Chapter Thirteen

 

 

 

When Pontefract Castle came into view, Niall reflexively clenched his hands around the reins.

The stronghold was massive, practically a fortified town unto itself. It dominated the hilltop upon which it sat, its yellow-gray stones looming ominously over the spreading, snow-dusted landscape.

Approaching from the west, he counted at least six towers positioned in a circle atop the hill, all linked with a thick, crenellated wall. As they curved southward toward the entrance of the stronghold, he was granted an even more complete view of the imposing structure.

The tower on the southwest corner was particularly enormous. Its stony exterior had been shaped into a series of curves, as if someone had cut six circular towers of various sizes in half and fused the rounded halves together to form one swollen, multi-lobed structure.

Below the towers, the wall continued to wind down the hillside, cutting back and forth like a snake and ending in yet another squat guard tower. A modest village huddled at the feet of the overpowering fortress to the east of the hill.

As they approached a narrow gate set into the stone wall on the south side of the fortress, Niall shot a glance at Mairin. She was gnawing on her lip, her brows lowered as she considered the castle. No doubt its enormity was giving her pause as well.

“Let me do the talking,” he said quietly, eyeing the battlements rising before them. “At least to begin with.”

Her accent would make her stand out like a thistle in a wheat field here. There was no getting around it, nor the fact that she would be one of a very small number of women in the middle of a stronghold which served as the base for Lancaster’s rebellion.

Niall had spent several days mulling over how to shield Mairin from the attentions of an army of Englishmen, but thus far, all he’d come up with was to try to take the lead in dealing with Lancaster and his men as much as possible.

Her nerves must have been running even higher than he’d estimated, for she acquiesced with little more than a nod.

Just as they reined in before the narrow gate, a helmeted head appeared in one of the guard tower’s openings.

“Halt. Who are you, and what is your business here?” a guard demanded sharply.

“Niall Beaumore and Mairin Mackenzie to see the Earl of Lancaster directly,” Niall replied. “We come at the behest of King Robert the Bruce.”

He was met with a long silence, and he assumed the guard was speaking to another. No double Niall’s proclamation would be met initially with ridicule. The idea of the Scottish King sending representatives to engage directly with an English Earl was preposterous.

Yet someone must have alerted the guards that Niall and Mairin were expected, for only a moment later, the gate groaned open.

The gate was too small for both of them to ride through together, so Niall went first, keeping his horse tightly reined so that Mairin remained close behind him.

They rode into a bailey swarming with men. Aye, Lancaster had been gathering an army for his war against King Edward, and here it was.

Hundreds of soldiers had been packed into the bailey. Some shuffled in and out of an assortment of canvas tents or clustered around fires. Others sharpened weapons or practiced drills in what little space could be carved out.

Several men stared at them as they cut across the slushy, muddy expanse. As they identified Mairin as a woman, they whistled or shouted lewd comments. Mairin sat straight in her saddle, her head forward and her chin lifted, yet her eyes had gone frosty. Niall clenched his teeth against the urge to break the nose of every man who dared insult her.

They continued on toward a gate in front of them, which Niall presumed would provide an escape from the attention that followed them. But when the gate swung open, they were met with a nearly identical scene as the one they’d just ridden through.

Apparently the castle had not one but two outer baileys to be crossed even before they breached the innermost yard within the circle of towers. Yet more soldiers filled this second bailey, which was slightly smaller than the first, making it feel even more crowded.

Niall noticed a much wider double gate off to their right, which must have been used to admit wagons of supplies, but they continued straight toward another narrow door in the curtain wall before them.

At last, they passed into the central courtyard. Niall got the impression of standing in the middle of a circle of giants as he glanced at the surrounding towers, with the enormous multi-curved tower he’d seen from outside the most intimidating of all.

It was twice as wide as the other watch towers, and even taller, since it rose from the highest point on the hillside. Like the others, it was slitted with arrow loops so that enemies could be fired upon regardless of which direction they attacked.

He and Mairin dismounted in silence. Though this yard wasn’t overflowing with soldiers as the other two had been, he still felt several dozen sets of eyes watching them from the curtain wall’s battlements.

No one greeted them, so after a lad took their reins and hustled their animals to the stables off to the right, Niall glanced at Mairin and the two of them headed toward the wide double doors at the base of the monstrous tower.

They went unnoticed at first as they stepped into a vast chamber which apparently served as the keep’s great hall. It gave Niall a moment to take in the lavishly appointed space.

Warm light filled the hall all the way from the fresh rushes on the floor to the vaulted wooden beams overhead. The sweet scent of expensive beeswax candles rather than tallow drifted in the air. A fire roared in the enormous hearth to the left, adding to the luxurious warmth and light.

Thick, intricately woven tapestries in deep reds, royal blues, emerald greens, and even shimmering gold covered nearly every inch of the stone walls. They depicted epic battles, stag hunts, and mystical, lush forest scenes. The tapestries were only broken by the half dozen spiral stairwells encircling the room. Niall guessed those each led to a different section of the multi-curved tower.

In the center of the immense great hall was a raised dais cluttered with ornately carved furniture. A massive oak table with embellished legs and feet took up much of the space, with several chairs upholstered in silk gathered around it.

A handful of the chairs were occupied by men in equally lavish garments, yet one man stood out. He sat in a chair that was easily twice as big as the others, his hands clasped loosely on the table and an ermine-trimmed cape of deep forest green tossed back casually over a ruby-red silk tunic.

The man’s pale blue gaze swept lazily over the others at the table as they jovially discussed some sieging strategy. His eyes flicked past Niall and Mairin as if they were no more than servants, but then snapped back to them less than a heartbeat later. The others caught his suddenly keen interest and fell silent.

“You there.” The man tilted his dark head curiously, yet his eyes were predatory. “Step forward and name yourselves.”

Niall barely managed to suppress the urge to move defensively in front of Mairin. The man could be none other than Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, for no one but the second-most powerful man in England, behind only the King himself, would speak with such nonchalant command.

His gut tightening, Niall strode forward, carefully ensuring that Mairin remained exactly in step with him. He halted before the dais under the assessing stares of the others. Lancaster remained in his enormous chair so that even seated, he rose over Niall and even the men on the dais.

“I am Niall Beaumore, sire,” he began evenly, meeting Lancaster’s cool gaze. “And this is Mairin Mackenzie. We have been sent by a…” He glanced at the others, unsure how much to reveal before them. “By a mutual friend from the North.”

Lancaster cocked a brow. “I gather the friend you refer to is Robert the Bruce.”

Niall hesitated. “Aye, sire,” he replied eventually, but didn’t say more.

“Speak freely, man. You stand before my most trusted allies. They already know of my arrangement with the Bruce.”

At that, several of the men chuckled or smirked. It seemed that the mention of the Bruce’s name was some sort of jest to them.

So, these were the nobles who’d sided with Lancaster over his cousin Edward II. They were wealthy enough to wage a war against their own sovereign, judging from their fine silks and glinting gold and jewel-studded adornment. And arrogant enough to laugh at the mention of Scotland’s King.

For his part, Lancaster remained stone-faced, yet he did not quiet the others.

“Each of these men has already committed treason by association,” Lancaster went on when the others had settled once more. “For in coming to me, they have agreed to engage with the Scots against Edward—if the Bruce holds up his end of our bargain.”

“And what is that, sire?” Niall asked carefully.

Lancaster leaned back into his chair, a quizzical smile faintly curving his lips behind his neatly trimmed brown and gray goatee. “To come to our aid, and to go to battle with us into England and Wales, of course. To live and die with us in our quarrel against Edward.”

Niall barely managed to suppress a hard swallow. He knew the Bruce operated on many fronts, and in ways so intricate and nuanced that only he seemed to comprehend them. Yet had he truly gone so far already as to pledge Scottish soldiers and supplies to Lancaster for his use against Edward?

Niall couldn’t be certain—as Logan had said, no one truly understood all of the Bruce’s maneuvers, and it wasn’t Niall’s place to undercut the King’s machinations.

“That is why we are here, sire,” he said, keeping his voice smooth. “You cannot very well ride into battle against Edward if your head is detached from your body or your heart is pierced by an arrow.”

A knowing glint came into Lancaster’s pale eyes. “You are to protect me, then, is that right? The Bruce alluded to such a scheme in one of his missives. He said I ought to have the very best surrounding me to ensure that my campaign would be as long and fruitful as possible.”

The Bruce had been in direct communication with Lancaster? The King had gone farther than Niall had realized.

“Aye, we are to serve as your bodyguards.”

That drew a ripple of surprise from the nobles on the dais, though Lancaster remained unmoved.

“I am glad to see that the Bruce is willing to put action behind his words regarding our nascent alliance,” Lancaster commented, eyeing Niall. “And I must admit, I am comforted to find an Englishman standing before me for the task. Yet you say the Bruce sent you. How did you come to serve the Scottish King against your own countrymen…Beaumore, was it?”

Niall chose his next words carefully, for he knew they would determine whether Lancaster would ever trust him or not.

“You and I have something in common, sire,” he began. “We both share a distaste for King Edward’s tactics as sovereign. My family’s Borderland holding was captured by the Bruce, thus giving me reason to shift my allegiance from my old sovereign to my new one. You, on the other hand, have carved a more difficult yet nobler path in standing against Edward without the shield of another King’s power before you.”

It seemed he’d struck the right notes of boldness and deference in his reply, for Lancaster’s eyes warmed with pleasure at that. “Well said, Beaumore. It is true, we are forging a new kingdom with this civil war. When I am King, men like you will not have to fear losing your lands and wealth to outside invasion. And of course, if men like you did shift their allegiance, they’d be drawn and quartered as the traitors they are. A King must be strong enough to hold the absolute loyalty of his subjects, don’t you think?”

Lancaster flashed his teeth in a wolfish smile, much to the amusement of his nobles. They seemed to find Lancaster’s barely-veiled threat against Niall most entertaining.

Niall held Lancaster’s cold gaze, refusing to be intimidated. Yet “Aye, sire,” was all he could say in response.

Seemingly satisfied and no longer interested in toying with Niall, Lancaster shifted his gaze to Mairin for the first time since they’d entered the hall.

“An Englishman loyal to Robert the Bruce, sent to protect the future King of England,” Lancaster mused. “That is odd enough. But what am I to make of this?”

“Mairin has earned a place amongst the Bruce’s most trusted and elite warriors, sire, and—”

“Oh, I’m sure she earned her position,” Lancaster cut in. “I only wonder what positions she used to do so?” By the way he swept her slowly with his eyes, his meaning was clear.

His nobles found that uproarious. Several guffawed and gave Mairin the same lecherous perusal.

Mairin stood as still as a mountain, yet her gray eyes blazed with fury.

“She is Scottish, I presume?” Lancaster asked no one in particular.

“Aye, I am.” Mairin stared hard at him, not a hint of submissiveness in the set of her shoulders or the levelness of her gaze.

“A Scot I would have expected from the Bruce,” Lancaster continued, amused. “But a woman? Is this some sort of jest? Or nay, mayhap it is meant as a gift. A token of the Bruce’s willingness to please me in this alliance.”

One of the nobles snorted. “Aye, you have it there,” he said. He nodded his balding head toward Mairin, his dark eyes lit with ill intent. “She must be a present. Why don’t you take her to your bedchamber and unwrap her? From the looks of her, she’s in need of a good and proper fu—”

Niall moved then.

He didn’t know if he intended to stop Mairin from doing something that would destroy their mission before it had even begun, or if he meant to rip the nobleman’s throat out with his bare hands for his vile words.

Either way, he wasn’t fast enough, for Mairin moved in the same instant, and swifter than he.

In one deadly-smooth motion, Mairin sprang to the dais and flicked her wrist, dropping one of the throwing daggers strapped to the inside of her forearm into her palm. In the next heartbeat, the tip of the blade poked ever so softly into the nobleman’s cheek.

The man started, his jowls trembling in fear, yet Mairin held the dagger steady, slowly applying increasing pressure until the tip puckered the man’s pliant flesh.

“Say another word and I’ll cut out yer tongue,” Mairin said, her voice soft and steady.

The men on the dais had fallen so quiet that Niall could have heard a mouse walking across the rushes on the other side of the great hall.

Lancaster’s dark brows winged above his graying temples. “The kitten has claws,” he murmured, breaking the silence, yet the taunting edge in his voice had been filed down to almost naught.

Abruptly, Mairin straightened and jerked the dagger away from the man’s face. With the cool composure of a deep, glassy Highland loch, she tucked the dagger back into its sheath beneath her sleeve.

“Consider that a wee demonstration of my skills,” she said, giving Lancaster a flat stare. “I’m sure ye’ll find them satisfactory.”

She gave her back to Lancaster without waiting for a reply and moved to step down off the dais.

Only then did Niall notice that her hands shook badly. She squeezed them into tight fists, but even still, her white knuckles trembled.

Aye, she’d endured the stares and shouts from the soldiers in both baileys, held her own against Lancaster’s insinuations, and silenced the lascivious nobleman, but it had cost her greatly.

As she planted one foot on the floor, her ankle wobbled precariously. Without thinking, Niall shot forward, wrapping his hands around her waist to steady her.

Her head snapped up and he was met with a blazing gray glare.

“Dinnae!” she hissed, but Niall’s actions had already been noted.

“Ah,” Lancaster said slowly. “It seems I was mistaken. The Bruce didn’t send the Scottish hellcat for my benefit, but for yours, Beaumore. Is that it? She is your reward for your loyal service?”

Devil take it. Niall was good and trapped now. If he had let Mairin fall after her display of strength against the nobleman, she would have lost all the ground she’d just earned. Yet it seemed that in steadying her, he’d accomplished the same thing.

His mind whirled as he scrambled for a response. The absurd, irrational truth was, men like Lancaster and his nobles were more likely to respect Mairin if they knew she was under another’s claim and protection—better still, an Englishman like them—than standing on her own. She had just proven that she could take care of herself, yet they would continue to see her as frail and incapable, a plaything for their amusement.

How much more of their taunts could she take before cracking? Another sennight in such foul conditions? A month? If she showed any weakness in that time, even as small as a shaking hand or a quavering ankle, they would descend like wolves on a lamb.

And though he had no doubt that she would make good on her promise to cut out all of their tongues if necessary—and likely a few other crucial appendages as well—doing so would endanger the course of their mission.

So Niall did what he knew was needed, and what he knew would destroy any delicate trust or tender feelings that had grown between Mairin and him. He let Lancaster and the others believe that he had some sort of claim on her.

He did not answer Lancaster’s question, but nor did he deny it. Instead, he simply gave the man a cold glower, letting his true hatred show in his eyes.

Mairin jerked roughly out of his hold, her lips a tight line of displeasure.

Lancaster watched all the while. He snorted when Niall and Mairin both faced him once again.

“What a relief that the hellcat is your problem and not mine, Beaumore,” he said placidly. He turned back to his nobles then, seeming to completely dismiss both of them from his mind as the others resumed their discussion of siege tactics.

I will not allow any harm to befall her. The words he’d spoken to Logan nearly a fortnight ago rang in his ears like a struck bell. I vow it.

He would protect her. Even if it meant she would hate him for it.