Chapter Seven
Lord Christopher was finding it difficult to keep upright on his mount. His head throbbed, his belly still danced and there remained that putrid lingering odor about him and his men. At least, the few of those who were able to ride. He had been unable to don his chain mail, as were any of his knights. The weight alone would have not enabled him to climb into his saddle. A tiny slip of a lass had reduced them all to flatulent foul-smelling miserable cretins. By the Saints if he could actually lift his sword he would find it difficult not to run her through. Nicholas tossed a furious gaze down at Constantine. She sat atop a sprite little grey long legged mare smiling smugly. She seemed oblivious to the death looks thrown in her direction.
Worse still was Rosecliff’s unnerving discovery. The poor man had almost fallen from his horse when he had finally returned. Nicholas was certain he must have been robbed or at least found out by Broc and beaten. His surprise was unsurpassed as he had learned it was not a man or men who had rendered him incapacitated, yet his own gentle Juliette. It would seem the sisters worked as a team. Constantine offered up the battle cry whilst the berserker raced in to finish them off while deafened and delusional. What was he to do? It appeared from Rosecliff’s detailed description his intended would seek to cause irrevocable damage to his manhood. Damnation, no wonder their father was so eager to wed them off. Nicholas was actually beginning to feel a certain sort of empathy for Broc. Both of them having been unsuspecting fools.
“My lord, it would appear young Philip has fallen from his mount again,” a man complained, then belched.
When Nicholas looked back the young squire’s saddle was vacant. Nicholas muttered a soft expletive. It was the third fall in less than an hour. If his bowels did not kill him the falls would render him daft.
Constantine’s gaze also settled onto the poor prone slight figure of the lad and felt vaguely responsible. Stubbornly she felt Lord Christopher should not have allowed the lad to join them, he was too ill. Their procession halted while they righted young Philip back atop his mount.
“Where is Rosecliff?” Nicholas suddenly inquired, he cast his glance about. The man had been with them but a short time ago insisting he must accompany them. He had muttered something under his breath about a disemboweling.
“I fear he partook of some suckling pig before a warning was sounded. The cook was unable to dispose of it, he being incapacitated. I believe Rosecliff stopped to relieve himself but has still yet to finish,” a man commented, casting a backward glance. If one didn’t know better, they would think his look was calculated, precise, almost cunning in its direct sweep of the entire area. Yet it was due to the fact if he moved too swiftly he would unseat himself.
Nicholas groaned and ran a hand down his face. He doubted Rosecliff would be joining them anytime soon. “Never mind. We will retrieve him on the return trip,” Nicholas said then muttered, “If he still lives.”
Constantine chuckled. He would live. Though for the next little while may think death would be a welcome treat.
“You find our agony amusing. You are a heartless wench.” Nicholas snarled.
“’Tis your own fault for stealing me,” Constantine said with a glare of her own.
“I only thought to save you,” Nicholas ground out. “I was not aware ’twas I that would need saving.”
“Never fear, I will soon be back with my husband.”
“Poor man. Has he been rendered deaf?”
Constantine hardened her glare at him. “He seeks my return.”
“Poor daft deaf fool.”
“He is neither poor nor daft nor deaf nor a fool.” Constantine growled.
“Forgive me, my lady, yet I needs must ponder on his sanity,” Nicholas declared with amusement.
“He will run you through,” Constantine howled in fury.
“In my present state it would be a mercy killing no doubt,” Nicholas said and could not help his small chuckle.
Constantine took in his drawn haggard pale features, his slightly sunken dull eyes. His powerful body was slumped in his saddle. The knights around him rode quietly, their looks defeated already amidst sallow faces and shaky hands. She exhaled on a loud breath.
“Perhaps my means were a trite excessive,” she conceded grudgingly.
“A trite lass. By the Saints, my insides have been to war,” Nicholas spat. “Poor Philip was hard-pressed not to cork his own self for the ride lest he slide from his saddle.”
Constantine had to chuckle at that. The image it presented was too much. “I only wished to be returned to Rory,” she declared with heart-felt sincerity.
“You will be returned lass, never fear. It is my hardened knights that cringe at one of your sorrow filled looks. Damnation, I have never seen the like. One trembling bottom lip casts more terror into ones breast than a berserker with a broad sword,” Nicholas informed her amazed. Grudgingly he admitted Broc had himself a prize if he but rendered himself deaf, or immune to her caterwauling.
Nicholas was just not up to the attention the lass would require. Also he admitted thoughts of Lady Juliette plagued heavily within his mind. Thoughts of his dear sweet mother washing his father, perhaps Juliette would seek to drown him. The gentle caress to his father’s temple when his mother thought no one was about. Juliette might only seek to blacken an eye. Nicholas was also pondering thoughtfully trying to understand why Rosecliff told him to shave his head before bedding her. He had been too afraid to ask more questions. He liked not the idea of wearing a loincloth made of chain mail on his wedding’s eve. It would definitely make any intimacy difficult. Yes indeed, what to do about his betrothal to a female warrior? Nicholas wanted someone sweet and gentle he could protect. How would it look if his castle were stormed and tiny Juliette raced to him calling; “Fear not my dear husband, I will protect you, stand behind me.” That would never do. No, his little wife must be helpless...and quiet.
If he severed his betrothal Lord Campbell would cry foul and seek an audience with his majesty. It was never good to anger the king. Perhaps he could explain to Edward about the Lady Juliette’s peculiarity. Although he highly doubted he would be believed. One look at the petite beautiful Juliette and Nicholas would never be allowed to attend court again. The laughter would be as deafening as Constantine, or perhaps close. Nicholas hated the thought of beating the girl into submission. What if she beat me into submission? He wanted his wife’s love and undying adoration and devotion, he wanted her in awe of him, not her fear, or to be afraid of her. This pondering was giving him a headache. Well at least his belly would not suffer alone in its misery.
“My lord?” Constantine asked, breaking Nicholas from his reverie.
“Aye?”
“Just what will happen when your armies meet?” Constantine asked. She had been doing some pondering of her own. At first the idea of being fought over was exciting. Realization struck that someone might actually be injured or killed. Perhaps even Rory. Or Juliette’s betrothed. Though Constantine did not care for the daft lord, he had not harmed her. She would not like to see his blood spilled. What if Juliette also held some affection for the addled fool? She may be a bit miffed at her. That would be a first. Would Juliette really become angry with her?
It was on the tip of Nicholas’s tongue to tell Constantine a great war was about to be waged, with huge amounts of blood and guts spilled. He felt that spiteful. Seeing Constantine’s saddened expression he was quick to change his mind. He was still rather doubtful Broc wanted the lass returned, if he even bothered to show at all. If she were to be howling he might think it a battle cry and race for them, swords drawn, Nicholas not even having the chance to explain. Worse still, what if he really did not want his wife back? What if he thought to engage in battle and somehow Constantine were to end up dead. Well would not that be convenient for Broc! Though Rosecliff had sworn the man sought her safe return Nicholas was skeptical. He slumped even further in his seat. Damn. He would be forced to defend the banshee. By the Saints, what if he were victorious? He would then be stuck with both sisters to antagonize him, he felt certain. Damnation, there was that headache again.
“My lord?” Constantine questioned. Lord Christopher’s look was almost an agonized pain. She hoped his bowels were not about to rampage again, they would never get to the field.
“Do not fret, my lady. Perhaps we will partake in food and drink,” Nicholas said.
“On a battle field?” Constantine asked incredulous. She knew not much of war but most assuredly men did not spend it socializing... Or did they? Constantine scowled. Women stayed home and fretted for their men’s very existence and yet here they were, the great fiends, having ale and biscuits. That seemed rather devious.
“Just how much drink must we consume?” Constantine demanded.
“There would not be enough in this particular case,” Nicholas muttered. By God if he could not rid himself of the lass soon he would most certainly run himself through.
“I did not think to bring a mug,” Constantine said fretfully. Nicholas groaned. His head slumped forward as though pained. “Perhaps you should not participate in this drinking, my lord. You seem to have paled further.”
Nicholas chuckled. Her innocence was refreshing, annoying yet refreshing.
“Your worry is endearing, if not a tad late in coming. Fear not Constantine, I may not partake of any ale, yet rest assured I will most likely end up sprawled face down on the field with my men,” Nicholas informed her and belched.
* * * *
Lord Rory Broc looked magnificent in hauberk and chausses. He stood tall and powerful in the great hall. His broad sword on his hip, his helmet tucked under one arm and his shield close by. Upon his surcoat was embroidered a stunning likeness of a phoenix. Constantine had deftly stitched it for him telling him he had the swift motion and cunning of the great legendary bird. Rory had told Constantine of the Arabian myth of the blood red bird that lives in the desert for five or six hundred years then sets itself aflame. The phoenix is said to be a symbol of immortality. Though Constantine liked not that it set itself on fire and burned to ashes, she hoped Rory would be with her forever. She had demanded Rory draw a picture of this phenomena for her. He had been greatly pleased with her efforts when she produced the finished result.
Devon again argued with his brother, demanding to be allowed to assist him. He liked not the fact Rory was to engage in a battle all alone. No good would come of it. He would most assuredly perish.
“You must stay here and guard Juliette. Constantine would most certainly howl the castle down if she were to be injured,” Rory told him placing a calming hand on his shoulder.
Devon could see the sheer will and determination as it radiated from his older brother. He wished not to argue with him, yet he could not still the tremors in his chest.
“Any can guard Juliette,” Devon insisted
“Nay, Devon, she needs you here. I would feel better knowing I had someone I could trust to watch over her. Besides, for some odd reason there are those in the castle who actually believe the imp to be a berserker. I am heir to a bunch of daft fools,” Rory exclaimed with a shake of his head.
“I am grateful for your trust, so trust me when I say the lass can take care of herself. Perhaps she could be dressed in chain mail and sent to watch your back. My relief would be great.” Devon snorted.
Rory just shook his head bemused. He then retrieved his shield after donning his gauntlets. He smiled when he looked at them, remembering Constantine’s sweet innocence. With powerful strides he went to fetch his destrier. Rory stopped in his courtyard. He was quite surprised at the sight before him. His knights were in full battle gear seated atop their own mounts. Even the villagers had armed themselves with pitchforks and staffs. His squire held his powerful black stallion ready.
“Do you seek to declare war on me?” Rory shouted out, his tone bitter. What nonsense was this?
“Nay, my lord. We beg to set a terrible wrong to right once more,” Mary said from off to his left.
“What mean you?” Rory demanded.
Devon stood by Rory’s side as their head knight came forward. He was an older man. Powerful, seasoned, a thinker of strategies, and a favorite of Devon’s. He had always been loyal to their father, he had not taken part either way when Rory had felled the men, though had been sorely vexed he had not been informed Lady Constantine was to be taken. That was something he most assuredly would have stopped no matter the reasoning. The knight dismounted from his horse as did the rest of the men. He approached Rory and stood tall before him.
“We judged rumors and not actions, my lord. We embarrassed ourselves by becoming frightened of a legend instead of respecting the man. I most humbly apologize for our grave mistake. I offer my fealty and beg respectfully it is accepted.” So saying the large man sank to one knee before Rory. One by one each knight dropped to a knee a hand over their heart, their heads bowed. Each peasant followed suit, until all Rory could see were his people respectfully paying homage to him.
Devon cast an anxious glance to his brother. Rory was a proud man, he was unsure what to expect. Looking amongst his people Rory realized the fate of his castle now resided solely upon his shoulders. When Rory had been to the Crusades he had offered fealty to his king. He felt it an honor. He would have died for him. Now here were his own people, knights and peasants alike begging his acceptance of them. His heart near burst with happiness and pride, somehow amidst the confusion he had won their trust. Finally he felt he was really truly home.
“How will we ever manage to retrieve your lady if you are all slumped on your knees in the dirt?” Rory bellowed out.
A great cheer sounded as the men rose as one. Rory’s mount was brought to him. Devon clasped Rory to him.
“Be well my brother and return on swift feet,” Devon said into his ear.
Rory returned the powerful embrace. “Fear not, all will be well my brother,” Rory responded.
Devon was worried as he watched the small army move away. Lord Christopher’s army was still larger. They would need a miracle.
Juliette watched the precession. She was having mixed feelings. It was obvious both she and Constantine had judged Rory wrongly. He really was not horrible at all. He loved her sister beyond reason. Of this she was certain. He had been gentle toward herself. What man would think to take on an entire army alone? A man deeply in love, ’twas something they had both dreamed of as children. But did Constantine feel for him in the same way? Mary had told her she must. Juliette wanted her dear sister to be happy. But she could not bear their separation. What should she do? Should she declare herself in love with Lord Christopher and claim happiness for her sister’s sake? Would their husbands allow them to visit after this? Would they even return from the battlefield? The thoughts were too overwhelming.
“Juliette, are you unwell?” Devon asked. He could see Juliette’s lovely face pale. Perhaps the battle frightened her. Juliette cast him a look so full of despair Devon recoiled. She then fled from him.
Devon gave pursuit and raced wildly after her into the castle. He was most surprised at her swiftness. She may fight like a berserker, yet she possessed the speed of a terrified doe. There seemed to be no end to his amazement of her. Devon followed her to Juliette’s own chamber where she flung herself face down upon the large bed. He approached with caution, wondering which slender arm might seek to render him senseless.
“Juliette?” he enquired.
When no response was forthcoming Devon settled beside her. With a gentle hand he turned her to face him. Her cheeks were wet with her tears and she sobbed. Suddenly she launched herself into his arms and clung tight. Devon held her just as fiercely as her small body was wracked with tremors. His hand stroked her silken hair down the length of her slender back. He rubbed on her shoulders at a loss as to how to soothe her. He felt the wetness on his clothing as she continued to weep.
“Be still dearest. Have no fear. Your sister will be returned safe and unharmed,” Devon said.
“Rory would not allow harm to come to her,” Juliette whimpered.
“Most assuredly not. Surely you have seen how great his feelings are for her?” Devon concurred. Juliette nodded, his relief washed over him at her understanding. Certain now her crying would cease.
Juliette did not settle. Surprisingly enough her agitation increased. Her tears flowed faster. Her grip became tighter still. She clasped at him as a man once had while he was dying. Did she seek his strength to keep her here as he had? Devon was confused. Pensively his grip remained possessive.
“Juliette, why do you weep so?” Devon asked.
“My dearest sister loves your brother, does she not?” Juliette whimpered.
“Aye lass. She will be happy to be returned to him,” Devon assured her.
“She will be happy here,” Juliette stated.
“Of this I am certain,” Devon replied still feeling confused. What was it Juliette searched for?
Juliette pulled herself from Devon’s arms and dried her tears on her skirts. Though feeling resolved with what now must happen she remained distraught. She offered Devon a small smile that did not reach her eyes.
“I am feeling better, my lord, my thanks to you,” she said.
Devon remained unconvinced. Juliette’s movements appeared stiff as she rose from the bed. There was something disturbing within her eyes. It was though the sparkle of life had been quashed.
Juliette straightened her shoulders deciding on her course of action. She would grant herself one short visit with her beloved Constantine then cry loneliness of Lord Christopher. She loved her sister too much to be selfish. Just because she, Juliette, would never find true love as she had once dreamed, it did not mean Constantine should suffer the same fate. Juliette was convinced Constantine would get over her loneliness of her, if she thought her to be happy.
* * * *
The sky was crystal clear. Very few clouds could be seen on the horizon. The air was sweet, as a gentle wind ruffled the huge knight’s shoulder length brown hair. Another knight stood to his right with his hand up over his eyes to shield them from the glare of the blazing sun. Both men had trained their sight on the small army as it rode from the courtyard. Broc in the lead. The villagers were dispersing back toward their homes.
“What think you?” the smaller man asked of the powerful knight.
“’Tis time Rory Broc was given a lesson,” The large man growled. He would make Broc pay for ousting him. They had no right to send them off with their tail betwixt their legs. By the time he was through Broc would rue the day they had ever met.
“What do we?” the smaller man asked. He liked not the idea of facing such a powerful warrior. They had just recently seen a furious Broc in action. His own belly still pained from a solid blow. His friend sported a colorful eye and broken nose.
“We seek revenge,” the huge knight said then scoffed at the fearful look of his companion. “I will not allow him to get away with what he has done.”
“But Frederick, the man possesses awesome strength,” the smaller man whined.
“Be still Louis. I will handle Broc. Then we may both partake in handling the Lady Constantine,” Frederick said, then laughed raucously.
Louis decided he liked that idea. Still he frowned. “How do we manage to separate Lord Broc from his men and lady wife?”
“We create a diversion. Fear not my friend, we will have Broc’s men so busy they will run round like a hound chasing his own tail,” Frederick said with a wink, his tone sly. The two men began to plan.
* * * *
“Gregory what will we do?” Emit cried. He strode almost crazily about the great hall.
“Calm yourself man. All will be well,” Gregory soothed.
“How can you say that? They will most assuredly engage in battle. Someone’s demise is imminent,” Emit practically screeched.
“The only likely thing to happen is that Lord Christopher’s men will die of relief once Constantine is returned to Lord Broc and they can expire to their beds,” Gregory said on a soft chuckle.
“Think you they are still ill?” Emit asked with concern. It was un-seemly, that child’s methods of retribution, Emit thought while wringing his hands together.
“Aye, they suffer still. How long was your recovery?” Gregory inquired.
Emit looked at him with annoyance. He would rather forget that episode, as his friend well knew.
“Calm yourself Emit. I meant no disrespect. I have heard only half, if that, of Lord Christopher’s men were even able to mount a horse. Also, as I understand, he leaves a trail of men behind even as they ride, the lot weaker than newborn kittens. Another half have dropped from their saddles.” Gregory chuckled.
“Think you Lord Broc really seeks Constantine’s safe return?” Emit asked, now worried.
“Broc has had no word on what has transpired at Lord Christopher’s castle. I have also been informed Nicholas is hesitant about his betrothal to our gentle little berserker,” Gregory mentioned.
“Think you he will back out?” Emit asked, eyes raised. If word of this were to get out Lady Juliette may not be able to acquire a decent husband.
“Fear not Emit, all seems to be falling into place,” Gregory declared. He leaned against the high table with his fingers laced.
“What mean you?” Emit asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.
Gregory looked at him thoughtfully. “’Tis nothing my friend. Calm yourself. Come partake in some sustenance. Lord Christopher’s castle has sent over some suckling pig as atonement for taking our dearest Constantine. It looks quite tasty. Join me and we will engage in some repast.”
* * * *
Constantine could see a large procession in the distance. It was not long before she could make out the blood-red phoenix. The huge and powerful knight riding atop a massive black destrier could only be one man. Lord Rory Broc, her husband. Constantine’s heart beat frantically within her eager breast. Never had there been built such a warrior. She was certain no other man would ever best him. Proudly she cast a sly glance toward Lord Christopher and was almost shocked. The man should be terrified, yet if truth be told he looked relieved.
“Praise God, he has come,” Nicholas said, his tone filled with joy.
Constantine scowled darkly at him. “Should that not be my line?” she enquired dryly.
Nicholas cast her a sheepish grin. Then to his embarrassment burped long and loud. “Nay, my lady, I feel my gratitude is certainly not misplaced.”
“He may yet run you through after you partake in ale and biscuits,” Constantine replied haughtily with a quick toss of her long locks.
Nicholas groaned and his belly gave a great rumble. “Please my lady, do not mention food I beg you.” A few others offered quick nods concurring.
“Well I for one am hungry,” Constantine said with a scowl.
“Perhaps I could interest you in some suckling pig,” Nicholas shot out.
“Perhaps you would be interested in my battle cry,” Constantine returned.
“Someone find me a high tower,” Nicholas said with menace.
The two armies grew closer. Rory gazed at Lord Christopher’s men curiously. There were few, fewer still than his own small army. His curiosity piqued as he took note of their tight faces. All were pale. None wore battle gear. They looked to be a sorry lot, ill groomed and slumped atop their mounts. As this thought passed through Rory’s mind one of Lord Christopher’s younger men toppled sideways to the ground.
“My lord, there goes Philip again.” Rory heard a tired voice say.
Nicholas raised a weary hand to draw it slowly across his face. He then centered his gaze on Rory. “We seek not battle, Broc. Only to return your wife.”
“I have not yet decided to return Juliette to her father’s castle,” Rory said on a challenging air. If Rory did not know better he would have thought all sighed with relief.
“’Tis unfortunate this has come to pass. I concede regretfully and will await your decision.” Nicholas all but mumbled. Praise God, he would not have to deal with the lass as of yet. He was still undecided as what to do. As he finished his thoughts one of Nicholas’s men dropped to the ground and raced for the tree line.
“What trickery is this?” Rory demanded and drew his sword. Nicholas raised his hands wide in supplication.
“’Tis not trickery. I assure you the man’s need to relieve himself is the only foul deed on his mind.” Nicholas hoped he made it, they already smelled ripe enough.
Not only Rory’s curiosity was piqued, all of his men’s were as well.
“Does your castle have sickness?” The older knight who was first to pledge himself to Rory asked with trepidation.
“’Tis a sickness we have never afore encountered,” Nicholas concurred.
Rory’s men were hesitant to go near. On closer inspection they could see Lord Christopher’s men were almost incapable of remaining seated. Even the lad on the ground only groaned. Rory became terribly distressed.
“Constantine, my love, how fare you?” he asked anxiously.
“I assure you your wife is more than well,” Nicholas replied almost angrily. “’Tis she who caused the illness.”
“What mean you?” Rory demanded.
“Well, do you tell him or do I?” Nicholas asked Constantine with a hard scowl, cast as though to a naughty child.
Constantine tossed her hair haughtily, undaunted or remorseful. “’Twas his own fault for stealing me.”
“I only thought to save you,” Nicholas ground out.
“Constantine?” Rory demanded. He could see the animosity both Lord Christopher and his men seem to radiate toward his dearest wife.
“I only aided with dinner one eve ’tis all,” Constantine said innocently, eyes wide.
Rory knew that look. Now what had little vixen concocted?
“You aided in our near demise.” Nicholas spat, then burped, then groaned.
Rory heard a small chuckle come from one of his men.
“I only sought to be returned to my beloved husband,” Constantine purred and directed a meaningful and suggestive look at Rory.
“Well here you both are. I assure you Broc I only sought to relieve poor Juliette’s heart and ended up needing to relieve myself, many...many times.” Nicholas said wearily. To his great mortification an audible noise ruffled the air at his declaration, wafting into the slight breeze. Nicholas felt a slow blush creep up around his neck.
Chuckle’s and guffaws sounded once more amidst many more men. Rory leveled his sword toward Nicholas’s chest. “In future I demand you leave my family alone,” his tone was firm.
Nicholas did not even bother to sit taller at the challenge; the trees in the distance seemed to be beckoning his own release. “I assure you most heartily Broc, never again will I venture near your lady wife.”
Voices concurred from behind him as his men belched and groaned.
“By God, if you seek to destroy us I beg you do so now,” whimpered the fallen form of the young squire on the ground. Philip still remained face first in the grass.
Constantine felt a moment’s guilt. “Rory, I beg you, do not kill them.”
“She yet seeks our suffering. Is there no end to your cruelty,” the young lad mumbled pitifully from the ground.
“Come now, Philip, right yourself,” Nicholas demanded.
“My lord, I swear I cannot move. If you were to threaten death I would but weep... with relief,” the boy almost cried.
“Please, Rory,” Constantine said. She liked not the lad’s defeated tone. “Please, won’t someone aid him?”
Seeing Constantine’s sorrowful expression had Nicholas’s men turn pensive. Her bottom lip quivered which had the men springing into action. Nicholas’s men raced to dismount, a few stumbling in their haste to help the boy, as well as quite a few of Rory’s own. All knowing and aware what would transpire next if the lip were given free rein.
“Ye God! What the devil have you been rolling in?” One of Rory’s men inquired. He pinched his nose tight and waved a hand before him taking a hasty step back. The stench of Lord Christopher’s men was engulfing.
Poor Philip was literally tossed on top of his mount as the men sought to escape the foul smell of him. Rory’s knights were suddenly grateful they would not be engaging in battle. They would be tested heavily not to retreat from the powerful odor. Hopefully this was not just some skillful tactical move. Entice them off their mounts then grab them in a bear hug to asphyxiate them.
“Come, Constantine. My little one, you have been gone from my side far too long,” Rory said. He had been right about her inability to stay out of trouble. Lord Christopher was just lucky she had not been injured by her ploy. He would have been sorely vexed not to run the man through. Though taking in Lord Christopher’s haggard expression it would be but a mercy killing. Rory felt positive if someone were to place a sword in his hand he would topple over as his squire had.
“Yes, by the Saints go, my lady. Take your vocal cords and be off,” Nicholas said, hardly able to contain his enthusiasm.
“You seek to mock my wife?” Rory growled.
“No Broc, I seek my bed,” Nicholas said pitifully. Dear Lord now I’m whiny. Was there to be no end to his humiliation?
“I will send word of Lady Juliette,” Rory promised.
“Take your time. I will understand most assuredly,” Nicholas replied. By the Saints why would the man not just go? He needed to go himself. Now.
“In due time,” Rory replied. He gathered Constantine from her mount, wanting her close.
Nicholas had to admire him for his bravery. Only a command from King Edward himself would take him that close to Lady Constantine and her mouth.
Rory’s precession moved away. Nicholas did not know whether he was feeling happy or sad at the encounter. His army was indeed greater. If he could just get them well. He might need them ready for battle if Broc sought to return Juliette.
Nicholas turned his mount and they proceeded home. But not before again righting poor Philip atop his horse again.
* * * *
“You are looking very satisfied with yourself,” Rory said gazing down into Constantine’s complaisant smile.
“I am happy to be home,” she said and tightened her grip about him.
“We will arrive there soon enough,” Rory said, kissing her temple.
“Nay, you misunderstand me, dearest husband. I am home when wrapped within your arms. Wherever we may be,” Constantine told him. She had missed him desperately. If only she could see her dear Juliette again everything would be perfect.
“I was saddened without you as well, my love,” Rory admitted. He cuddled her tighter to his chest. His grip possessive.
“Rory, must we return Juliette?” Constantine asked.
Rory remained quiet. Pensive. He wanted not for their reunion to turn to tears...and howls. “We will discuss this later dearest. For now just let me enjoy having you back again.”
For some time the procession walked on until Rory detoured down a narrow path. With a sly look to his head knight Rory separated from the rest of his men. The wise older knight only smiled and offered a quick wave of his hand while leading the men home.
“Where do we go, Rory? I am anxious to see my sister,” Constantine said, a bit disappointed.
“Your dearest Juliette is safe in the hands of my brother. She can wait. Your lord husband cannot.”
The path was familiar and Constantine felt her pulse quicken. “What are you about?” she asked on an expelled breath. The thatched hut came into view where she and Juliette had first taken Rory.
Rory swung down from the saddle keeping her in his arms. He gave her an amused steamy look. “I intend to return the favor my sweet. ’Tis my turn to initiate coupling.”