cascaded down upon anyone who tried. Only by diving into the moat could the aggressors find any relief from the agony of their seared flesh, but some were so badly burned that they were unable to pull themselves onto dry land or attempt to tread water. Many slipped beneath the surface of the water without notice.

Long poles with cross-planks affixed to the ends served to provide the serfs with some degree of safety as they pushed the ladders away from the niches into which they had been temporarily lodged. Maidservants also scurried to throw bucketfuls of water onto flaming arrows that had lodged in wooden areas of the keep. The miscreants obviously saw nothing to fear from the women's efforts until they began to feel the searing pain of boiling liquids soaking into their own clothing. The burns caused many to fall away from their makeshift ladders, screaming in pain. The water in the moat proved almost as effective as the scalding liquid that had been thrown down upon them, for the chilled winds that buffeted them quickly penetrated their soaked clothing as they sought to drag themselves from the moat.

Soon another flurry of flaming arrows began to assault the battlements and the walkway around the keep, obviously with the hope that they would prove successful in setting afire some of the oil their adversaries were wont to throw down upon them. Wave after wave of arrows bombarded the battlements as well as the defenses that had quickly been erected to ensure the safety of those taking shelter within the edifice. In spite of the relentless urgings and demands that Thurstan made on his men, the serfs fighting for the keep proved even more tenacious. Under the capable direction of Vachel and Cedric, they were wont to believe there was a good chance they'd be able to defeat the foe and send Thurstan off with his tail tucked between his legs. They were well motivated to fight on to the death if need be. Better to battle valiantly and die trying to protect themselves than to be subjected to whatever cruelty Thurstan and Mordea intended to lay upon their hides should they seize the keep.

At last night fell, and darkness forced a suspension of hostilities. Both sides saw to their wounded and rearmed themselves. Inside the castle, optimism reigned, for few had been seriously hurt; supplies could last for many weeks, if not months. Three more days passed in much the same way, Thurstan's forces attacking, Vachel and Cedric leading the defense.

On the fourth evening, Abrielle's optimism had become merely a show for her people, who had been fed and calmed. She herself could not contemplate sleep, as it was becoming more and more difficult to fight her sense of fear and sadness. She went out into the courtyard and climbed up into the battlements above the curtain walls. There the stars were pinpricks of light across the sky, and the moon hung low like a white grin laughing at them.

Vachel was patrolling the walkways with the soldiers, bolstering spirits, keeping a grim eye on the enemy encamped some distance away. When he espied Abrielle, he came to her and swept his own cloak about her. She had not even realized that she was cold until she was enfolded in comforting warmth.

"You should be resting, my dear," Vachel said.

"As should you." She allowed him to put his arm about her, to pull her against him, but his presence could not ease the pain in her heart. "Innocent men on both sides are dying because of me," she whispered, her throat raw, her eyes surprisingly close to tears.

"Nay, that is not true, daughter. Men are dying because of the greed of one man, who has swayed many fools to a false cause. They cannot see beyond their fear."

She leaned near the embrasure to see out over the dark countryside. Dozens of campfires dotted the horizon. "How long do you think this will go on?"

He shrugged. "Until the northern lords come to their senses and see Thurstan for his true motives."

At night, with the sound of battle a distant memory, there was a deceptive peace over the land. All Abrielle could hear was the murmur of male voices carried on the wind, the babble of the stream below—and the faint clash of weapons.

She stiffened at the same moment as her stepfather. "What was that?" she asked.

"Battle," he said grimly. "But at night? And it is not near our walls. Does someone attack our enemies?"

One by one, soldiers came to stand against the battlements, to peer into the distance, to speculate with cautious voices. Abrielle's eyes hurt from the strain of trying to see, but she thought the sounds were getting closer. More than once, she saw fire glint off metal, heard several shouts.

And then came the thunder of a horses' hooves, and the shout of a man's voice as he neared the castle.

Abrielle did not need to see who had shouted to know in her heart who it was moving through the darkness and danger to reach her side, and she cried out, "Raven!"