Page 114

Yet against all odds, Hugh had come, and Edlyn couldn’t quash the optimism that lit the women’s faces, nor could she halt her own exuberance. Running to the battlements that enclosed the roof, she would have leaned out.

“Be careful.” Neda stopped her with a hand on her arm and pointed at the green vine that rooted between the stones and curled around the merlons. “That’s blister vine.”

“Aye, m’ lady.” Ethelburgha held out her reddened, swelling hands. “Look at this. I’ll not be brewing ale for days.”

Edlyn winced but didn’t touch. Without her herbs, she couldn’t help Ethelburgha, and she had no wish to be stricken with the rash.

Stepping to a different embrasure, Edlyn leaned out and took in the sights of the battle below.

Astride his destrier, Hugh struck out at the enemies who dared to capture his property, and at the sight her heart trilled like a lark in the morning. Then she saw how hard those enemies pressed him. “Does he have enough men?”

The steward’s wife lost her smile. “I don’t know.”

What she meant was nay, but Edlyn said, “No matter. It’s our best chance.”

“Curse Pembridge and all his kind.” Neda pointed. “They’ve lit bonfires in the bailey. They’re readying the arrows. They’re going to shoot them into the door and burn us out, and the lord can’t defeat so many.”

Fire was the only thing that they truly had to fear, and fear it they did. Edlyn looked back at the pot by the trapdoor. The serving women had been boiling lard at the fire in the great hall, carrying it up the spiral stairs to the roof and dumping it onto Pembridge’s men. The bubbling grease had sent knights flying to pull off their armor, and each time that happened the women gave a cheer. It wasn’t much—some would call it a feeble effort—but it kept the women occupied and out of Burdett’s way as he worked to prepare the keep for the final siege.

And who was to say what might turn the scales of battle?

Edlyn’s eyes narrowed as she considered the three fires below. The wind within the bailey created little eddies and cast the smoke every which way. The cluster of archers who surrounded each fire coughed and flapped at the fumes, but the men couldn’t go far; they had a duty to perform. “Go down to the great hall,” Edlyn commanded Neda. “Start dousing the inside of the door, the lintels, and the threshold with water. Soak the wood, if you can, and Neda?”

“My lady?”

“Can Burdett shoot an arrow?”

“Is he not an Englishman?”

Edlyn smiled at the pride in Neda’s voice. “Then send him to me with his bow and his arrows and an ax and a good sharp knife.”

Shooing the women before her like a flock of windblown geese, Neda moved to obey.

“Have him bring yarn, too, and my riding gloves.”

Neda turned back. “I’ll return with him.”

Edlyn looked around at the open roof. The stone battlements had protected them, but if the archers were successful, that protection would be no more. They would shower the roof with arrows, and any person foolhardy enough to remain up there was in danger. Edlyn had to do it. It was her castle. But to expose both Burdett and Neda to danger…“Nay,” she said. “Send Burdett alone.”

Neda wanted to argue, but Edlyn firmed her chin, and the steward’s wife bowed and followed the serving women down the stairs.

The battle still roared below, but up here alone she could hear the wind whistle. It was an odd sensation to know that men were dying below her and she could do nothing. It was even odder to know she would do anything—incapacitate a man with boiling lard, drop stones on their heads, shoot arrows, or lift a sword—to protect her children and her castle.

And it was her castle, in a way that Robin’s castle had never been hers. In Robin’s castle, she had always been the scorned wife, holding her head proudly erect while her husband dallied with other women. Here she was the chosen one, the mistress Hugh had endowed with all authority, and no one dared to ask how long his favor would extend. All knew that Hugh took his vows seriously.

All except the traitor who dared betray him—indeed, who dared betray them both—during Hugh’s absence.

Who was he, this limping maggot of a man?

“My lady?”

She jumped and turned to Burdett. He’d come up through the trapdoor on silent feet. His long bow and quiver hung from his shoulder. In his hands he held a short-handled ax and a knife. He started toward her, and suddenly all the doubts about the steward returned with a rush. She was alone up here. Burdett could cut her throat and fling her over the edge, then go down and murder her children.

She took a step back when he swung the ax up. She lifted her arms to protect her head. He flipped the ax and caught it by the blade, then extended it. “My lady? What did you wish to do with this?”

Slowly she lowered her arms. He stared at her, the handle outstretched, and she reached forward and grasped it. He let it go easily. He dropped the knife at his feet and waited, helpless, should she decide to strike him. And she blushed for her own stupidity. But with one sentence she could banish the hurt from his gaze.

“Give me the gloves,” she said. “We’re going to save Roxford Castle.”