Hostage Bride

Rosamunde looked at the man who had spoken in surprise. An icy shiver ran down her spine despite the warmth of the day. It was late September and, though overcast, very warm. ‘I do not understand you, Fitzherbert.’

‘You will be in great danger, lady. The Lord Mornay is not a good man.’

It was what Maire had tried to tell her. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘He preys on his neighbours, takes them prisoner and holds them to ransom. Sometimes he steals their womenfolk and holds them until …’ The man stopped, his cheeks red. ‘It is wrong that Lady Angelina sends you in her place. In all honour, she should pay the price demanded, not you.’

Rosamunde felt chilled. What price exactly was she expected to pay? Something told her that Fitzherbert was not speaking only of the thousand gold talents strapped to the packhorse.

‘What price is that, sir?’ she asked.

‘She has not told you? The last woman who took a ransom for her husband was disparaged and returned to her home after a month. She took her life by walking into the river, because her husband no longer respected her. He said he would rather have rotted in prison than have her lie with such a man.’

Rosamunde felt the heat sweep over her as she finally realised what Angelina had not told her—that Lord Mornay might force her to lie with him against her will. She hesitated. She could get down now, return to the inn and refuse to take the ransom for Angelina—but what then? Her father would be turned from his home when the prince’s tax-collectors came for their money and there would be no fifty talents to restore their fortunes.

Surely Lord Mornay could not be as evil as rumour painted him? Besides, he would likely not think Rosamunde beautiful enough to bed. After all, Angelina was very lovely and Rosamunde knew she was not as beautiful as her cousin. Lord Mornay might simply accept the ransom and let her go.

Yet what if he did not? She would be ruined, shamed before the world. Only, she had no hope of marriage, so what did it matter if she lost her innocence? She had no choice but to do as her cousin had bid her. Even if Angelina had lied about the debt, there was a debt of honour to be paid. Her uncle could not be left to languish in prison until he died. Perhaps when he was free he would know the truth—and he would force his daughter to pay Rosamunde the fifty gold talents she had promised her.

‘I shall pray that this time he will be moved to mercy,’ she told the groom. ‘Mount up, sir. Time is wasting.’

‘My father has been dead these past three weeks?’ Raphael crossed himself as his steward finished telling him the news. ‘God have mercy on his soul. If what you have told me is true, he will have need of it.’

‘He changed much after you left, my lord, and became extremely bitter and angry. He quarrelled with neighbours and took them or their wives hostage for vast sums,’ the steward revealed.

‘So I have heard.’ Raphael’s mouth thinned. ‘I do not like to hear these things, Mellors. My father was a stern man and forbade me to follow Richard to the Crusades—but before I left he was an honest man. I am sad to hear he changed so greatly in my absence.’

‘Forgive me …’ Mellors glanced over his shoulder. ‘I risk my life to tell you, but it was the prince’s influence. Your father became Prince John’s lackey and it was on the prince’s orders that he took Count Torrs hostage. The ransom he has demanded is exorbitant and I doubt it can be paid.’

‘Is the count still a prisoner here?’ Raphael asked, and frowned as the steward nodded. ‘You will have him brought here to me instantly, please. Has the man been ill-treated?’

‘He has been kept in a tower room rather than a dungeon, because your father knew he had powerful friends. Others have not fared so well.’

‘I shall hear more of this another time. Release the count at once and then have wine and food brought to us. I must beg the count’s pardon and hear his story before I give him his freedom,’ Raphael said.

‘You will not demand the ransom?’ Mellors asked nervously.

‘I have no wish to beggar any man,’ Raphael said.

‘The prince may be angry. He may demand his share of the ransom,’ the other man pointed out.

‘Prince John is not the King,’ Raphael said. ‘I have heard that Richard is still a prisoner in the Holy Land. Now that I am home, it is my intention to do what I can to have him freed.’

‘I am heartily glad to hear it, my lord. We are all pleased to see you home again—and shall be happy when the King is back on England’s throne—but you must be careful. Prince John does not suffer traitors to live in peace.’

‘He is the traitor, Mellors. Leave me now and ask the count to give me the pleasure of his company at my table,’ Raphael ordered.

‘Yes, my lord.’ Mellors bowed his head respectfully. ‘Everything shall be as you order.’

Raphael watched as he walked from the room, then sat in his father’s chair. It was heavy and carved from English oak, its arms smooth with wear. His grief for his father was muted by the knowledge that the man he knew had obviously died long ago. In his place a monster had come into being and he could not regret the passing of such a man. Lord Mornay had committed crimes against his neighbours and no doubt it would take some considerable time to mend fences.

The attack came suddenly towards dusk that evening. Rosamunde was deep in thought when she heard a cry from ahead of her and then saw a band of armed men rush out from the trees at them. They were on foot but armed with cudgels and swords, and there were enough of them to surround the small train that Angelina had sent with her.

Fitzherbert had been pulled from his horse and one of the robbers was threatening him with a sword. Money was being demanded and Rosamunde knew that at any moment they would steal the packhorse and ride off with everything—the money for Count Torrs’s ransom and all her possessions.

She would have failed her cousin and her father would be forced to repay his debt. Without thinking, she took the reins of the packhorse and started to ride off, calling to Maire to follow. The robbers were immediately alert to what she was trying to do and two of them lunged at her, causing her horse to shy.

‘Leave me alone,’ she cried as she struggled to hold both her horse and the packhorse. ‘How dare you attack me? I am the daughter of a nobleman and you will hang for this.’

‘Not afore we’ve ‘ad our way wiv yer,’ one of the men said and laughed evilly as he grabbed her arm and tried to pull her from her horse.

Rosamunde screamed, realising the full extent of the danger she was in as she saw the naked lust in his eyes. These men would not be satisfied with her gold; they would rape her and leave her for dead. Angelina should have sent more armed men with her. The heavy load the packhorse bore had attracted the attention of these robbers and her escort was not strong enough to defend it.

The sudden cries and the sound of thudding hoof-beats drew her gaze in the direction of a party of men riding towards them. They charged, swords and lances at the ready, their leader giving a blood-curdling war cry that sent shivers through all that heard it. The robbers knew that they were beaten and immediately retreated, leaving Rosamunde’s men to gather their dignity as best they could as the knight came up to them. Some of his men had followed the robbers into the woods to the side of the road and she could hear screams as the men-at-arms cut them down.

The knight who had come to their rescue was wearing chain mail under his tunic. The tunic was white and bore a red cross on the tabard, proclaiming him as a Crusader well-hardened in battle. It was hardly surprising that the robbers had fled; they had attacked two women and three men-at-arms and been confronted by a Crusader and at least nine men-at-arms in full battle-cry.

The knight’s hair was covered by the hood of mail and a heaume, which hid his face from her. He drew his horse to a halt and saluted her with his sword.

‘I trust you came to no harm, lady?’

‘None. My thanks to you, sir. Had you not arrived in such good time I think we should have been robbed—and worse.’

‘I dare say they would have killed you all, lady,’ the knight said. ‘You take risks riding with such a small escort in these parts. There are ruthless bands of robbers that take the law into their own hands.’

‘I have heard that there is one such ruthless robber—a powerful man whose castle is close by.’

‘Do you speak of Lord Mornay?’

‘Yes, sir. I am on my way to deliver something to him and if you are travelling in the same direction I would crave your protection.’

The knight seemed to hesitate, then inclined his head. ‘Your men will follow us, lady. It is to the castle of Mornay that we are bound.’

‘You know Lord Mornay?’

Again the hesitation, then, ‘Yes, I know him. Tell me, why do you visit this lord, since you fear him?’

‘I have business that I may discuss only with Lord Mornay. Please do not ask for I may not tell you.’

‘Very well, lady. Ride beside me. I shall escort you to the castle.’

‘This is as far as we go,’ Fitzherbert said as he drew his horse to a halt and looked at Rosamunde. ‘Our orders are to wait three days and then leave—but if you wish I will leave a man to watch for you.’

The party had halted outside the castle while the drawbridge was let down. The sound of chains rattling and the sight of high, forbidding walls sent a chill down Rosamunde’s spine. A growing sense of foreboding had come over her as she rode beside the knight who had rescued them, and now her courage almost ebbed away.

‘Would you wait at the village we passed an hour since?’ Rosamunde asked Fitzherbert. ‘We may need an escort when we return to my father’s house.’

‘I shall wait for two weeks,’ he said. ‘Send me word if you wish me to wait longer.’

‘I thank you for your kindness,’ Rosamunde said. ‘We shall leave you now. Maire, ride close to me and lead the packhorse.’

‘Forgive me,’ Fitzherbert said as Maire tried to take the leading rein from him. ‘I would come in with you, lady, if it were up to me—but I must obey my orders. However, I shall wait in the village, as I have said, and the others can return to Sir Thomas.’

Rosamunde looked at him steadily. ‘Are you sure you wish to disobey your master? He may be angry with you for not returning to your post.’

‘I shall risk his wrath willingly in your service, my lady,’ Fitzherbert replied. ‘I have watched you since you first came to serve Lady Angelina and admired you. I am but a soldier with no hope of becoming a knight—but I would give my life for yours, lady.’

‘Oh …’ Rosamunde felt her cheeks grow warm. The man’s look said more than any words and she felt her eyes sting. ‘I do not wish you to die for me, sir—but I shall be grateful for your support. I—I do not know what awaits me, but if I need your help I shall send word to the village. Please do nothing that would draw Lord Mornay’s wrath upon yourself. It will serve no purpose.’

‘I shall merely observe and wait in the village, my lady.’

Rosamunde could not help but be comforted by the thought that he would be close if she needed him. Lord Mornay’s stronghold was built of grey stone and its walls were stout, almost impregnable once the drawbridge was raised. A prisoner within those walls could not expect to be rescued.

How hopeless her uncle must feel as Lord Mornay’s prisoner. Even had she been tempted to run away, Rosamunde could not have deserted him now. She had brought the ransom in her cousin’s place and she must pray that it would be sufficient to secure her uncle’s release.

The knight who had rescued her, and his men, had gone in ahead of her. He and his men were dismounting even as her horse clattered over the wooden drawbridge. The knight had taken off his heaume and was speaking to a thin man who wore the robes of a steward. The steward glanced at her and then leaned forward to say something no one else was meant to hear.

Rosamunde’s throat felt tight and her heart was beating fast as someone came to help her down. She breathed deeply, because she had a terrible feeling that her escort was no other than Lord Mornay himself. He must have been angered when she’d accused him of being a ruthless robber, no better than the rogues from whom he had saved her. As she struggled to compose her thoughts, the steward came hurrying towards her.

‘Lady Angelina? Am I right—you are the daughter of Count Torrs?’ he asked, and bowed low as she nodded her assent. ‘I am Mellors, steward here, and my lord has sent me to welcome you to the castle. He has business that keeps him from greeting you himself. I am to show you to your chamber. He will speak to you when he has time.’

‘Lord Mornay knows that I have brought my father’s ransom?’

‘Yes, lady.’ The steward gave her an odd glance before turning to lead the way inside. ‘My lord knows why you are here, but for the moment he is too busy to see you.’

‘You will please tell Lord Mornay that I wish to see him as soon as possible. I have no desire to remain here for longer than necessary.’

‘It may be best if you wait until my lord is ready,’ the steward replied. ‘He has much on his mind at the moment.’

‘You will please give him my message.’ Rosamunde lifted her head in a haughty manner, imitating her cousin.

‘It might be best to wait, my lady,’ Maire whispered at her side. ‘You do not wish to make him angry.’

She bit her lip but made no further request, a little shiver going through her as she mounted the stone steps to the room at the top of the west tower.

‘You have not told the lady that her father has already been released?’

‘You asked me to leave it to you, my lord.’ ‘Had she arrived a day sooner, she might have heard it from his own lips, but the count is already on his way to the Low Countries to meet in secret with others who seek Richard’s freedom. Two of my friends have gone with him, to protect him and keep him safe until his mission is complete.’

‘The lady seems impatient to leave, my lord.’

A wry smile touched Raphael’s mouth. ‘If she has heard stories of my father, it is hardly surprising. She may be in some danger, Mellors. If Prince John hears what I’ve done, he might seek to take her captive and gain his ransom that way. Besides, we discovered her at the mercy of a robber band, and there are many others in this country. Prince John’s taxes have made the people desperate and they care little for his law. It may be best if the lady remains here under my protection until her father comes back to claim her.’

‘Do you wish to see her?’

‘Please ask the lady to join us at supper in the hall. I have more important tasks for the moment—Prince John’s messenger awaits an answer to his letter to my father. I must send him my answer before I attend to other business.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Mellors inclined his head and walked away. Raphael sat at his board and drew parchment, ink and a quill towards him. He frowned as he began to write. The prince must be informed that Lord William Mornay was dead and his son returned from the Holy Land. It would not do to antagonise the prince, for much might be gained by Raphael appearing to be a man after his father’s heart. If the prince learned that Raphael had sent money with Count Torrs to help King Richard return to England and the throne, he might try to stop the gold reaching its destination. Better for Raphael to keep his silence and wait until the chance came to serve his king. If Prince John was determined to usurp his brother, he might plot to have him murdered when he set foot on English soil.

Besides, Raphael had recognised the woman he’d noticed at the quayside in France. She had not known him because of his heaume, but he knew her. He needed a little time to sort out his thoughts before he saw her again.

Chapter Three

Alone in the room at the top of the tower, Rosamunde looked down at the courtyard. She had been left waiting for two hours and her apprehension was growing. She had not been locked in her chamber but since there was no possibility of her leaving the castle without permission she supposed Lord Mornay did not feel the need to imprison her.

Why had he not sent for her? Did he hope to break her will by leaving her to reflect on her probable fate? She raised her head, feeling a surge of anger against the man whose face she had not yet seen. She would not show fear or let him break her resolve. Indeed, she would not wait here until she was sent for. Her father might be an impoverished knight, but she was of good blood, and Lord Mornay had no right to treat her like this.

Leaving the chamber, she ran down the stairs. In the hall, there were a few servants beginning to set up boards on trestles for the evening meal but no sign of the steward. Approaching one of the servants, she lifted her head proudly.

‘I wish to see Lord Mornay. Please take me to him at once.’ The man stared at her for a moment, seeming stunned. ‘Do as I bid you, sirrah.’ She assumed her cousin’s haughty manner. ‘Disobey me and I shall have you whipped.’

The man lifted his hand and pointed towards a door to the right of a rich tapestry hanging on the wall at the far end of the hall. Rosamunde nodded her head, feeling a little ashamed. She never spoke to servants in that manner, but she was supposed to be her cousin and she had to make the vile Lord Mornay believe her. He must have heard of Angelina’s beauty and might be disappointed by Rosamunde’s face. She must do nothing that might make him suspect she was not the lady Angelina.

Hesitating outside the door for a moment, she lifted the latch and entered without knocking. A man was sitting at a board on which were spread various books and papers. He had been writing and did not look up as he said, ‘Yes, Mellors? What is it?’

‘I wish to know why you have kept me waiting—and why you did not tell me who you were on our way here,’ Rosamunde said before she lost her nerve. ‘I am the daughter of a nobleman and I demand respect. Please allow me to pay my father’s ransom and leave.’

‘So anxious to leave? I wonder why?’

The man lifted his head and looked at her. Rosamunde was so shocked that she could hardly hold back her gasp of surprise. Surely he was the man she’d seen before they had left port in France? He had stared at her as she’d been about to go on board the ship and she’d thought that she recognised him, though she’d been uncertain. Now that she was closer, her doubts deepened. This man’s eyes were devoid of warmth and his mouth hard. He could not possibly be the youth who had rescued her kitten from that vicious dog those years ago. Yes, there was a strong resemblance, but it was very likely only the colour of his hair and eyes.

‘Why have you come here, lady?’ His gaze narrowed. ‘My steward asked that you remain in your chamber until you were sent for. I have important matters that keep me busy until then.’

‘Why will you not let me pay the thousand gold talents and leave? It need only take a moment and my father may be released. We shall trouble you no further, sir.’

‘Thousand? I believe you only brought five-hundred gold talents with you, even though you were asked for a thousand.’

‘It is all I was given,’ Rosamunde faltered, uneasy as she saw his mouth harden. No wonder Angelina had been desperate to send her cousin; she must have kept half of the money for herself. ‘The remainder will be paid once my—father is released.’

‘Indeed?’ Eyes that had been as cold as mid-winter ice suddenly crackled with blue fire. ‘Supposing I am not prepared to release him for only a fraction of the money demanded?’

‘Then you are a wicked rogue and deserve to be thrashed,’ Rosamunde burst out. It was foolish to lose her temper this way but she could not control her disappointment. He looked something like the youth she’d lost her heart to years earlier, but he was a cold, hard man. He could not possibly be Raphael—could he? ‘If I were a man I would challenge you to combat and kill you.’

‘You might try.’ He stared at her for a moment and then laughed. ‘You are a bold wench, Lady Angelina. What are you prepared to pay for your father’s release—besides the gold?’

‘Oh!’ Rosamunde’s heart raced. Fitzherbert had been right; this man would not be content with merely the ransom money. He wanted more—the surrender of her modesty. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing, sir? I have heard what you did to other unfortunate women—of the poor lady that walked into the river because her husband no longer wanted her after you had disparaged her.’

The smile left his face, his lips turning white as he glared at her. ‘Now you are too bold, lady. Return to your chamber until you are sent for or you might be sorry.’

‘I am not a servant to …’

Rosamunde quailed as he took a step towards her. She wanted to run away but stood her ground, looking at him defiantly. For a moment he hesitated, then reached out and drew her against him, his right arm about her waist as he held her pressed tight to his body. She could feel his strength and power and her knees turned to water. For a moment her head whirled and she had a foolish desire to melt against him, to subdue her will to his.

‘You deserve your punishment, wench,’ he muttered and bent his head to take possession of her lips.

Rosamunde struggled wildly, but his arm was like a band of iron holding her tight. His mouth was hard, demanding, as if he sought to subdue her to his will, to show her who was the master here. As her head swam, she opened her mouth to protest but his tongue moved to block her words, touching hers. The feelings he aroused were strange and yet pleasant. She moaned, because the sensations sweeping over her were so bewildering, and then she pushed her hands against his chest as common sense returned.

He let her go abruptly and stepped back, a look of such anger on his face that she was terrified. Now she truly believed all the stories she had been told.

‘Go back to your chamber or I might not be responsible for my actions.’

Rosamunde gave a yelp of fright, turned and ran from the room. She fled through the hall and up the stairs and did not stop until she reached her chamber.

Raphael cursed as the door closed behind the woman. What on earth had made him react that way? Holding her close, his body had responded in a way he had not expected, arousing passions he’d believed dead. He’d known her at once as the woman he’d seen on the quayside in France. She had been dressed less richly then and he’d imagined she was a relative of the beautiful lady she’d accompanied on board ship. She was certainly haughty enough to be the daughter of a nobleman, though something was not quite as it seemed, for the boots she had worn that day in France had been old and worn through. He had a feeling that she was playing a part, pretending to be other than she was, but that did not excuse his behaviour. She was undoubtedly a lady and did not deserve to be treated like a harlot.

Her sudden arrival had startled him, because Messalina would never have dreamed of disobeying an order from either her father or Raphael. She had been modest and sweet—and she had been foully slain, her death still unavenged. The pain slashed through him once more, making him smash his fist against the stone wall of his chamber in a sudden burst of agony.

Why must he be haunted by the vision of her broken body night and day? She called out to him for justice and he could give her none. He was angry with himself for letting the lady Angelina beneath his guard. Her scent had inflamed his senses and her spirit had amused him, but then, when she had assumed that he was his father, something had snapped in his head.

God knew he was no saint! Raphael admitted freely that he’d done things of which he was ashamed. He’d killed men in battle and given no quarter. He’d stood by without comment when Richard had ordered the execution of the Muslim prisoners at Acre, which had led to a bloody retaliation by Saladin, and he’d hurt his wife … No matter how much he tried to forget it, the memory of her tears returned to haunt him.