Jacq's Warlord (36 page)

“Don’t just stand there, you fools,” Percy shrieked. “Kill him!”

Rufus raised his sword ready to swing. “Move or die,” he bellowed.

The two soldiers looked at each other, yanked their horses to the side and kicked them into a gallop, racing for the tree line.

“Your men are as craven as you, Percy,” Rufus spat to the side and advanced.

His face pale, Percival backed up his horse. “Why can we not work this out, man-to-man? Lord to lord.” His voice squeaked and his mouth quivered in a tight smile. “I want only the woman. She must pay for what she has done to me.”

Rufus’ answer was to close the distance between them.

“Good God, Rufus,” Percy shouted. “I tried to take her peacefully, but your man-at-arms refused to turn her over to me.”

By now, fury consumed Rufus in blinding waves. He raised his blade.

Percy’s eyes widened briefly before narrowing into slits, his smile sliding into a snarl. “What’s the matter, Lord Rathburn, angry because I had her? We have shared before. What is she, but a great horse of a woman, anyway?”

“You will never touch another woman,” Rufus promised. “There is no honor in rape.”

“But there is a certain excitement in watching a woman’s fear. And your Jacq was very afraid,” Percy sneered. “I could smell it.”

Rufus’ tenuous hold on control snapped. “There is no honor in forcing a woman,”

he shouted, as he swung his sword at Percival, making contact instead with his shield.

“You waste your life on too many rules.” Percival slashed at him, missing altogether.

“There is no honor in betraying your allies!” Rufus pounded Percy’s shield yet again, with so much force he nearly unseated the man.

“That is where you have it all wrong. I’ve never been your ally. I led you to believe I was to get what I wanted.”

“And what did I have that you did not already possess?” Rufus bellowed.

“Your land, your power, your honor!” He jabbed again, his blade clanging against Rufus’ shield. “I wanted to take everything you held dear.” He beat his sword feebly against Rufus’ shield and sword, betraying his sapping strength.

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“Why?” Rufus delivered a mighty blow to Percy’s shield, knocking it from his arm, then his sword glanced Percy’s left cheek, drawing first blood.

Percy’s face paled and he reached up to touch his injury, his hand coming away with bright red blood smeared across his fingers. “Because you were the one held up by my father as the perfect son…the perfect lord. Your lands were richer, your people more loyal. I will have your woman because she was yours.”

Rufus’ heart stilled, his muscles turned to stone. “Jacq belongs to no one. She chooses whom she wants.”

“And she chooses to be your whore?” No longer content to parry with words, Percy spurred his horse and moved forward, meeting Rufus’ sword with his own, the sound of metal on metal filling the air as the two fought fiercely.

Rufus toyed with Percy, reaping a grim redress by allowing him to think he stood a chance, but it was obvious who would be the victor. He took small measures of satisfaction—drawing a stripe of blood across his forearm, placing a shallow stab to his side—until Percy bled freely from a dozen wounds.

Finally, wearied from loss of blood, Percy swayed in his saddle and held his sword unsteadily with his two hands.

Rufus spurred his horse beside him, but Percy’s defense was too sluggish to prevent the blow that severed his head from his shoulders. His body slumped in the saddle then slid to the side. The horse, spooked by the flapping body dangling from the saddle, set off at a gallop, racing for the woods.

Percy’s head fell to the ground with thud and rolled face up, his eyes wide, his mouth opened, frozen forever in horror.

With barely a glance at his dead opponent, Rufus pulled his horse around.

Moans of mortally wounded soldiers rose from the field as his men had made quick work of rounding up the last of Percy’s troops. Blood stained the soil, and the overpowering stench of burned tar and flesh rose to fill his nostrils.

Anxious to see how those in the castle fared, Rufus kicked his horse into a gallop.

Would Jacq still be there?

He rode for the gate, cries of welcome raining down from the top of the walls. An eternity passed before the portcullis rose to the accompaniment of squealing gears.

When it was just high enough, he urged his horse forward ducking beneath the metal teeth.

Inside the bailey, he paused to take stock of the devastation Percy’s army had wrought. The rubble of collapsed roofs and splintered buildings, large rocks strewn on the ground and red-drenched stone were testament of the deadly battle that had been fought here.

Before his horse came to a complete stop, Rufus swung a leg over and slid to the ground. Immediately, he was surrounded by the men and women of Rathburn.

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But what was this? The women wore quivers of arrows and carried bows. After the first shock, he broke into a huge grin. She was here. Only Jacq could organize the womenfolk of the castle into an army.

He scanned the courtyard above the heads of the crowd, searching for the woman who haunted his dreams.

“Rufus!”

He heard her glad cry before he saw her skipping down the last of the stone steps of the wall walk. The crowd parted, and grew quiet around him, but he scarcely noticed their interest.

He tossed his sword to the ground a moment before she launched herself into his arms, crying and laughing at the same time. Her arms wrapped around his neck as if she would never let him go.

His own came up to hold her tightly to him and he closed his eyes, his head thrown back. “Thank you, God,” Rufus said, his voice gruff and unrecognizable to his own ears.

“Go ahead, give ‘er a kiss,” someone called out and the crowd echoed his encouragement.

Jacq grinned, and raised a single eyebrow in challenge. With one hand, she slid her fingers up his neck to weave into the hair at the back of his head. With a sigh, she pulled his face closer to hers. Her smile slipped, and her gaze burned a hole into his heart.

Rufus tilted his head to the side to align their noses. Eyes wide open, he tasted her closed lips with his tongue until she gasped. Then he crushed his mouth to hers for a searing kiss. The roar of their audience was drowned out by the sound of his fiercely beating heart.

After a long moment, Rufus pulled back and set Jacq on her feet. “I think you missed me,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t break with strength of the emotion flooding through him. Rufus held her away from him to stare at her. “You look like hell.”

Indeed, she did.

Rufus chest tightened, a frown pushing his eyebrows low on his forehead.

Jacq’s face was streaked with tears and dirt, and the hollows beneath her brilliant green eyes were smudged dull purple. He made no comment on her male attire, but his gaze fastened on a long, darkened tear on the sleeve of her shirt and the bandage wrapped around her arm.

“You have been wounded!”

“You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” she said with a shaky smile, shifting from one foot to the other beneath his steady perusal. She seemed about to say something else, then shook her head, her face blanching. “I’m sorry, but I don’t seem to be able to stand anymore.”

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“Jacq!” He caught her before she slid bonelessly to the ground. “Damnation!” Rufus lifted her into his arms and held her close to his chest, careful not to jostle the wounded arm.

Donald appeared beside him. “Clear the way! Where’s Gwen? Someone fetch Gwen,” he said as he preceded Rufus through the crowd.

With Jacq in his arms, Rufus approached the oak doors of the keep, taking the steps two at a time, followed closely by the castlefolk. The hall was filled with the wounded, and the acrid smell of sweat and blood choked him. He picked his way around those lying on the floor and continued abovestairs. When he reached his room, Rufus kicked open the door with his foot and entered, laying Jacq gently on the bed.

“Send someone to fetch Gwen, then bring me water—hot water—and clean rags.”

His orders were relayed through the crowd by a dozen or so men and women. As he began to cut Jacq’s shirt away with his knife, he heard another voice.

“Make way. Make way!” Gwen pushed past the people crowding the doorway, buckets in each hand and lengths of clean linen draped over her shoulders.

Rufus moved back to let Gwen deposit the items beside the bed. He straightened and strode to the doorway. “We’ll take care of Lady Jacq,” he said to those who still lingered. Then he turned to Donald. “See to those below.”

“I’ll find Geoffrey and make sure the keep is secure before nightfall.”

With a nod, Rufus returned to Jacq and stripped what was left of her shirt away.

A hand fell gently on his shoulder. “Lord Rufus, let me see to her wound.”

He tensed beneath Gwen’s touch, unwilling to step aside.

“Milord, I need to see whether her wound has opened, again.”

Reluctantly, he moved away to let the laundress near Jacq. She held out her hand for his knife and then cut through the bandage, exposing a puffy, scabbing wound.

“The bandages have held the wound closed. It is healing. Thanks to God, there is no sign of blood poisoning.”

Rufus let out a breath, and realized his fists were clenched tight. Anger still clenched his belly and he wished he hadn’t dispatched Percy so quickly—he wanted to kill him again.

Gwen cleansed the scabs, applied another poultice, and fashioned a fresh bandage to hold it in place.

“She hasn’t slept. I suspect she is exhausted.” Gwen looked up at him. “Would you like me to tend her, milord?”

Rufus’ mouth tightened and he shook his head. “No. I will stay with her. You’re needed below.”

She stood and gathered the soiled bandages and bucket. Then she paused, staring down at him with a sad smile. “Your lady is the bravest person I have ever known. She has nigh won all our hearts, milord. I count her as my lady and my friend.” Tears welled in her eyes.

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Her words touched Rufus, his chest swelling with pride for his woman. “Thank you, Gwen.”

After Gwen left, Rufus stripped Jacq of her boots, hose and braies. Jacq didn’t stir as he dipped a square of cloth into a water basin and gently washed away the dirt clinging to her skin.

When he finished, he pulled furs over her to ward off the chill that had raised goose bumps on her skin. He couldn’t help noticing how tightly pebbled the points of her breasts were, and warmed them for a moment with his palms, before cursing himself and pulling the covers up to her shoulders.

He ran a hand over his face and felt the stubble of three days’ growth of beard. He smelled of horse, sweat and blood. The stench was more than he could stand, more than Jacq would tolerate. He stripped to the skin, and washed his body from head to toe, taking the time to scrape the hair from his face.

With barely a care for what happened beyond the walls of this room, he finished quickly and climbed beneath the furs to join Jacq.

He lay on his side and watched her as she slept, afraid to touch her lest he cause her discomfort. She slept deeply, and Rufus dared to relax, letting his own fatigue catch up and overwhelm him.

When she began to snore softly beside him, he smiled. He felt a sense of homecoming, and it wasn’t long before he too succumbed to the healing power of sleep.

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They had a name for it in the twenty-first century. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

Jacq figured that was what she had. Rufus had insisted she rest for several days, and she had recovered for the most part. Her wounds were itchy scabs now, causing her more annoyance than pain. Yet, here she was still in bed, feeling more tired and out of sorts than she had when she’d remained at her position on the wall throughout the siege.

Everyone walked on eggshells around her. Careful to be quiet. Careful to keep the news from her of the gruesome cleanup Rufus supervised outside the keep. Even Annie had been coached to keep the details from her, but had caved when the secret was just too interesting not to share.

Jacq didn’t need to see what was happening to envision the grisly task the men had undertaken. Grave pits had been dug and bodies dragged to them. First, they were burned to ward off disease, then covered over with a deep layer of lime and soil.

The surviving enemy soldiers were given the choice to swear allegiance to the new Lord of Sedgwick. Those who declined were taken by the sheriff to await the court’s decision on their fate.

Then the massive rebuilding effort began. Splintered buildings were torn down, others repaired and work to repair the damage to the curtain wall from the trebuchet and Jacq’s bombs was already underway.

Each day Annie would sneak up to tell her of the progress, waiting for some spark of interest from Jacq. The little girl would leave with her shoulders slumped.

Jacq couldn’t stir herself to show any enthusiasm.

Gwen grew concerned, taking matters into her hands to make sure a daily bath was drawn for her, otherwise Jacq wouldn’t have bothered.

Each night Rufus came to her, hair slicked back from a dip in the pond, his skin smelling of soap, but Jacq turned her back. She could feel his confusion, but he didn’t press her for anything more than to accept the shelter of his arms while he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Now, they barely spoke to each other.

Jacq was letting go. The time had come for her to go home. Her purpose here was fulfilled.

“Milady! Thank God you are finally out of bed. His lordship will be so happy.”

Matilda’s cheery voice rang out from the doorway.

Jacq didn’t respond. She struggled to pull a pale yellow undergown over her head, wincing slightly at the lingering ache in her stiff arm.

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“Here, let me help you with that.” Matilda rushed toward her and eased the dress over her head. “Which gown have you chosen to wear for the celebration?”