Chapter 6

Phillip stood fifty paces away from his future home and wondered if he had imbibed one too many charred brews at Mistress Berengaria’s fire, because he could have sworn there was something hanging from the end of his drawbridge.

“Well, that’s new,” Connor of Wyckham drawled. “Flinging herself over the gates instead of handfuls of refuse.”

He shot his cousin Connor a glare. “Thank you.”

“Just making an observation.”

“I imagine you can make them silently from now on.”

Connor only smiled slightly and turned back to his study of the madness going on in front of him. Phillip didn’t bother to look at any of the others in his company. His men—and his father’s, for that matter—were too discreet to say anything, much less poke at him about his current straits. His cousins were unfortunately not so circumspect. They were lined up next to him, obviously torn between gaping at the spectacle of the shrieking woman dangling from the end of the drawbridge and the no doubt quite fascinating view of his own visage. He sighed, then strode forward. The silly wench was going to kill herself, which he supposed he shouldn’t have been overly devastated by, but she was the means to an end and she was a woman.

Chivalry was always convenient.

He had to repeat that several times before he could even mutter the words without gritting his teeth. He had a great respect for women. He simply found them to be a bit trying when they felt compelled to fling cesspit contents at him. No doubt he and Heather could come to an understanding about that on their way to the altar.

He stopped far enough away from the end of the drawbridge that he could exchange a pointed look with someone leaning over the parapet, looking officious.

The man made a rude gesture.

Phillip made a ruder one.

Tittering ensued. He wasn’t sure from which direction but he was sure it wouldn’t go unrewarded the first chance he had. He walked back and politely invited Rose to hand him her longbow—a very new and useful weapon. She rolled her eyes at him, fixed an arrow to the string, and sent it through the lead guardsmen’s hood.

All laughter ceased, along with the raising of the drawbridge. A bolt from a crossbow sped past his ear and went to ground several feet behind him. Fortunately that seemed to be the extent of the attempt to defend the keep, which was perhaps understandable considering the lady of the keep was still dangling from the end of the drawbridge. At least her lads had sense enough not to sacrifice her for a pile of stones.

He was momentarily tempted to hand his sword off to his squire, pull himself up onto the end of the bridge, and then trot down it to go disable any future attempts at defenses. Unfortunately, that would do naught but leave him defenseless himself once the keep was his. Kendrick would have had the drawbridge disabled without delay, and perhaps even restored shortly thereafter, but that was Kendrick. Phillip had been content to watch his brother taking things apart, but the truth was he hadn’t wanted to get his own hands dirty. He supposed that might say more about him than he cared it to.

He drew his hand over his eyes. He never should have sampled Berengaria’s herbs. Perhaps she had confused manly victory with maudlin self-pity. He didn’t give a damn about his motives or his character. He just wanted the bloody drawbridge down and the key to the castle in his greedy hands. However that had to be accomplished was simply all part of the bargain. He supposed removing the lady of the keep still clinging to the end of that drawbridge might be wise, before someone released the winch and crushed her against the rocky bed where the wood would rest when down.

He walked over and put his hand on her foot. He hardly had any idea what to call those pointed bits of business she was wearing there, but they looked as if they might be shoes and they might double as weapons. He jiggled her foot.

“Drop,” he commanded.

She squeaked out something he didn’t understand. It sounded something like a curse, though, which he supposed he could appreciate. He took a deep breath and reminded himself he was a gentleman.

“I’ll catch you,” he assured her as politely as possible. “Drop.”

More incoherent babbling ensued.

Phillip suppressed the urge to indulge in a very unchivalrous sigh and continued to tug on his errant betrothed. “Let go, woman, before they drop the bridge and kill you.”

She stopped babbling. “Kill me?”

It was no wonder those barbarous Scots had such trouble holding on to their border. ’Twas obvious they couldn’t even manage to hold on to the Mother Tongue in any sort of fashion, though he supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything else. He was likely fortunate she could string two words together without kicking him in the head to remind him just how much she loathed him.

Perhaps he should have listened to his sire and chosen a well-groomed, well-gilded English bride.

He stopped himself before he ventured down that dangerous path and tugged again on Heather’s foot. It was possible that he tugged with more enthusiasm than necessary, but damnation, what else was he to do? Scrape her off the spot where, likely without too much encouragement, the drawbridge would pin her between itself and its rocky resting place?

She let go of the wood with another screech of what might have been mistaken for genuine terror. He was too jaded for that and identified it for what it was: the cry of a woman who had realized that she could no longer avoid her doom.

He caught her, fully prepared to have a great whiff of someone who likely smelled as if she had just finished rolling in a duck pond. But she didn’t smell of pond; she smelled of something sweet from the garden. Roses, perhaps.

That was something new.

He looked into pond-colored eyes and frowned. What untoward magic was this? Had he caught her so unawares that she’d actually bathed? He found himself almost powerless against the urge to simply stand there and sniff. And then he realized something else.

He wasn’t entirely sure he was holding Heather of Haemesburgh in his arms.

He was so surprised by that thought that when she suddenly pushed out of his arms, he almost dropped her. She landed rather unhappily on one foot that buckled underneath her. She hopped about for a minute or two on her good foot, then regained her balance by pulling his squire over to stand next to her where she could use his shoulder as a place to lean.

Phillip could do nothing but stand there and stare stupidly at her. She was, he had to admit, extremely lovely. And she smelled very good. He was tempted to surreptitiously pinch himself lest he have slipped into a dream without having realized it, but he didn’t think he was asleep.

Heather, who he still wasn’t sure was Heather, pulled a little flat box out of her pocket and waved it at him. Speaking, however, seemed to still be beyond her. He couldn’t decide if she was incoherent with rage or frustration, but whichever it was had rendered her almost mad. She eventually found her tongue, which wasn’t an improvement.

“I am going to send off a strongly worded text, buster, and tell your boss exactly what you’re doing—”

Phillip glanced at his squire. The poor lad was watching the wench with a look of terror that might have been better reserved for a robust collection of demons from Hell, which Phillip had to admit he couldn’t argue with. Bartholomew was the son of a former monk—a tale worthy of retelling if ever there were one—and had seemingly had implanted in his scrawny breast the desire to endlessly scribble down anything he found noteworthy. His fingers were already twitching, no doubt longing for quill and ink with which to note the odd happenings going on before him.

Phillip was quite sure he never wanted to read any of that collection.

He looked at the men hanging over the parapet, watching the spectacle with less respect than outright amusement. He didn’t think he could blame them. He was facing a madwoman.

A madwoman he was fairly sure he didn’t know.

He was a practical man. Too practical, his brothers might say. Too focused on what he wanted and prepared to damn anyone who got in his way. He didn’t like mess, and he particularly didn’t like the unexpected. He had laid a siege of sorts to Haemesburgh for seven years, seven long years spent ignoring every single obstacle that was put in his path. He knew his father wouldn’t force him to wed where he didn’t wish to, but that Robin was feeling the need to import women for him to look over...

Well, that was tantamount to a voicing of doubt that Phillip would manage what he’d set out to do. A fond, concerned doubt, but doubt nonetheless, and that was something he couldn’t bear. He was going to turn his current situation to his advantage and he was going to do it immediately. And if that meant demanding to know who exactly that delicious-smelling woman thought she was, then so be it. He wasn’t one to shy away from the difficult.

What in the hell was a text?

“Hey,” she said in annoyance, “I’m talking to you.”

Her accent was, as he’d noted before, atrocious. He considered the possible reasons for that. If the rumors were true and she’d been without her father for a handful of years now, who knew what sort of talk she’d learned from the garrison lads? Hard on the heels of that came another thought. What if before he’d died, her sire had imported a lady-in-waiting of sorts to teach Heather a few decent manners? For all he knew, Heather had learned to bathe, comb her hair, and comport herself with some small bit of decorum. He hadn’t seen her in several years. Perhaps she had, with that same bit of help, grown into herself, learned to guard her tongue, and relinquished her desire to see him dead.

Or perhaps not. He listened to the words she continued to spew at him and wondered not for the first time why in the hell he’d pursued her for so long. He was a knight of the realm, for pity’s sake. He had cut his teeth on chivalric tales of duty and all manner of other knightly virtues. There were scores—well, perhaps not scores, but at least half a dozen—very eligible women who would have been happy to call him husband. Instead, he was trying to convince the irascible wench in front of him to wed where she obviously didn’t want to.

Perhaps what she needed was to sit and rest before a hot fire. Mayhap then she would stop wagging her finger at him and calling him things he was sure he didn’t want to know the meaning of.

He looked over her head and identified the garrison captain, a man who at least had the good sense not to let his tongue hang out as he leaned over the parapet and grinned. Phillip pointed at the man, then pointed at the drawbridge.

“Down,” he mouthed.

The man mouthed back a suggestion for what Phillip could do with himself. Another arrow went flying over the moat and tore through the hood of the man’s cloak as it lay behind his head. Phillip didn’t give any indication of his thoughts, but he had to admit he was very glad that Rose was not the one he was going to be facing over an altar. She frightened him.

The drawbridge came down with a bang. The lady of Haemesburgh released his squire at almost the same time she flung herself into his arms. He supposed that was progress. Or it would have been if she hadn’t come close to knocking him senseless with that damned box of hers that clipped him on the side of his jaw as she’d been about her flinging. He didn’t feel the need to spit out any teeth, so he supposed he was safe there. He put his arm around her and patted her as his men carefully forged a path into the keep. His father’s men were seasoned; his were proud of their ability to inspire fear in any foe. All in all, he didn’t think he would want to belong to Lady Heather’s garrison at the moment.

He imagined he would put off supper until he’d come to an understanding with her captain.

He listened to the shouting coming from inside the gates, then watched as his own men took over posts that had very recently been held by Haemesburgh’s men. Once he was certain things were as they should have been and his own men were in command of the front gates, he turned his attentions to his betrothed. Before he could invite her to take her ease in front of her own fire, she glared at him, then stomped back across the drawbridge. Or, rather, she would have stomped if she hadn’t been limping so badly. Bartholomew shot him a pleading look, but Phillip shook his head slowly. His squire sighed, then went to offer the lady of the keep his arm. She looked startled, which left Phillip something else to chew on.

Perhaps she hadn’t had the luxury of chivalry in her youth.

The twins and Rose followed her across the drawbridge. Phillip found himself standing with Connor and Jackson. At least they had the good sense not to smirk.

“Interesting,” Connor said.

“Didn’t you say that before?” Phillip asked politely.

“Nay, I said, well, that’s new. This is a different observation.”

“Why did I bring you?”

Connor smiled. “Because you love me so well. I wonder if there is anything edible inside?”

Phillip watched him walk off, no doubt to investigate the larder, then looked at Jackson. Rose’s younger brother looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

“What is it?” Phillip asked, tempted to indulge in a brush with genuine alarm.

“Nothing,” Jackson said faintly. “Nothing at all. I’m surprised she bathed, ’tis all.”

“Perhaps she knew her doom was arriving today,” Phillip said confidently, “and wanted to be prepared to meet it.”

Jackson continued to stare at the keep for a moment or two, looking very unsettled. Then he shook his head sharply, which seemed to help him set aside whatever troubled him. He clapped a hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “Let’s go see your keep. I shudder to think what she’s left of it.”

Phillip did, too, but he wasn’t going to say as much. He watched his cousin cross the drawbridge, then paused to simply take in the sight in front of him. There was work to do to make the place secure and definitely some tidying that needed to be seen to. But all in all it was a decently sized keep, the walls were sturdy, and with any luck it would be his before the fortnight was out. The marriage banns had been read years ago, so he could only assume they were still in force. He would perhaps ask Bartholomew his opinion on the matter.

He wasn’t sure Haemesburgh still had a priest, which might present a bit of a problem, though at the moment he suspected that was the least of his worries. He wasn’t going to need a priest if he didn’t have a bride, and he wasn’t going to have a bride if he didn’t get himself inside the walls before she managed to hobble up the barbican stairs and drop the portcullis on him.

All things considered, it had been a successful morning.

Or it would be, if he could discover why Heather of Haemesburgh seemed so different from how he remembered her. Granted, he hadn’t had speech with her over the years past having her shout at him before she threw things over the walls at him, but still...

He took a deep breath and started across the drawbridge. He would solve it all and his life would be as tidy as he expected it to be.

He would accept nothing else.