The Christmas Knight. Michele SinclairЧитать онлайн книгу.
long time to be harboring such ill feelings. After my father died this summer, I journeyed to see King Stephen. He was most willing to forgive the innocent transgressions of a young boy in love.”
Bronwyn felt all the rage, all the betrayal, from those years ago surge in her veins. “You didn’t intend love. You intended rape.”
Unexpected, Luc threw back his head and laughed. Bronwyn tried to duck under his arm, but he caught her elbow just in time and squeezed. “King Stephen didn’t remember it that way and thought it a wise idea to mend the feud between our families. I was given leave to choose any of Sir Laon le Breton’s unwed daughters after the New Year, and I want you.”
“You can’t have me,” Bronwyn snarled. “My father…”
“Ah, yes. His absence was the reason I have not announced my claim sooner, but now that he is dead, I see no reason to delay any longer. You are mine, Lady Bronwyn. You always have been and always will be. I’m done waiting. As your husband, I can make your life enjoyable or a living hell.”
He let go and Bronwyn reached into the slit of her bliaut and felt the cool metal against her fingertips. She gripped the hilt and hissed, “I will never marry you and you cannot make me.”
“But I can and I will have you willingly or else I will take one of your sisters.”
Cold fear swept through her as she realized what Luc meant and how far he would go. “You don’t want me, you want Syndlear.”
Luc cackled and the sick sound echoed all around them. “Angel, you still don’t understand. I want both and much, much more.”
Bronwyn felt his cool, long fingers close around the back of her head, bringing her mouth to his. She twisted with all her might and again sought the dagger nestled in her bliaut. Pulling it free, she was just about to press the tip into his skin when a deadly arrow appeared from nowhere and lodged itself into the bark of the alder right between her and Luc’s heads.
Startled, Luc pushed Bronwyn away and ducked for cover. Determining it was a single stray, he straightened to his full height and grabbed the errant weapon, wrenching it free from the tree’s grasp. He tossed it at Bronwyn and said, “Be sure to tell the new lord that his poachers better stay clear of Torrens and Syndlear.”
Luc sauntered to his horse, grabbed his reins, and mounted. He edged the animal next to her side, but Bronwyn refused to step back. He would not make her cringe in fear. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, angel, you never were as weak as everyone thought you to be. Until Epiphany, my lady. At the end of Twelfthtide, we shall wed and you will finally realize that I am the only man for you.”
Bronwyn stared unswervingly at Luc as he disappeared into a thicket of evergreens. She was still clutching the small heavy spear in one hand and her dagger in the other, both weapons of death. Her unusual proficiency in the latter was little known beyond her father and the late Lord Anscombe. Both men had thought that wise, believing the fewer who knew of Luc’s attempted assault, the better.
They had done everything they could to keep him away, even seeking the king’s interference. And King Stephen, being easily manipulated with his attention on preserving his throne from an ever-warring aunt and cousin, had ordered Luc to be banished from Cumbria. Luc’s father had been furious, but had obeyed for he knew Laon had powerful allies. But that had not been enough to pacify her father. So Bronwyn had been taught the art of killing, and learned to wield and throw a blade with extreme accuracy. But she had never used it against the living, and as she discovered today, having the ability to kill someone and doing so were two vastly different things. There had to be another way to avoid a lifetime of hell.
Giving herself a little shake, Bronwyn looked down at her hand and realized it was not a wayward hunter’s arrow she was holding, but a bolt. The short, heavy weapon had come from a powerful steel crossbow used by only highly skilled arbalesters.
Bronwyn looked up and studied the direction from which the arrow had come. The distance across the clearing would have challenged her best archers, making Bronwyn suspect its owner had not missed, but had hit his intended target. Whoever had shot the arrow was good. Very good. The dense collection of bushes she had been studying suddenly moved. Bronwyn rushed to investigate, but it was too late. She pushed back the prickly branches and evergreen leaves just in time to see someone disappearing on a massive black horse heading away from Hunswick and Syndlear. He was riding fast and with a large metal crossbow thumping on his mount’s hind end.
Whoever he was, he did not come from anywhere near Bassellmere or Hunswick. Another day, another time, she might have stayed long enough to find out just who had saved her.
Ranulf gripped Pertinax’s reins and let the horse do most of the work. The combat advantages of single-eye vision were limited to one—archery. The loss of his left eye made targeting an object easier. He didn’t have to worry about ignoring the secondary image one sees when aiming. On the other hand, the disadvantages of missing an eye were numerous and the ability to ride at a gallop across unknown, mountainous terrain was one of them. On any other horse, he would have been significantly more cautious. As it was, Ranulf aimed Pertinax back to camp, urged the pace into a gallop, and then began to berate himself for being every kind of fool.
That morning he had left his men under the leadership of his best friend to ride ahead and explore the lands that were to become his new home. And to think.
His original plan of persuading King Henry II to dismiss Laon’s dying request had failed miserably. The king had not only refused to dismiss the idea of marriage, but he had eagerly endorsed it. And to ensure that Lady Lillabet was made aware of her father’s wishes and the king’s support, Henry had dispatched two riders to ride ahead and deliver the news, forcing Ranulf to immediately begin his own journey north to not just a new home and unsolicited responsibilities, but an unwanted bride-to-be. For days now, he had been clinging to one hope—Laon’s youngest daughter would simply refuse to marry him.
He had not realized just how close he was to his new home until he had ridden by an abandoned stone keep earlier that morning. Isolated on top of a bluff, the tower and the surrounding wooden buildings had looked structurally sound, needing only a thorough cleaning and restocking of supplies. At the time, Ranulf had not suspected the tower to be Syndlear, home of Sir Laon, and pressed forward. But an hour later, the castle it guarded came into view. It was nestled against a lake at the mountain’s valley and Ranulf knew he had reached his destination.
As Laon had described, the castle’s unique layout was unmistakable once seen. Unlike Syndlear, which was a small, but orderly estate, Hunswick Castle was haphazardly sprawled along the shoreline. The mountainous terrain dictated some of the unusual design, which at a distance resembled a leather water bag being squeezed in the middle.
Along one side the lake buffered a multitude of buildings, including one that appeared large enough to be a Great Hall. Along the other side of the odd-shaped castle was an average-size gatehouse separating two towers. The one located closest to the Hall was of significant size and the other, situated on the other side of the bailey, was round but otherwise unremarkable. What was noteworthy was the stone curtain wall that connected the three structures ended there and did not encompass the whole of the castle. A feeble wooden frame continued behind the stable and other buildings where the wall stopped, and no protection at all was provided along the lakeside. The castle was totally dependent upon being forewarned.
Ranulf had ridden down to the lake to let Pertinax drink and rest and had just been about to mount and return to camp when he had overheard low moans on the other side of the thicket. Rising, he grabbed his crossbow and pushed the spiny branches aside ready to shoot if it was an animal on the attack. But he found instead a tall woman…who appeared to be singing.
Her husky voice had not been meant for caroling, and while it was by no means good, there was a haunting quality to it that kept Ranulf where he was. Neither drawing him in closer, or letting him leave. He wasn’t near enough to make out the words, but he could see her clearly.
Far from a traditional beauty, she was tall for a woman, with untamed brownish-blond hair falling far past her