From the brutal battle most of the night to the eerie stillness left by their abrupt retreat, Jamison and the beaten, bloodied de Lohr men waited for the next wave of fighting that never came. An hour passed before the de Lohr troops on the perimeter outside the walls began receiving information from their scouts that the Welsh were departing. As great relief swept the weary men of Four Crosses, Jamison was finally able to climb down off the wall.
Exhausted and very thirsty, he managed to make his way to the great hall where the wounded had been taken. He wanted to check on his men. A long stone building with a steeply pitched roof, he entered the hall to see that the wounded had been placed at the far end, away from the entry and the cold, wet weather blowing in. Before he reached the wounded, however, he noticed that there were great, fat bread rolls and ale set out on the big feasting table for the hungry. The lure of food was stronger than his desire to see to his wounded men at the moment and Jamison wolfed down several of the crusty, hard bread rolls, washed down with great gulps of ale.
With a full mouth and a full cup, he finally made his way to the wounded to see how his men were faring. That was one of the things that set Jamison apart from the rest of the commanders; he genuinely cared about his men. He had a connection to them and his men were pleased to see him, assuring him they would be well very soon and praising him for his actions in the battle. Jamison spent a few moments with one man before moving on to the next, and soon he’d spoken with every man under his command. The battle had been fierce and he congratulated his men for their bravery.
He couldn’t spend too much time with the wounded, however, knowing that he should return to assess the damages and speak with Becket and Tobias to see what their instructions would be for securing the castle for the eventual departure of the de Lohr army back to Lioncross. So he begged his leave of his men and, with a half-cup of ale still in his hand, returned to the night outside.
The storm had eased, now just a faint mist falling where there had once been rain. It still made for wet and miserable conditions, and Jamison had the gatehouse in his sights, noting that both portcullises were still down which told him that everyone was still remaining vigilant. The Welsh had been known to lay quiet and then come back strong and he, much like the other commanders, weren’t entirely certain this lull wasn’t a ruse. He was nearly to the ladder leading to the wall walk when something muddy and hard came hurling out of the darkness, hitting him squarely on the neck and shoulder. Mud exploded everywhere.
Mud even landed in his ale. Grunting with disgust and some pain, Jamison put his hand back to the spot where the mud ball had hit him, feeling slimy, wet dirt all over his neck and right shoulder. It was probably all down his back, too, but he couldn’t see it and, frankly, he didn’t much care. It was there and he was dirtier and more miserable because of it. Angrily, he wiped away what he could and spilled out a goodly portion of his ale to get the mud out of it. He drank the rest, quickly, still tasting some grit from the mud. It was revolting.
With the taste of mud on his lips, he looked around but didn’t see anyone who might have been guilty of throwing the mud. Something told him those hateful young women had something to do with it. It was just a hunch he had. He could see that his turn spanking the bold lass at the gatehouse probably wouldn’t be the last time he would be beating a woman soundly at Four Crosses Castle. His open palm was ready to spank more should they push him. Turning back for the hall to refill his cup, he was on his guard when a small figure with a sword in hand suddenly appeared in front of him.
Jamison came to a stop, eyeing the small figure in the dim light. She was small and slender, and he thought she might be the skinny lass with the knot on her head he had seen earlier. The figure lifted her sword defensively.
“Now,” the figure spoke, decidedly a woman, “you shall receive your punishment, Gael. No one beats on my sister and emerges unpunished.”
Sister. Now, those hateful stares were starting to make some sense. “Get out of me way, ye foolish wench,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “There is no world in which ye would be able tae best me, so get out of me way. I’ll not tell ye twice.”
The woman swung her sword in a surprisingly controlled movement. “And you’ll not threaten me, you brute,” she fired back quietly. “You had no right to lay a hand on my sister.”
Jamison was weary and snappish, a bad combination. He started to move past the woman, a direct insult, when she rushed at him. Jamison was prepared, however, suspecting she might do something so stupid, so the hand on the hilt of his broadsword unsheathed the weapon and thrust it directly into her path. She met with it, violently, and, much like her sister, did not have the strength to effectively counter such a powerful foe. As she grunted and fought, Jamison drove her back in the direction she had come.
But there was a problem with that; out of the recesses near the wall where it met with another wall, this one encircling the stable yard, Jamison heard a screech cry and the darkness came alive with more swinging swords. The female with the wild red hair was suddenly in their midst, grunting and groaning as she swung her sword at Jamison’s head.
Very quickly realizing that these foolish women intended to do him harm on behalf of the beating he gave the woman at the gatehouse, Jamison rapidly summed up the situation and realized there was only one thing he could do – multiple foes called for extreme measures unless he wanted to find himself at the tip of their blades. He had to fight back rather than simply deter them.
He was going to have to get the upper hand.
For as exhausted as he was, he was growing increasingly angry with these childish games. He had just fought off an entire Welsh army and wasn’t about to let two small women get the best of him, so he lashed out with his sword hard enough to knock the dark-haired woman’s weapon from her grip. He’d hit her hard enough to make her fumble and when she stumbled forward, he reached out and grabbed her arm, spinning her around so her back was against his torso. One big hand went into her hair to control her while the other hand grabbed her wrist, the one still holding her sword. In doing so, he moved headlong into the red-haired woman who had been trying to attack him.
Now, he had woman against woman as he controlled the dark-haired woman like a puppet. As the dark-haired woman screamed in pain, Jamison manipulated her sword hand so he was slashing brutally at the redhead. The redhead, for her part, had gone from supremely aggressive to supremely uncertain as Jamison used the dark-haired woman to attack her.
In fact, she was so caught off guard by the unexpected turn of events and so distressed to see what was happening to the dark-haired woman, that Jamison was able to effectively disarm her. In fact, he’d managed to disarm both women swiftly and now, grabbing both by the hair, dragged his kicking and fighting captives back into the darkened stable yard.
They were a handful, he had to admit, but he was much bigger and much stronger. As they fought against him, he was able to pull them into the nearest empty stall. Filled with damp, dirty straw, his gaze fell upon a leather harness hanging on a peg, a harness that had several loose leather straps.
Seized with an idea, Jamison threw the redhead to the ground, face-first into the dirty straw, and put his foot on her hair, trapping her against the ground. As she fought and screamed and beat at his booted foot, he used his free hand to grab the loose leather straps and proceeded to tie the dark-haired woman to the shoulder-high wall that divided the stalls.
The dark-haired woman was wily, however, and he had to use his weight to trap her against the wooden post as he tied her hands behind her, lashing her to the wood. Her feet were free but any kicking she did managed to hit the redhead on the ground, who was grossly unhappy at being face-first in horse dung. It kept the dark-haired lass’ footwork to a minimum as Jamison hauled the redhead to her feet and again using his body weight to hold his prey still, managed to tie the redhead to the dark-haired lass like two pigs on a spit.
Anchored by wooden posts that were meant to w
ithstand the strength of animals, the women had nowhere to go. Jamison tied them very well and very snuggly to the posts. Breathing heavily from his exertion, he stood back to inspect his handiwork.
“There,” he said, extremely satisfied with his work. “Ye’ll not be breaking loose from that any time soon. It serves ye right, ye foolish wenches. If I can find a whip around here, I’ll use it on ye.”
The women were so unhappy, and perhaps so embarrassed, that it seemed to him that both of them were trying hard not to weep.
“Do it, then!” the redheaded woman nearly cried. “You are a filthy barbarian of a man and brutalizing women must come easy for you. Find a whip, then! Only a fiend would do such a thing!”
Jamison cocked a lazy eyebrow. “Had ye not attacked me, then ye wouldna find yerself in such a position,” he said. Then he leaned forward, condescendingly. “Or did ye not think of that? Did ye truly think ye would best me? Lass, I’ve spent all night tossing the Welsh out of yer castle. Are ye so arrogant that ye thought ye’d be a match for me?”
The redhead was furious and ashamed; she couldn’t even answer the question. Averting her gaze, she looked away and tried not to sob. Meanwhile, the dark-haired woman was staring Jamison down as if she wanted to kill him.
“You are a damnable bastard,” she hissed. “You deserved to be punished for what you did to our sister.”
Our sister. So the gatehouse lass had two fighting sisters, did she? Jamison actually scratched his head.
“Yer father has three daughters that fight as men?” he said, incredulous. “Why on earth does the man allow such a thing?”
The eyes of the dark-haired woman flashed. “For the same reason your father allows you to fight,” she snapped. “We are his offspring. It is our duty.”
“’Tis a man’s duty.”
“He had no sons.”
Ah… more and more was clear to Jamison now. He was a bright man, able to piece together the situation. “Havilland is yer sister,” he said. “Is there just the three of ye?”
The dark-haired lass nodded. “Aye.”
“Do ye have names?”
The dark-haired lass regarded him a moment, a calculated gleam in her eye. This one was rather calculated, it seemed to him. “If I tell you, will you untie us?”
He shook his head. “Not unless ye swear ye willna try tae attack me again. We must have an understanding first.” He folded his enormous arms across his chest. “Do ye not realize we are on the same side? I am no’ the enemy. Ye had no reason tae lift a weapon against me.”
The dark-haired lass wasn’t repentant in the least. “You beat our sister,” she said. “Debts must be paid.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “She attacked me first,” he said. “I wasna supposed tae defend meself?”
“You must have done something to deserve it.”
He threw up his hands. “I did nothing,” he assured her. “Yer sister simply likes tae attack men without provocation, ’tis all.”
The dark-haired woman didn’t reply. She simply kept looking at him, holding his gaze. When Jamison heard movement behind him, it was already too late for him to react. He realized, too late, that the dark-haired lass had been keeping his attention away from his surroundings with her chatter.
That had been his grave mistake.
Thinking himself quite the idiot was the last coherent thought Jamison had before a sharp pain rattled his head and everything went black.
CHAPTER FOUR
*
“What I do,
I do to keep us all safe….”
*
“You should not have tried to engage him,” Havilland hissed as she dragged her sisters towards the keep. “He is crafty and he is brutal. You are lucky I saw him drag you into the stables!”
Madeline was defiant but Amaline was contrite, bordering on tears. “I am sorry, Havi,” Amaline sniffed. “Do not be angry with me!”
They were nearing the keep entry, a second-level entry with retractable wooden stairs that led up to it. Those stairs, for the past three days, had been in danger of being destroyed by Four Crosses troops but never closer than they had been the previous night with the Welsh on the walls. Even now, they were a soggy mess, sagging on one side where soldiers, in a panic, had already begun the dismantling. They were fairly dangerous in their current state.
But Havilland didn’t pay any attention to the leaning, sagging stairs. As Amaline begged for forgiveness, she came to an abrupt halt and began smacking both Amaline and Madeline in her frustration. Madeline simply threw up her hands to protect herself but Amaline caved in, crying. She let Havilland beat her around the shoulders.
“You should have left well enough alone,” Havilland said as she smacked. She really wasn’t hurting them; it was more the noise of the slap than anything else. “Do you see what you have done? I had to knock the man out in order to save you both from his wrath. Now he will be looking for all three of us, looking to finish what he has started!”
With that, she stopped smacking and dragged her sisters up the leaning stairs, bracing herself against the side of the keep so they could keep their balance. The entry door was eleven stairs up from the floor of the bailey and she tugged on Madeline, who in turn tugged on Amaline, pulling each other up the stairs like a train of great burdens. Amaline, at the end of the train, continued to weep.
“But he hurt you, Havi,” Amaline said, hoping her sister would understand why they had acted as they had. “Would you not punish someone who had hurt us?”
They were at the entry door and Havilland yanked them through. “Nay,” she snapped. “I would have let them beat you to death and then I would have danced upon your graves. Do you not understand? You have only made things worse. Now, de Lohr will hear of this behavior and he will wonder what is happening at his garrison. He will wonder why we are attacking his men. He will send Tobias and Becket to investigate. They will want to speak to Papa and know what he intends to do to discipline us for attacking one of his knights. And then what shall we do? They cannot speak to Papa!”
She was shrieking by the time she was finished. Standing in the cold, damp entry to the keep, the sisters faced one another in moody uncertainty. Amaline was wiping her nose while Madeline seemed much more composed. She eyed her older sister without fear of the woman’s rage.
“We will fend them off as we always do,” Madeline said calmly. “You always become upset over the smallest things, Havi. We will tell them that Papa is ill and is not allowed visitors. It has always worked before.”
Havilland faced her dark-haired sister. She and Madeline were quite alike, in fact, not merely with the same dark hair and same delicate face, but also in manner. They were both stubborn and confident, but Havilland, with her long limbs and height advantage, held the edge over her middle sister physically.
And things had become physical between the two more than once, not simply the silly slapping that Havilland had been doing, but an all-out brawl on occasion. That hadn’t happened in a while, fortunately, because Roald was no longer in his right mind to break up the fight. Perhaps the girls realized that. They had been forced to grow up quickly in the wake of their father’s debilitating mental illness. Perhaps they realized there was no place for their foolish disagreements now. They had a fortress and each other to protect. But even now, as they gazed at each other, Havilland knew it wouldn’t take much for Madeline to throw a punch and for her to take her sister’s head off in reply.
The fists were beginning to ball already.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Havilland finally asked, her dark green eyes glittering. “You are the one who wanted to challenge him, dragging poor Ammie along with you. It is always you, Madeline. You have no sense at all.”
Madeline lifted her chin. “You let him beat you,” she said, her tone bordering on condescending. “Someone had to teach the Gael a lesson.”
“I did not ask you to!” Havilland snapped, overlapping her sister’s bold statement. Madeline was al
ways pushing her, always overstepping her bounds when she knew full well that Havilland was in charge. Havilland knew her sister didn’t like that arrangement because she wanted to be in charge and it was a constant battle to maintain her command. Frustrated, she shook her head. “If I need your help, I will ask. If anyone is going to teach the Gael a lesson, it will be me. I am the one he wronged. Now, listen to me and listen well – you will never do anything like that again without my knowledge. One of these days, you are going to do something so foolish that I will not be able to save you. Is that clear, Madeline? And you, Amaline – stop following her. She is going to get you into a goodly amount of trouble someday.”
Amaline nodded eagerly, willing to placate her oldest sister, but Madeline was unmoved. She continued to meet her sister’s gaze as if she had done nothing wrong.
“At least I am not a coward,” she said, baiting Havilland. “At least I fight when there must be fighting.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you are content to sit and let the Welsh come to you. The next time they come, we may not be so fortunate.”
Jaw ticking, Havilland got in her sister’s face in a provocative move. “Tell me more of how I am a coward, Madeline,” she said, daring her sister to speak further. “Is it because I will not send out troops to burn their villages and challenge the nearest Welsh outpost?”
“Aye.”
“We do not have the men for such ventures. It would be foolish to attack when we know we cannot defeat them!”
Madeline stared at her a moment before shaking her head, averting her gaze. “Ever cautious, Havi.”
“Ever foolish, Madeline.”
Madeline snorted softly, although there was no humor to the sound. “You sit around and wait for de Lohr to protect us,” she said. “You must take the offensive against the Welsh. De Lohr does not live here; we do. We should have a say in how we fight the Welsh who continually attack us.”