Crusader Captive. Merline Lovelace
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will take us. I crossed it more than once with Sir Guy and his wife. Wait until I gain the other side, then follow one at a time.”
“No, lady!” Her sun-weathered lieutenant kicked free of the stirrups. Dismounting, he shouldered her aside. “I will go first.”
Simon’s breath stuck to the back of his throat as the man led his mount onto the swaying bridge. The damned thing looked as though it would give way at any second, taking man and beast with it.
Against all odds, they made it to the far side. And no sooner had they reached solid ground than the woman followed. She crossed safely, as did one of the turbaned outriders.
That left Simon and two others. The first dragged him out of his saddle. The second flung his mount’s reins at him and drew a curved scimitar.
“Go,” he ordered, his voice low and guttural with menace.
Simon had no fear of heights. He’d climbed many a siege tower and fought atop high castle walls. Yet he held back, debating between evils.
He could swing his wrist chain, knock the scimitar aside, and take to the trees in hopes of escaping both this troop and the one charging up the hill.
Or he could put his fate in the hands of the female who stood on the other side, her gaze once again locked with his.
Those fierce brown eyes challenged him. Bedeviled him. Lured him to God knew what fate. With the grim sensation that he was putting more than his life in this most strange and unaccountable female’s hands, Simon led the dun-colored barb onto the bridge.
It sagged under their weight, but held. Simon forced himself to place one foot before the other and kept his eyes on the lady. Neither he nor she seemed to draw breath until he gained the far side.
As soon as he had, the remaining two followed. All the while, the pursuing troop drew closer. They were almost within arrow range when the grizzled lieutenant drew his sword. Two whacks severed the right-side ropes anchoring the bridge to deep-sunk posts. The planks tipped on their side, swinging like a drunken sailor caught in the rigging.
“They won’t cross now,” the lieutenant said with fierce satisfaction.
“No, they won’t,” his lady agreed gleefully.
With lithe grace and a swirl of her voluminous cloak, she grasped her saddle pommel and swung into the seat unaided.
“To horse,” she ordered over the thunder of approaching hooves. “Let us home to Fortemur.”
Chapter Two
By the time the small cavalcade thundered up to the barbican of a massive castle overlooking the sea, the sun was a flaming ball of red and Simon had to struggle to hold his head upright.
As best he could recall, all he’d eaten since being dragged off the ship two days ago were a few wormy crusts of bread. Worse than the hunger that gnawed at his insides, though, was the burning cauldron of his back. His captors’ lead-tipped whips had cut almost to the bone.
Yet training and instinct refused to die. With an iron effort of will, he blanked his mind to the pain that ate near into his bones and fixed his gaze on the black-and-red pennants flying above the keep’s towers. He didn’t recognize the device on them, nor the coat of arms carved into stone above the gate of the outer barbican.
When they passed through the gates and crossed the drawbridge, he acknowledged grimly that the fortress well deserved its name. Fortemur. Strong walls. It had those aplenty. And guardsmen, as well. He glimpsed pairs of lookouts in the dozen or more towers interspaced along the walls, while more pikemen in red-and-black tabards patrolled the walks between.
The towers were of a unique design that owed as much to the East as to the West. Almost like the minarets that called the infidels to worship. They gave the massive keep an almost fanciful air that belied its well-ordered defenses.
Its outer and inner curtain walls were spaced well apart, he noted. Gardens and orchards flowered in the low-lying land between them. They would feed the defenders during a lengthy siege. Until the outer curtain was breached, at least. Then, Simon surmised, the defenders would open the sea gates and flood the orchards to keep attackers at bay.
He gave the yards the same reluctant approval. Both inner and outer bailey teamed with activity from the dovecote to the farrier’s forge to the kitchens that pumped the tantalizing odor of roasted meat into the air. Simon’s stomach cried for a slice of whatever sizzled on the spits as the troop halted by the stables and the lady slid from her saddle.
She spared him only a glance before throwing back her hood and issuing a low order to her lieutenant. “See him fed and bathed, then bring him to my solar.”
Simon barely heard her. Although the silken veil still covered most of her face, he couldn’t help but gape at the thick braid draped over one shoulder. It was so pale a gold as to be almost luminous. Like winter sunlight shimmering on a frozen lake. Simon had never seen the like.
With some effort, he dragged his gaze from her to her lieutenant. He’d shoved back his hood as well. The man’s weathered face owed more to age than the sun, Simon now saw. Silver tinted his hair at the temples. And the scar running from his ear to the neck of his tunic bespoke a man who’d engaged in more than one battle. Some, obviously, with the female he now faced.
“Do you want him with the wrist cuffs on or off?” he queried in a voice tinged with unmistakable disapproval.
She directed her attention to Simon and raked him again from head to foot. As he had on the auction block, he stiffened under her assessing look.
By the bones of Saint Bartholomew, she was a forward wench. The kind whose bold glance would have raised an answering response from him in other times, other circumstances. He’d bedded his share and more of saucy maids and painted, panting ladies before his father’s dying vow had bound him to a life of poverty, obedience and chastity.
Yet he’d never encountered a female such as this one. Strong enough to ride for hours without so much as slumping in the saddle. Strong-willed enough to issue orders to the battle-scarred veteran who awaited her command.
“Off,” she told him. “But you have my leave to subdue him if he offers violence.”
“He’d best not.”
Simon knew the gruff response was more for his benefit than hers. She knew it, as well. She turned away with a nod, then swung back.
“Be sure to bring him to me by way of the tower stairs.”
“I will.”
Simon’s gaze followed her as she lifted her skirts and stepped around the offal inevitable in a stable yard teeming with horses, swine and chickens. She had a fine-turned ankle, he couldn’t help but note before he faced her lieutenant once again.
“I am Hugh of Poitiers,” the man informed him. “Once in service to Eleanor of Aquitaine. For these past two decades and more, I am sworn to the holder of these lands.”
“Who is he?”
“She.” Sir Hugh tipped his head to the retreating female. “Lady Jocelyn is my liege.”
Simon’s glance whipped to the lady, then back again. “She holds this keep? She has no husband? No father or brother?”
“She has me,” the knight snapped.
“I meant no offense. But a fortress of this size…”
When his glance swept the well-ordered yards again, Sir Hugh offered a terse explanation.
“Lady Jocelyn’s grandfather died this Michaelmas past, before he could negotiate a suitable marriage for her. King Baldwin took her in as his ward and appointed one of his own men as steward. The fool likes to believe he holds sway here. I would suggest you do not make the same mistake.”
So that was the way of it. The lady was an heiress. A prize to be given