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Catch me if you can

"Aye, your lord, but not your love."

Alys’ whole body tensed. The cool undertone in his voice did not escape her. Yes, he was her lord, and she had lied to him, betrayed him, and now many of his men – and her father’s – had paid for this with their lives. She did not dare to contemplate the consequences.

Sure, she had not known about the attack, and she had not expected it either, but she had been aware about Robert’s presence in the castle. Somewhere along the way – should she survive today – somebody would ask her about that, and she would have to come up with an answer.

Her thoughts strayed to Lord Stephen’s soft-spoken squire. Would he survive the carnage that today’s hunt had suddenly turned into? A beautiful boy, and still so young…

Just like Robert.

She could not help it. Unbidden, thoughts of him clawed their way through her skin. Alys flinched, as if fearing discovery, which was just as ludicrous as the speculation itself: surely Lord Stephen did not need to read her mind to be able to guess what she was thinking about.

Yet, the gnawing uncertainty remained: Was Robert dead?

Then she caught sight of the cave, hidden behind icy brushes and thick scrubs. She was about to point it out to Lord Stephen, but noticed that he had seen it, too, and steered the horse towards the small gape in the rock. It was a godsend, and likely their only chance to escape certain capture – their pursuers were hard on their heels.

The Norman lord lifted her off the black warhorse, carefully, but there was no tenderness in his embrace. Polite courtesy was all she could expect from him now, and in the face of her crime, she knew that she should feel grateful.

Holding on to him, she landed softly on her feet in the snow, wincing with pain. Her head was humming, and she felt ill.

“My lord…” she began, but fell silent again. The ice in his eyes scared her, and yet, she needed to ask.

Steadying herself against him, her delicate fingers holding on to his wrists, she whispered:

“Where is he?” Her voice was trembling. “Where is Robert?”

***

Lenore stepped out of the door of the brothel and stretched. The mornings were getting colder. She sneezed. There would be more snow, she could almost smell it in the air.

A cloaked figure approached the brothel. She squinted. With a smile, she recognised Symon. What business did he have here, at this hour?

“Isn’t it a bit early for a visit to the whorehouse?” The busty whore yawned and pulled her woollen tunic tighter around her shoulders. The wind had picked up and further north, clouds started to gather, shrouding the mountains in a thick blanket.

“I am here to see Elwynn.” Lenore raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “Where is she?” The archer looked a bit sheepish, as if he was about to commit some badly thought-out foolishness. The blonde woman crossed her arms in front of her chest defiantly.

“Symon, you know that she will not take you to her bed. Arnaud…” But Symon cut her off with an impatient hand gesture. “God’s wounds, woman, I am not here for here for that. Is she with someone?”

Lenore shook her head. “No, but…”

But without another word, Symon shoved her aside to march into the brothel, paying no attention to the blonde whore’s swearing behind him. A large black kettle boiled over a fire burning in the hearth of the tavern.

A faint scent of roses drifted through the air.

Elwynn had just risen from a steaming bathtub placed in the middle of the tavern. Symon could not help but stare. He had never had the chance to see her naked body in all its beauty, the soft curves of her hips, the slender legs, her perfectly round breasts. He imagined how it would be to touch the silky alabaster skin, to flick his tongue over her rosy nipples, to make her moan in pleasure…

His throat ran dry at the thought, and only a hard shove in his ribs from Lenore tore him from his musings. “A gentleman does not stand and stare like that!” Elwynn looked up, suddenly realising that she was not alone any longer. Water drops glittered like small diamonds on her skin, and she smiled. Symon sighed. Maybe he should have gotten rid of Arnaud to claim the young whore for himself! Anger crept into his thoughts. If Elwynn had been his, she would have never gotten involved in any of this devil’s business.

But it was too late for such regrets.

As she noticed the archer standing in the doorway, Elwynn smiled before she slowly slid back into the wooden tub.

“I didn’t expect you here, Symon.” The beautiful young whore did not seem flustered by his presence.

The archer came closer. He had to clear his voice before he could speak.

“You need to leave, Elwynn.”

She laughed softly. “What do you mean?”

“You are not safe here.” Elwynn frowned. His concern seem genuine, his voice was sincere. An ice-cold fear gripped her. “Has something happened to Arnaud?”

The bearded archer shook his head impatiently. “No, nothing has happened to that little Occitan shit. At least not yet. But they are coming for you, sweetheart.” The red-haired young woman stared at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Symon knew that his coming to the brothel was a bad idea. He had not slept all night, thinking it over. Long James had sent word to de Lacy, and alerted the inquisition. It would not take long for them to come for the pretty whore. Not long at all. His glance fell on her delicate wrists, on her slender fingers now wrapped around the wooden rim of the tub.
How long would she be able to withstand their iron bands, and their torture?

“Word got out that little Rowan is not all that he seems.”

Elwynn’s mouth fell open, and all colour was suddenly drained from her porcelain cheeks. “Rowan…?” The tone of her voice, the terrified expression on her face, everything told him that he had been right. Raven. Rowan. Devil’s cock…! “They will come for you. Make sure they don’t find you here.”

Elwynn nodded, suddenly serious. Her heart was racing. She did not need to ask who ‘they’ were.

When the heavy door swung open again, both Symon and Elwynn knew that it was too late.

“My dear, we need you to come with us.” Long James’ smile was cruel. “And there is no need to get dressed.”
 
Stephen's pulse under Alys' delicate, light fingertips was as steady as his cold, unflinching gaze.

"The last I saw of your lover," he said. "He was wounded and surrounded by his father's men. For his sake, I pray God he is already dead -else he will shortly wish it were so."

He anticipated her flinch and caught her by the shoulders, staring fiercely into her beautiful face. A beautiful face, but a deceptive one. Stephen could have sworn that she was willing to give herself up to him body and soul the night before, but all the while she had been thinking of her half-caste lover.

"He was a man of honour, in his way, but many better men have died today, at his orders and at the hands of his men. You met my squire? There is no finer youth in all the north, and he may already be dead. If he is, I will never forgive Robert de Lacy, whether he lives or dies."

Stephen turned away, suddenly disgusted with himself. His cold fury had grown while he thought of Rowan's possible death, but there was no honour or profit to be had in terrorising maidens.

"I'll not ask how much you knew of Robert's conspiracy, though I hope you knew nothing. When we return to your father's castle, we'll reckon all this out and see where we stand."

The bleak absurdity of the situation struck him as they scrambled into the hide and a wry smile touched his face. He made speeches about vengeance, he came close to threatening a slender young woman, then he hid himself like a fox underground. He thought Rowan would have appreciated the joke. He prayed that Rowan still lived.

The burrow widened out considerably after the tight squeeze of the entrance, although their bodies were still pressed together, their faces mere inches away. Alys' scent warred with the rich, earthy smell of loam. Their bodies were intimately interlocked. He could feel the full, firm curves of her ample breasts, rising and falling with her frightened breaths. Her sweet breath was hot on his face, her hair tickling his nose. He could feel how frightened she was -fearful for Robert's fate, fearful of their pursuers, fearful of him.

That made him feel shame. His anger with her was only partly the circumstances of the attack. It was also wounded vanity, it was jealous, atavistic rage that she could prefer another. It was childish.

He reached and took her slender wrist in his hand in wordless reassurance and apology.
 
Alys lips parted, the pain clearly edged into her delicate features. Her fingers tightened around his wrists before she withdrew them. So Robert was dead, or worse. What cruel fate was this? The last thing she remembered before her fall were his eyes, set on her. Why did God give her the chance to see him again, so briefly, only to rip him forever from her grasp?

It was as if something shattered inside her. Only Stephen’s firm grip on her shoulders prevented her from giving in to the urge to collapse. Robert dead! But then again, he was only wounded, and he might yet live. What if he did?

Unbidden, images of the man she had watched dying on her father’s gallows years ago appeared in her mind. Should William de Lacy get the chance to kill his treacherous bastard son himself, he would surely take his time doing it. But it was beyond her willpower to wish for the man she loved to be dead.

"He was a man of honour, in his way, but many better men have died today, at his orders and at the hands of his men. You met my squire? There is no finer youth in all the north, and he may already be dead. If he is, I will never forgive Robert de Lacy, whether he lives or dies."

Alys flinched. She knew he was right, and that Robert’s attack had been much too rash, ill-advised and costly. But Lord Stephen’s words were cruel, meant to cause even more pain. The young woman stared at Stephen, her sapphire eyes wide with shock and hurt. He suddenly turned his gaze, as if unable to withstand her expression of quiet accusation, but his voice was cold as he continued:

"I'll not ask how much you knew of Robert's conspiracy, though I hope you knew nothing. When we return to your father's castle, we'll reckon all this out and see where we stand."

Despite the all-consuming grief and the heavy guilt she did feel, Alys could not help but frown at his words. Did she not deserve at least a brief moment of peace? Nobody had given her the chance to choose any of this, and yet it pleased him to torment, even threaten her.

“My lord, should we survive this day, I will be happy to give you answers to all of the questions you might want to ask.”

Then she bent down to crawl into the entrance of the small cave, shivering with fear and with anger. She heard him follow her, and soon they were side by side inside the confined, dark space. Only last night she would have given much to be this close to Lord Stephen de Valois.

Lying next to him, she questions of her own started to worm their way into her mind.

The last time she had seen both him and Robert, they had been fighting together against de Lacy’s men. What was more, the attackers had been dead set on killing Lord Stephen, while the order had been to catch their master’s bastard son alive.

And yet, he was here. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. It was surely unjust to accuse Lord Stephen of Robert’s capture or death, but she could not help the sentiment. And yet, when the young Norman lord reached for her hand she did not refuse it.

Riders were closing in on the cave, she could hear them shouting to each other. She could feel his even heartbeat, his calm breathing. Was he not afraid to die? Again, the anger rose in her throat like poison. Why had he taken her away with him if he despised her that much? For a brief, mad moment she wondered what would happen if she would call out to their pursuers. After all, they were not going to kill her. No, in fact they would take her to where Robert was, if he still lived.

The legs of a horse appeared at the opening of the cave. The animal was so close that Alys caught its musky scent, heard the leathery creaks of the saddle as the rider came to a halt right in front of them.

“Fuck me, where did they go?”

Another answered from a point further away. “The traces go up that hill!”

The man in front of the cave spat into the snow. “I have a bad feeling about this. I could have sworn that the damn horse had nobody in the saddle.”

“Devil’s cock! I hope for the bastard that we find that sweet little bitch. If Lord de Lacy will lose her and the pleasure of de Valois’ death, he will make Robert pay for it in more than just blood.”

Alys stopped breathing, and her fingers wrapped around Stephen’s tensed. All it would take was one word, one small sound.

***

Raven sat with her back against a tree while one of the three men went through her saddle bags, looking for loot. She had not received answers to any of her questions: who they were, and what they wanted – but at least she still had her life.

The young man who reminded her so much of Arnaud had bound her wrists behind her back, and was now crouching in front of her.

“Don’t worry, lad – we’re not after your life. But you will make a valuable hostage if need be. A pretty noble boy like you might just be the bargaining chip that we’ll need.”

One of the other archers chuckled coolly. “Bloody hell. This is a great risk, even for Robert. His lady love must have tits of pure gold to merit such recklessness.”

Raven did not speak. As long as they believed her to be of some worth to them she was arguably safe.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Rowan.” The dark-haired man’s raised eyebrow made her add hastily: “Rowan of Drystone.” She tried not to look at the corpse of the slender boy, still laid out only a few feet away from her.

“Well, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Rowan of Drystone,” the outlaw said with a wry smile. “And if everything goes the way our leader intended, you will be back in your castle by nightfall, rolling around linen sheets with some sweet little maid.”
 
Stephen felt Alys' fingers stiffen in his hand as their pursuers moved about at the entrance to the cave.

Had he made a mistake? If they were discovered now, he could be gutted through the earth with spears like a fox in hiding, with no opportunity at all to defend himself. At least if he'd stayed above ground, he'd have had a chance to defend himself like a man should.

Despite the image of shameful death running through his mind, Stephen's pulse remained entirely regular, his breathing low and steady. He could feel the panic in Alys' body, though -the stiffening limbs, the withdrawn breath, the heart beating like a drum next to his chest.

She was terrified. She would give them away. Perhaps she even wished to give them away, to save Robert the torture the hunters above the ground discussed. Stephen knew he had to act.

Hoping to calm her, he silently lifted his hand to her face. He stroked her cheek, brushed soft hair away from her eyes, touched the bow of her perfect lips with the tip of his finger. Something primordial rose up him at that last contact, as though it triggered something in him.

If Alys of Crowsdale meant to betray him for Robert's sake, he would take one final kiss from those lips. His hand curled around the back of her neck and he drew her to him in a silent, masterful kiss.
 
Alys tried to muster the courage to do what she thought was right. Robert had risked everything to find her, to be with her. She owed him the same. Her lips moved silently, as if testing what it would feel like to alert their pursuers of their presence inside the small, hidden cave.

They would kill Stephen. Unflinchingly. They would not even give him the chance to defend himself. No, they were not men of honour, and they would relish the opportunity to simply skewer the hated Norman lord like a trapped rat. Alys shivered. She could only hope that their fear of their lord would prevent them from laying a finger on her.

The hooves of the horse in front of the cave mouth crunched through the thick snow, effacing what might have been left of their own traces.

“We should probably get back. A heavy storm is brewing up in the mountains, and we don’t want to be caught here when it hits.” Grunts of approval, another harsh curse. “Hope they both freeze out here, though it would be a damn shame to let that girl go to waste!” More laughter and shouts to gather. They were about to leave. Her lips parted – it was the last chance she had…

His gentle touch came as a shock. She turned her head to look at him in the dim light of the cave, astonished and suddenly utterly lost. Now, looking into his eyes, it seemed impossible to condemn him to die. His finger traced the line of her delicate face, brushed over her lips. Alys knew what he was doing, she sensed his tension through his outer calm. Lord Stephen was not going to let her betray him again. Alys wanted to look away, to escape his touch. The voices outside were already coming from a greater distance.

Just as she wanted to turn away, he pulled her closer, his lips meeting hers in a passionate kiss. Alys froze, stiffened against him, her fingers still interlaced in his. What…? But it was that kiss that broke down her last defences, and with them, her attempts at showing indifference to all that had happened. Tears welled up in her eyes that were now closed: she was unable to refuse his kiss, nor did she want to. Salty drops first clung to her dark lashes before rolling down her cheek, silently, but he would be able to taste her sadness on his lips.

Alys clung to him as if she was drowning, while the voices of their pursuers vanished into the distance. It was as if safety was only in his kiss and that once it was broken, she would have to face everything she had been trying to ignore: the betrayals, the deaths.

Outside the cave, the first snowflakes had started to fall.
 
Stephen could taste the salt on Alys' soft lips. She clung to him with a kind of drowning desperation, her lips pressed beseechingly against his. She arched her back to press herself against him, firm beautiful breasts pressed against his chest.

The frustration, the anger, the fear for Rowan's life -it was all swept away on a tidal wave of desire. Stephen broke the kiss for a moment, pulling Alys' head to his shoulder. He felt her lithe, slender body in his arms, trembling like a leaf. Strange that something so precious, something that men had already killed and died for, could be so vulnerable and fragile. He wanted so much to protect her.

His hands tightened on her neck, then slowly travelled down to her back. He held her in the circle of his arms, warm and safe against their hunters and the encroaching cold. Desire roared up in him at the feeling of her body, her scent. It was though the energies of the battlefield earlier were still coursing through him, now directed towards primal, atavistic urges. His fingers tightened against Alys' back.
 
Shivering, Alys lay in his arms. Now, with her head against his chest, his arms around her, holding her tight, she felt safe and secure. She could feel his warm breath against her forehead, his regular heartbeat against her cheek. All of the sudden, the threats seemed to have melted away. The rage and the tension were gone. He was the tender young man again that she had glimpsed on the battlements the previous night.

The man she had desired so violently, even though her heart belonged to another.

The fingers of her left hand curled into the soft fabric of his cloak as if looking for support. She was not sure what made her do it: vanity maybe, or grief, or the desire to feel something beautiful again, or anything really. But she turned up her head, meeting his gaze, before pulling him into another breathless kiss.

***
Raven felt the cold crawling up her limbs, but she did not dare to move.

“We cannot stay here.” The young, dark-haired hunter laid a hand over his eyes and looked up towards the mountains. “This might get ugly.”

Unconsciously, Raven followed his gaze. He was right. The wind had picked up, and clouds were gathering in thick, dark patches above them. She knew very well how fast this could turn into a full-blown snow-storm, and here, so far up north, these storms could be of deadly force. Where was Lord Stephen? Was he safe?

Another hunter nodded, scratching his beard. “But we cannot just leave Robert behind. This was the place we were supposed to meet him and his little lady, was it not? I am sure he will turn up at any moment now.”

Raven could not help but notice the faint tone of worry in his voice. It was then that realisation hit her.

“Robert de Lacy!”

The young man looked at her and smiled. Raven bit her lip. She had not realised that she had said it out loud.

“Well, as long as you don’t call him that in front of his father. To him, he is only Robert the bastard.” The others laughed. Raven did not dare to join in. So this was it? Robert had attacked the hunting party to get closer to Lady Alys? Had she known about this all along – when she talked to her in the morning, when she had thrown playful glances at Lord Stephen – had she known that they would all run the chance of dying that day? Anger boiled up in her, colouring her delicate cheeks, but she was wise enough not to say anything.

The dark-haired hunter came closer and handed her a strip of dried meat and his leather flask. “Here, have some of that, Rowan. You must be starving.”

She took both, indeed too hungry to worry about pride. “Thank you.” Raven had to force herself not to simply wolf down the meat, and make a fool of herself.

“My name is Beval, by the way.” He smiled down at her. “And if Robert didn’t succeed today, we might soon be your prisoners.” His eyes glittered in amusement, and again, Raven felt herself reminded of Arnaud. “After all, it is your master’s bride that Robert is trying to steal.”

Raven stared at him, forgetting even to chew. Beval laughed. “Only because we are not nobles does not mean that we are too dumb to recognise the coat of arms you are wearing, my friend.”
 
Sweet, soft, sensuous kisses. Honey lips urgently pressed against his own. Strangely serious, deep blue eyes meeting his own levelly. After her evasions and flirtations, after the dazzling rings she had run around him, after the lies and the grief and the confrontation, Alys of Crowsdale was finally offering her stunning, supple young body up to him.

Shivers of pleasure were already running across that body. Stephen broke their kiss again, the little cave loud with her heavy breaths and urgent, imploring little whimpers. With tender but firm hands he tumbled her on to her back and climbed on top of her slender form, his head kept low and close to her by the low cave wall.

He looked down at her, brilliant lust suffusing his ice-blue eyes. Stephen's hard body pressed down on her, his huge and heavy cock hard in his breeches. Her sweet breath was hot on his face. He bent down to kiss her again, hard and passionately.
 
Alys’ sorrows, her sadness and pains were all swept away by the force of his kiss. All she could do was cling to him, crushed beneath him, returning his embrace with equal urgency.

She could feel his hard cock straining against his breeches. Alys gasped, both aroused and utterly scared. Oh yes, she had heard about it, had It was the first time that she felt a man’s raw, carnal desire like this.

Breaking the kiss she looked at him. The ice in his eyes had melted and made way for a dark, almost predatory glimmer. He wanted her.

Another thought crept through her mind: if he would take her, would he not have to show mercy for her and his family? A man as honourable as Stephen de Valois would not despoil a maiden only to label her a traitor afterwards. She would be allowed to retreat to a nunnery, surely, and her father would be pardoned.

Her mother’s words echoed through her mind: If used wisely, your beauty can become a weapon more dangerous and more efficient than any sword, my dove. But like a knight skilled with a blade, you must learn how to wield it.

Outside, the storm had picked up. Alys turned her head slightly, catching sight of snowflakes kissing the rocks at the mouth of the cave, melting on contact. Soon, they would turn into a thick ice storm, lashing down from the mountains with terrible force. The violence of it hung in the air like a whispered promise.

She turned back to face Stephen, a smile curving the cupids bow of her lips. If they did not get out of the cave soon, they were sure to be trapped, maybe die there of the cold. Did he know it, too? But Alys was not afraid. One slender hand snaked around his neck, caressing the soft skin. How warm it felt to the touch…how soft. How beautiful he was even now, after everything that had happened. Her lips parted, and she arched her back, drawing him closer to her with a soft whimper.

She was still wearing her cloak, her hunting tunic, and a pair of soft leather breeches, but wanted nothing more than to feel his warm naked skin against hers. “Please…” she whispered, unsure how to turn her own desires into words. “Please…”

Slowly, as if trying to see if he would allow it, her hand travelled from his neck to his chest. Her breathing quickened. Shaking fingers slid further down, impatiently tearing at his tunic, finding his belt. “Please…” she whispered again, trembling. “Let us forget.”
 
Fear and desire raged in Alys' lovely, crystalline blue eyes, lit only by occasional shafts of light darting through the snow. It was how she had looked last night -fearful not so much of him as of herself, of the wild passion coursing through her veins, of the hot and wanton lust that made her heart race and her sex slick with sweet honey. A little and high gasp, almost a plea, came through her parted, rose-coloured lips.

Stephen lifted himself up on to his forearms, his strong back against the earthen roof of the cave, the better to study the beauty underneath him. She was looking at the falling snow through the mouth of the cave, a far-away expression on her face. Then she turned back to him and now there was no fear in her eyes -just a wistful, innocently sensuous smile -the smile a chaste maiden might wear the morning after a glorious dream of her wedding night.

Every part of Alys of Crowsdale was perfect and exquisitely well-made for the business of love -her slender body with its rich abundance of feminine curves, her wistfully lovely, porcelain face framed by rich and golden hair. It was, in a way, why he had never fully trusted her. Perfection was so rare and fragile in Stephen's world, one couldn't help but wonder at a girl so perfect, as if she might be a devil or an angel in disguise. But angel or devil or simply inconcievably lovely mortal, Stephen had to have her.

"Please..." she whispered, as though unwilling or unable to further verbalise her plea. Her voice was breathy and low, her breath warm on his face. Stephen responded almost instinctively to the raw lust in her voice. His hands went to the bodice of her tunic. He was sure and quick, sure of his power over her, but also tender as he slipped the buttons loose. He exposed her wonderful breasts, each an irresistible, creamy-smooth globe crying out for the male touch, each capped by a dainty, rosy nipple already stiff and quivering hard. Alys looked solemnly on as Stephen almost reverently touched each in turn, just placing a fingertip on each nipple, then running it in a dreamy circle around the sensitive, dusky aureole, feeling her shiver. He closed his eyes. Her skin was like silk.

Alys' fingers moved down his chest, to tear at the buckle of his belt.

"Please…" she whispered. "Let us forget."

Stephen nodded silently. There would be time later on to see what could be salvaged of this disaster, to see who had lived and who had perished (Rowan... be strong). For now, their animal urges could be denied no longer. He lent a hand with the buckle of his belt, deftly undoing it and lowering his breeches. Underneath, his cock was a huge, heavy rod, already erect and steely with arousal.
 
Alys looked up at Stephen, her face flushed. But it was not shame that drove the blood into her cheeks, and not fear. She moaned as his fingers flicked over her nipples, arched her back wantonly.

The young woman watched in wonder as he closed his eyes, his own lust so clear on his face. His lips were slightly parted as his fingers caressed her breasts with growing need and Alys felt a heady rush of strength, of power over him while at the same time being to utterly at his mercy. The weapon of beauty – Alys sensed that desire was able to cause as much pain as any blade, dangerous to both victim and perpetrator.

Her eyes closed now herself, she listened to the rustle of him ridding himself of his breeches. Alys held her breath. She had heard about the act of love so many times, had once even spied on one of the maids at her father’s castle while she had been fucking his squire. Alys vividly remembered the ecstasy on both of their faces, her own arousal while she had watched them.

Her fingers travelled to the small of his back. His skin was warm against her fingertips, and smooth. With a sigh, one of her hands descended to his firm backside while the other snaked around delicately, almost as if she was afraid of what they would find. At first, only her fingertips touched his erect manhood, and at first contact she withdrew them again, as if the heat burnt her. Her eyes met his. Never breaking eye contact, her fingers slowly ran alongside his hard cock again, exploring, before she wrapped her hand around it. A moan escaped her lips. It was huge, and twitched in her delicate grip. She wanted him, needed him to take her.

“Make me yours,” she whispered. “Please.”

She slowly pulled the hunting tunic up over her hips before undoing the string that held up her soft leather breeches. Alys did not want to just succumb to Stephen, she did not want to be passive in this. If she was going to lose her maidenhead to him, she wanted to be the one to give it up. Her breath came in soft pants as she tried to wiggle out of her garment, and hastily tried to rid herself of her smallclothes.

An icy wind whipped against patches of exposed skin, but Alys barely felt it. Trapped underneath him, she pulled the Norman lord into a kiss again, feeling her sex grow slick with arousal. Her smallclothes discarded, she wrapped one slender leg around him. “Hurry…” she begged.


***

Raven tried keep warm, biting her lip to keep her teeth from clattering. Thick snowflakes had turned into sharp ice that lashed at her skin. The other three men stamped their feet, wrapped in their hunting cloaks and cursing under their breath. How long would they wait?

The sound of an approaching rider caused them to look up, and reach for their weapons. Beval fitted an arrow into his bow, but did not take aim yet. It was clear that the rider was alone. “It’s me, Osric,” he shouted from across the shallow river. The snow was too thick to make out his features, but his shout seemed good enough for the three hunters. They nodded. “What news do you bring?”

Having led his horse across the water the man dismounted, and without even so much a glance at the body of the dead squire or at Raven, he approached Beval and his companions.

“He is not coming.”

Her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, Raven looked up at the speaker. A tall man wrapped in thick woollens, his face half-hidden by the hood of his cloak. It did not escape her that the blade of the sword he was still clutching was covered in blood.

“Robert fell to de Ghislain’s men. We need to leave now.”

Beval cursed. “Devil’s cock! What of the others?”

“Martin is dead. An archer that I paid in kind. I have not seen any of the others.” Raven tensed. Please don’t let it be Lucais or Arnaud. Please.

“This plan has long gone sour, Beval. De Lacy’s men are scouring the forest for us. We cannot stay any longer! Between de Ghislain and the snowstorm, we don’t stand a chance.” The other two nodded.

“Let’s rid ourselves of the squire and let’s get out of here,” one blond hunter said, gesturing impatiently at Raven. “He is but a liability, and we have nothing to gain from his presence.” His fingers were already at the hilt of his knife.

Raven looked from the man to Beval, who frowned at the proposal. She barely dared to breathe for fear that it might influence their decision to her detriment. “No.” The young hunter shook his head. “I promised the boy that we would not touch him. Don’t make a liar out of me.”

The third outlaw stepped up to them and said: “And what about the ransom? He’s a little noble, and worth a few coins!” His newly arrived companion silenced him with an angry shake of his head: “Fuck the ransom. If Robert is dead, what would we be bargaining for?”

“We can take him with us. He has a horse, he can ride.” Beval’s voice was calm, but the tension was palpable. “Besides, we might need an extra pair of hands if we run into trouble. Without Thomas and the rest, we are outnumbered by both de Ghislain’s men and Crowsdale.”

“That little shit cannot be trusted. He will give us away!”

“I won’t!”

Raven’s hasty objection interrupted their conversation. Four pairs of eyes were now set on her. “I promise I won’t betray you,” she added, aware that she sounded like a coward. But what did she care? Fear of being a coward had killed Cailin, and she was not ready to die for something as elusive as a reputation.

The blond man spit into the snow. “De Valois’ company is full of gutless turncloaks. No wonder that his lands are going to the dogs.” Raven did not answer. But what other betrayers was he talking about? Did they know more about the suspected traitors? She decided to find out more, in due time.

Beval helped her up. “We might encounter men of your own company, Rowan. If we do, make sure to tell them that we saved you from your attackers.” He smiled. “If you try to go behind our backs, I’ll gut you myself.”
 
Alys was living up to the lusty promises that the depths of her large, clear blue eyes had always held, underneath their demure reserve. Her slender fingers snaked downwards, tentatively touching Stephen's manhood. Her eyes widened and a soft moan came unbidden between her parted lips. She withdrew her fingers as though they had been burned and then, as if irresistibly drawn back, her hand slipped down there again, and this time her fingers encircled the thick, heavy shaft. She had to be imagining it pushing its way into her tight, virgin sheath, invading her most secret and intimate place.

“Lady Alys will soon find her defences breached. And she will gladly welcome the invader.” Rowan might never know how right he had been. Their kisses the night before had lit a fire deep inside Alys, flames that had just keep growing in intensity throughout the morning. They had survived a deadly ambush and now they needed to feel that fire of life more than anything.

“Make me yours,” Alys pleaded, her voice low and husky with desire. “Please.”

Stephen nodded quietly. "I'll make you a woman," he said, his own voice gravelly, "I'll make you my woman."

Alys was wriggling underneath him, pulling and kicking off her clothes, exposing her nubile, virginal body to him in all of its glorious perfection. This beautiful maiden had been reduced to a state of trembling, animalistic lust. She wanted to be pinned down and taken like a wanton tavern wench.

One slender leg wrapped around Stephen's back and he had his shaft in his hand. This was not how he'd pictured it. He'd imagined a soft, slow seduction, langurous play and kisses; the sweet bedroom tricks he had learned in Cairo -things that slowly and gently opened a virgin's body to pleasure and introduced her to the arts of the bedchamber. Perhaps another time there would be all of that. But not now.

He gripped Alys' buttocks with hard, unyielding hands and lifted her up as he thrust downwards into the slender, velvet slit of her sex, pushing his swollen cockhead into her. Stephen let out a gasp at how incredibly tight she was, how her sex squeezed his cock, molding itself to its thick outline. He let her take a moment to breathe, to become adjusted to the girth of the thing inside her, stretching her out, before pulling outwards and then stabbing forward, aiming to break through the seal of her maidenhead in one quick motion.
 
A whimper escaped her throat as his cockhead parted the folds of her sex. Alys could not help but tense up. How would his thick member ever be able to fit inside her?

She closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks as her head fell back in anticipation of his next thrust. “Yes…now…,” she whispered. He had promised to make her his woman. A smile flickered across her face. He would keep her safe. Her maidenhead was the price for his mercy, and she was all too glad to pay it. “Now….”

Her fingers dug into the fabric of his tunic as a sharp pain ripped through her. Alys had always known that the first act of love was not without suffering, she had heard it from her mother, from her maids. But she bit her lip, set on hiding any signs of weakness. Trying to relax, she opened her eyes again, forcing a smile. No, she decided, she would not be the simpering little girl he had met in Crowsdale anymore. It was time to show Lord Stephen de Valois what a Northern noblewoman was made of. Others had died today, and had died for her. It was time to own up to that.

His grip on her weakened, relaxed a little. Alys exhaled slowly. It was done. She did not move, but her anxious grip to his clothes loosened as her hand snaked down his back, caressing his buttocks, exerting light pressure to urge him to continue. Ignoring the already fading pain, she arched her back a little. It was a delicious feeling, sensing this thick cock pulsing deep inside her, stretching her sex.

The wind howled around the entrance of the cave and a shiver ran over her exposed skin. The lust that had raged through her core before was roused again, and all she wanted was for him to satisfy it. “More,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire. “Please…more.”

***

Elwynn stared at the trail before them, the ears of their black horse raising and falling with each step. Her body ached from the cold, and she could feel that the rider behind her was shivering, too.

Devil’s cock! How had this happened? But Elwynn was a survivor, a fighter. She refused to give in to the fear that threatened to raise up her throat, choking her.

A hand snaked around her upper body and into her cloak, roughly caressing one breast through the fabric of her tunic. It was not the first time, but she did not pay any notice to it.

At least she was now wearing clothes, a simple dress and tunic under a rough woollen cloak. Soft leather boots kept her feet warm, and she threw a thankful glance at Symon. The archer had convinced his companions that she would be of no use if she froze to death before they had even reached their destination, and even Long James, who had displayed an uncanny pleasure of the thought of strapping her naked over his horse, had yielded to Symon’s argument.

Her thoughts wandered to Raven, and she could not help but smile as she recalled the young beauty’s ruse, the devil take her. How had she been found out? And what had happened to her? Elwynn wondered if Raven had been arrested already. And what of Arnaud? She wanted nothing more than to talk to Symon, suspecting that he knew the answers to at least some of these questions, but James would not allow the bearded archer to even come near the pretty whore anymore, not after his stunt in the brothel. Elwynn sensed that Symon had risked much by warning her, and that it had cost him the trust of his fellows, and might yet cost him much more.

The hand under her cloak became bolder and icy fingers now tried to force their way into her tunic, searching for a patch of naked skin.

“Just wait until we rest, little whore,” a hoarse voice whispered into her ear. “I am sure you would enjoy a good fuck just as much as me.” A snigger. “It would warm you up.”

She leant back against his shoulder, content to feel his erection pressing against the small of her back. Maybe he would be of use later. Elwynn knew that she would need all the allies she could find. “Why not? I for one would be grateful for any bit of friction I can find.”

The rider in front of them turned around, obviously intrigued by their whispered exchange. Her eyes met the cold, unyielding stare of Long James, and his smile made her blood run cold. Elwynn knew how much he had always hated Arnaud, not least because he had made sure that Long James stayed away from his woman. But she had heard from other girls in the brothel that the tall soldier had peculiar tastes, that he loved to inflict pain. Elwynn forced herself to stare back. No, she would not be intimidated by this man. However, to her regret she found out that the rider behind her was not of the same mind. His hand slid from her breast, and he stiffened behind her. James’ smile widened.

Oh Arnaud, Elwynn thought, trying to fight back the panic. Arnaud, my love, where are you?
 
Alys of Crowsdale writhed underneath him, transfixed and impaled by the huge, rock-hard shaft that was sheathed up to the hilt in her tight, soft and warm velvet sex, her firm buttocks pressed against his hard, unyielding hands. She wriggled and contorted herself, soft and urgent pleas moaned out against his ear. In their cramped conditions, every new movement pushed her further down his shaft, brought her to new, dizzying and perhaps almost frightening heights of pleasure.

Stephen himself felt a kind of vertigo, an explosive delight in claiming this young, angelic beauty as his own. Her virginal sex was exquisitely tight around his cock, squeezing it as though possessed of a mind all its own, as though intent on sucking up his juices. He pushd forwards, and as he rammed even deeper into her, he thrust his pelvis forward, scraping and rubbing against the sensitive, swollen nub of her clitois.

His breath came out in a guttural rush all at once. Now he had claimed her maidenhead, he set about making her his own, binding Alys as closely to him as a woman could be to a man. He stabbed downwards, drew his heavy cock out almost all the way, allowing her to savour every inch, then plunged down again. He began to move faster and faster, his lean and powerful body moving like an unstoppable, relentless machine, a hard thing that had no purpose and no thought but Alys' pleasure.
 
Despite the circumstances, despite the biting cold and the discomfort of the cave, despite what they had just witnessed together, Stephen managed to draw both of their minds back to this moment.

The delicate girl writhed underneath him, her soft whimpers quickly turning into screams. Her fingers went under his tunic, digging painfully into his smooth skin. “Oh yes….yes…” Without noticing she had slipped back into the language of the North, too overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure he gave her to notice. “Don’t stop…don’t ever stop…” Her pleas trailed off into another loud moan. Arching her back against him, she urged him on, urged him to take her harder and make her indeed his woman.

His thrusts seemed to drive her towards some kind of vague pinnacle, all her nerve endings seemed alert and on fire, and an entirely unfamiliar tickle crawled over her skin. Arching her back, heightening the delicious friction between her thighs, she now moved with him, furiously fucking him, as much as was possible in the confines of the small, cold cave. “You are killing me…killing me…” Alys panted, unaware if Stephen understood the patois of her own people. She would not have cared, even if she had been in a state to notice this slip of her tongue. Her black lashes fluttered nervously against her creamy skin and her soft lips parted to form a perfect little o, as he was driving his hard cock into her, relentlessly pushing her towards a mind-shattering climax. Every thrust sent another shiver through her, each more violent than the last, reducing her to a state of primal, animalistic need.

Soon…now…now!

Bucking underneath him Alys tumbled over the edge and exploded into orgasm, screaming out her climax as snowflakes danced into the cave, melting on her naked skin. “My love…yes…yes!” Her eyes flew open, and a few tears rolled down her cheeks. In disbelief, trembling, her gaze found that of the young Norman lord. Lord Stephen…she closed her eyes again.

Had he felt this? What happened to her? Never had she come close to a sensation as intense as this. Never. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a roused little bird, she was panting as if she just climbed a high mountain. But had she not done just exactly that? Only now did she realise that her fingernails must have dug deep into his back, leaving deep red marks on his skin.

Her head fell back and her ruby red lips curled into a faint smile. “Stephen…” she purred, as if tasting his name for the first time.
 
Alys had broken into the northern patois in the height of her ecstasy. Stephen only half-understood the dialect, from conversations with Rowan, and he'd heard no such words from his squire. But he did not need to know their meaning to understand Alys. Her fevered, imploring tone, the rising pitch of her voice and her bucking hips said it all.

Stephen continued to hammer up and down on the aristocratic young beauty, playing on the pleasure centres of her delicate, finely-made young body like a minstrel on a harp. In and out, in and out, in and out, until his pumping warrior's body was a blur of speed. They were moving in unison now, moving as if synchronised together to a breathless, explosive climax. He no longer had thought, only feeling.

Then she climaxed with a high, piercing cry, her fingernails digging deep into his back and in the same moment he came, shooting blast after powerful blast of hot seed into her.

Then they lay still. Alys seemed to have melted under the expert fucking she had recieved. A dreamy smile graced her perfect, soft lips, like a girl who had just learned the truth of all her wildest, most romantic daydreams. She purred his name contentedly, as though tasting it on his lips.

Stephen smiled back at her, an unusual expression on the stern, hard planes of his face. He wanted to protect her and serve her. One hand drew back the golden hair away from her lovely face. Still smooth, still silky soft and untangled, despite the hunt, the chase, the hiding, and the vigorous loveplay. How did she do it? Even now, flushed with passion, eyes sparkling and heart thumping, she looked like a fairy queen from some golden land beyond the horizon.

If he took her to the king's court, men would be falling at her feet to serve her. To go down south, where he had promised Rowan they would go...

That thought drew the delicious interlude to a close. The smile slowly vanished from Stephen's face, although his eyes did not become frosty as before. They would always be tender when he looked on Alys.

"We need to go... my lady. My Alys."

There was a wealth of warmth and husky passion in his voice as he spoke her name.
 
Alys nodded. The bliss she had experienced gave way to a hint of fear as she watched his smile melt from his lovely face. What was he thinking about that wiped the warmth off his lips? “Yes, my lord”, she whispered, shivering from the icy cold sweeping through the cave. It felt like she only noticed it now.

But while he was not smiling anymore, his eyes shone with affection for the woman he was still holding in his arms. Alys took heart, and attempted a smile of her own. “You have made me yours today, my Lord Stephen.” She lowered her gaze and paused before addressing him again. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for what I have done, and for what others might have done in my name. I did not want any of it.”

Did she glimpse a smile? A sign that he understood?

Maybe her mother had been right after all. Beauty and seduction were powerful weapons that she would need to hone and sharpen if she wanted to survive in this world. Had he not called her his Alys? If she was his, would he not do everything in his power to protect her and hers from any harm? Maybe not all was lost.

She forced herself not to think of Robert. He was dead. Alys promised herself that she would not give in to the grief that threatened to immediately swallow her. No. She was not the little girl from Crowsdale anymore. Lord Stephen had just made her a woman, and the things she had lived through today had turned her into her a woman of the North. And in the North, the murder of someone cherished and loved demanded revenge.

Alys pulled Stephen into a soft, fleeting kiss before whispering: “We really should be on our way. The way to Crowsdale will become more dangerous with the falling snow and the storm.”
 
There was an alchemy to the act of love. Before, Alys of Crowsdale had been a girl -a beautiful girl with a seductive light in her eyes but underneath, still maidenly. The gorgeous, purring creature underneath him was a woman. She had experienced the mystery and given a good account of herself, proven herself worthy of the perfect body and beauty that had been given to her. There was a new sparkle in her blue eyes, a new tilt to her chin and a secret little smile on her full lips. Stephen had lit a fire in her today and it would only burn higher as her body continued to ripen.

He nodded. The truth was, he was not eager to return to Crowsdale Castle, to hear the lists of the dead and the missing, to face the possibility that his squire was among this day's casualties. But he could not help Rowan or anyone else hiding in this cave. He made no reply to Alys' plea for forgiveness, but he did smile. Poor Alys. If he were sure that his men had not killed Rowan, Stephen might even have found it in his heart to forgiven Robert. What would a man not do for a beauty like this?

He scrambled out of the cave first. De Lacy's men might still be waiting outside in silence. But, scanning the trees through the falling snow, he saw nothing and softly called for Alys to join him. Then began the long, hard walk back to the castle.

Please be alive, Rowan.



***

The fire crackled, doing little to warm the stark, undressed stone of the study. Sputtering in the fitful Kentish rain falling down the chimney, the flames put the bishop in mind of the Cathars. Such fires he’d lit in Languedoc! Men and women bound to the stake, their feet resting on piles of their proscribed books, protesting or praying or grimly silent, blazing and sizzling in the cleansing fire, reducing their heresy like their bodies to ashes.

Not quite all their heresy. Bishop Ambrose had kept a selection of their texts for his own private collection. His library of heretical texts was vast, probably the largest collection of its kind in all Christendom. There were heretical gospels –the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Philip, the Gospel of Peter, even the notorious Gospel of Esther. There were the writings of Marcion and Valentinus, Basilides and Mani, Arius and Nestorius. There was no single theme, beyond the heresy of all the authors. There were libertine Gnostic texts that advocated total anomie and there were stern Montanist tracts that argued for rigidly extreme asceticism.

Those who were aware of Ambrose’s library presumed that he used it to carry out his duties as a guardian of the faith, to understand heretical thinking the better to combat it. And that was indeed how it had begun. But he had, over the years, become aware of a giddy, fearful excitement in reading these texts, a guilty thrill. Partly like that of a little boy testing himself by playing near the edge of a high cliff, partly like that of a little boy peeking through a knothole at young women undressing. So easy to let yourself be persuaded by these heretics. So easy to become one of them in your heart, just for a moment. Heresy was a seductress, a temptress.

Ambrose was troubled by a thorn in the flesh, by carnal desires. Reading heresy eased those desires at the same time as it titillated them, ultimately driving them to greater heights. So did punishing heretics, most especially the long game beforehand of gradually bringing them to the point of condemning themselves by their own mouth. Ambrose was an expert at that game. The more intelligent the heretic, the better. There was no sport in tripping up unread peasants.

The message from the north arrived while he was reading Origen. He had not wanted to interrupting his reading of one of the most seductive of all heretics, his walk through that lush, fertile garden of error that was On First Principles. The young acolyte who had come down from the pigeon cote waited awkwardly, not daring to disturb his master.

Finally, Ambrose looked up. He was a tall, gaunt and bony man, with the blazing brown eyes of a fanatic or a madman. He motioned. The acolyte thrust the message into his hand and then virtually ran from the room. He was terrified of the bishop. Everyone was. It was said that he could smell even the faintest taint of heresy, of even a momentary heretical thought.

The letter was from a northern nobleman, William de Lacy. He was accusing a neighbouring lord of heresy, witchcraft, and ‘vile and unnatural practises’ that beggared belief and made a mockery of all true Christian practise. He had proof, de Lacy wrote. He begged his Grace to come north and judge for himself.

It was the name of the accused that drew Ambrose’s attention. Stephen de Valois. His pulse beat a little quicker. De Valois. The one man at court who’d never feared Ambrose, who’d dared to openly speak against him, even going so far as to offer protection to the heretics that Ambrose pursued. De Valois. A man whose thoughts more than bordered on heresy, who didn’t even seem to feel the need to disguise them, who seemed to revel in them. Above all, a learned, confident and clever man, a man who would afford Ambrose a long, satisfying hunt. Ambrose had never been able to launch an attack on de Valois before –as cousin to the king he was too well-defended. But it sounded as though de Lacy could be offering him a weapon that would pierce even de Valois’ guard.

Bishop Ambrose breathed a prayer of thanks. Finally, God had delivered his enemy to him. He called for the acolyte.

“Make arrangements for travel immediately. We ride north.”
 
“Alys!”

Her mother’s outcry betrayed her pent-up anxiety that she would never see her only daughter again. Almost flying down the steps of the castle she came running towards her and pulled her into a firm embrace. “My little dove, my Alys! To have you back…!” She put her hands on Alys’ cheeks and looked at her. “I feared you were dead, oh thank God…your brother Gael…” Then she looked at Lord Stephen and bowed distractedly. “My lord…”

They had finally reached the castle. Alys’ legs were aching from the cold and the long, arduous march through the snowstorm, and her teeth were clattering despite the warm furs and Stephen’s arm around her shoulders. He had barely spoken on the way back, and she had been too tired and too scared to attempt a conversation. Several times they had gotten lost on the way, and several times Alys had thought that they would never find their way back out of the forest. But here they were now, safe, back in Crowsdale. She was not sure if she was happy about it, or maybe she was too exhausted to care.

She looked around. There were several men, both of her house and Lord Stephen’s, who had sustained injuries, some serious. Heads turned towards them, one man shouted something in French, directed as his lord. His face was splattered with blood. Alys felt the guilt rise in her throat like liquid iron.

And then there were the corpses, laid out in a row in the snow. Alys did not dare to look at them, too afraid that she would recognize their faces. What had her mother meant, when she spoke about Gael? No, surely, she had not meant this. A priest was standing above them, his fingers blue with cold as he clutched his prayer book.

Robert had done this? He had wanted this? A young man, held up by two grooms staggered past, his tunic drenched in blood, one of his arms dangling uselessly at his side. He left a trail of crimson drops in the snow and moaned softly. No, Robert could not have ordered such butchery.

“My daughter Alys!” Her father’s voice tore her form her thoughts. He joined them in the middle of the castle yard, looking utterly helpless.

“My lord de Valois…my liege…” Lord Marnoch was struggling for words. The situation was delicate. His not joining the hunt could now be seen as odd, as suspicious even. “I am overjoyed to see you amongst us, safe and sound.” He cleared his throat. “And that you saved my daughter.” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “Please take my word that I will do everything in my power to catch those responsible for this heinous attack.”

There was a brief silence. Now, with the storm showing no sign of relenting it would be madness to venture back into the forest, and by the time the skies would have cleared, it would likely be too late to pursue either Robert’s or de Lacy’s men. Lord Marnoch frowned. “We have all sustained sad losses today.” Another pause. Alys did not dare to look at either her father or Stephen. “My squire has not returned. He was so young still…I don’t dare to hope that he…”

Her uncle, Lord Thomas, joined them. His expression was very different from that of his brother, almost defiant as he briefly bowed to Lord Stephen. Alys remembered the conversation she had overheard the previous evening, how he had warned Lord Marnoch of the foes his son-in-law would bring into his marriage. “Outlaws.” He spat out the word in disgust. There was no need for him to voice the rest of his thoughts, and his blazing eyes left little room for guessing. You have brought the outlaws with you, de Valois, these were your enemies, not ours. You have brought death to our hearths. For him, the alliance between his house and that of Stephen de Valois was a failure before it had come to fruition.

Alys’ father put a calming hand on his brother’s arm, but his eyes rested on Lord Stephen. “My lord, I pray you please tell us what happened out there.”
 
Upon leaving Alys with her mother, Stephen had immediately made his way to the row of corpses, lying in the snow. He scanned the faces. Most of them unfamiliar -Marnoch's men, or those of his guests. A couple he recognised with grim regret. There lay Sir Giles of Ely, one of his most reliable and trustworthy men. A loss he could ill-afford at the best of times, and now... but he was reluctant to admit to a tiny, treacherous stab of relief. No Rowan. No slender, darkhaired form lying motionless in the snow. But that might just mean his body had never been recovered.

"Has anyone see Rowan?"

There were shrugs, but one man stepped forward. A wiry, tough young Norman archer -Stephen thought to recognise him. Arnaud, a good man and, he thought, close to Rowan.

"My lord," said Arnaud. "I don't believe you will see Rowan again."

He seemed to choke on the name. Was there bad blood between these two? Lucais had mentioned some trivial trouble over a whore. Stephen fixed the archer with a stern, penetrating stare.

"Why is that?"

Even Arnaud, a hard man, seemed abashed by the force of Stephen's stare.

"Well... he had to go elsewhere, my lord. It was a matter of honour."

"After I had made him a squire? His duty and his honour and even his own interest would have kept him here. I do not believe he would have left his lord. He is an honourable man."

"He...," Arnaud hesitated. "Is an honourable man, in his way, my lord. He wanted to explain everything to you, before he left, but perhaps under the circumstances, that wasn't possible."

Stephen stared at him for a long time. Arnaud looked down at the ground. Stephen became aware of how exhausted the man must be, after the day's hard riding and hard fighting. There was a mystery here, and he had no intention of laying it to rest, but there would be time to pursue it, and find out where Rowan had gone, later. His first suspicion, that Arnaud had taken the opportunity to do Rowan some harm in revenge for his stolen woman, was allayed. He knew murderers, even those who disguised themselves in golden crowns or velvet mitres, and Arnaud was none such.

"Get yourself something to drink," he said instead, slapping Arnaud on the shoulder and moving past him.

***

Even in his cold and exhaustion, even with the pain of a nick to his shoulder and the gnawing worry of what the next day would bring, Arnaud felt a glow of pleasure at his lord's touch. Stephen de Valois was a cold man, an imperious man, but he had a way of inspiring loyalty. Arnaud watched as he made his way across the courtyard, stopping to exchange a few words with each man that he passed.

A small thing, really. Not a part of the legend of the peerless warrior Stephen de Valois, or the uncanny warlock Stephen de Valois. But everywhere he went, men straightened themselves, smiled, thrust out their chests in pride. Men wanted to win Lord de Valois' praise. Not just because he was a lord or a general but because he was Stephen de Valois.

And women? He thought of the way Raven's eyes had shone when she talked of him, of the Lady Alys' flushed, beautiful face and the way her gaze had lingered on Lord Stephen after he left her side.

But it was just as well that he inspired the loyalty he did, Arnaud reflected bleakly. He was going to need all of it in the days to come.



***


Stephen was silent as Lord Marnoch expressed his contrition. He said nothing as Lord Thomas all but berated him, finally demanding an answer of him. Then he drew himself up.

"What happened? We were attacked by the followers of Lord William de Lacy and his son Robert," he said. Both Marnoch and his brother blinked. Bluntness of this sort was unexpected, even in the North. The polite fiction of bandits had been maintained for so long. But Stephen was not done.

"A man who broke bread with me, who swore fealty to me, shows his contempt for the laws of man and God by attacking me, by attempting to carry off your daughter. Once I hoped to build, in these lands. I hoped for a peace that would profit us all, but that was not to be."

Stephen's voice was low and soft, but it was as harsh on the ears as glaciers grating on rocks. All the great hall was hushed now, and people turned their heads to listen.

"William de Lacy is guilty of treason, outlawry and murder and I will bring him to justice."
 
As Stephen spoke, Alys, who had been standing next to her mother in the entrance of the great hall, desperately wished to shrink from everyone’s gaze, to disappear into the shadows of the door, to be swallowed up by the stone ground altogether. Their liege lord’s words had made it clear to everyone present that she had been the reason for the attack, the mindless slaughter, and the silent corpses laid out in the snow outside.

Would he proceed to reveal to everyone the whole truth of what had happened in the forest? That Robert’s betrayal towards his betters had also been her own? Alys barely dared to breathe. It appeared that he would spare her that shame, for now, but she also knew that she would have to face him and his questions, his accusations, despite all of what they had shared.

At the mention of de Lacy’s son, Lady Magaidh and Lord Thomas, her husband’s brother, exchanged a glance. Alys tried not to look at her, but her mother pulled her roughly to the side by her wrist. “The bastard? He is responsible for this?” Her mother’s voice was a sharp whisper in her ear, the anger only barely contained, for now. She could not bear to even say his name.

“You should be grateful that he was there. Robert saved me from a sad fate. From his father’s men.” The words had slipped out almost against her will. But it was too late now to take them back. Thankfully the general commotion that had broken out following de Valois’ account concealed their conversation from curious ears. Lady Magaidh turned towards her daughter, her expression cold and hard. “If Gael will die of wounds he has taken today, may the good Lord help him, I swear that I will send you away from here, and forget that you were ever my child.”

Alys felt that her eyes filled with tears. She did not know how bad her brother had been hurt. “Mother…” Lady Magaidh shook her head. “Be quiet. Maybe Lord Stephen will still find in in his heart to accept you as his wife. God knows that you do not deserve a man like him.”

Alys tried to pull her wrist from her mother’s grasp, and fatigue and sadness gave way to mounting anger. But Lady Magaidh did not relent. “You are a treacherous, ungrateful girl, spoilt for much too long. Did you ever consider what your own selfish desires might mean for your family and your house? We are lucky not to be dragged before the king’s tribunal!” Her mother let go of her hand as if in disgust. “You can count yourself lucky that God has granted you such beauty. It will be the only thing to convince Stephen de Valois that you are still a prize worth taking.”

Alys blinked back her angry tears. “Maybe he already has”, she hissed, and with that, fled up the stairs and from her mother’s sight.

***
Raven tried to keep her teeth from clattering, but the cold crawled up her legs, her arms, licking her skin with thousand ice tongues. She had no sense of time, and no idea of how long they had ridden like this. The soft banter amongst her captors had gradually died down and now they were quiet, ducking against the thickening snow, tired and aching, and, in Raven’s case, utterly scared.

At least they had been lucky enough not to run into men from Crowsdale, or worse still, the hunters bearing William de Lacy’s colours. In her head she had rehearsed, over and over, what she would have said or done if they had crossed paths with Lucais, or Arnaud, or, though she barely dared to even contemplate the thought, Lord Stephen de Valois. But the storm seemed to have swallowed up all other life in the forest, all other sounds.

Beval turned in the saddle, smiling under his hood. “Tired?”

Raven nodded, but said nothing.

“When we reach the fork we will part ways. You can be back in Crowsdale by nightfall.” His grin widened. “That is if the wolves don’t get to you first.”

She managed a faint smile in return, to humour him. How could she ever have explained that she had no intention to go back to Crowsdale?

Beval lead his horse next to hers.

“And if you ever want to seek us out to revenge your unlucky friend, come to Foxborough.” The hunter’s face was inscrutable as he continued: “Or if you should decide that you are not really made to be a squire, and live around the noble folk.”

She did not reply.

“But chances are that things will get uglier around here. Tell your lord and master to enjoy his bride while he still can. Chances are that their honeymoon will be sweet, but very brief.”

And without waiting for her answer, he put his heels to his horse’s flanks, leaving Raven to her own thoughts again.
 
It was night by the time the last straggling remains of the hunting party returned to the castle, carrying their injured and their dead, in ragged groups or one by one, huddled against the cold.

Most had retired to seek cups of hot wine and warm beds. Those that remained in the courtyard did so because they had to, like Brother William the chirurgeon. Brother William worked conscientiously, setting broken arms and legs and applying poultices to open wounds, but he yawned and shivered constantly, and took any opportunity he could to warm himself at the great braziers Marnoch's men had lit.

Lord Stephen alone worked without any sign of weariness or the cold eroding his strength. He seemed to be everywhere at once -lifting an exhausted woman down from the saddle; holding a thrashing, heavy-set man-at-arms down while Brother William drew an arrowhead from his gut; helping to carry heavy barrels of clean water up from the castle's reservoir. Everywhere the tall, lean figure appeared, men moved with new courage and resolution.

Finally, after a headcount, all of the hunting party save Rowan had been accounted for, quick or dead. Stephen gave a grateful Brother William permission to retire to his quarters. But still he remained outside, climbing up the icy, slippery steps to the battlements where he and Alys had kissed, a day and a hundred years ago.

Although none of it showed on his grave, finely chiselled face, he was bone-tired, an exhaustion that went right to the core of him. He had been glad of the work. It distracted from his fears and doubts -fears for the future, doubts over what Rowan could mean by disappearing now of all times, when he had never needed him more.

When William de Lacy was hanging from the gallows he had built for himself today, then Stephen would have time to mourn his old friend Giles of Ely, time to find Rowan and seek answers...

And with all of these grim thoughts, his heart still pounded with another memory. Alys' angelic face, flushed and rosy with lust, her soft lips parting for ecstatic screams and moans and hushed endearments and pleas for more in her own language. The almost incredulous look she had given him under heavy lids afterwards, as though she could not believe that her body could have experienced so much pleasure. She had been full of such bright, golden fires that the snows could have melted from her ecstasy. It was as though her only thought had been to give and recieve pleasure.

Stephen found himself moving back into the castle's halls. But instead of returning to his own tower chamber, silent and empty without Rowan, he was slipping quietly through the passages to Alys' chamber.
 
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Gael’s eyes were closed, and his skin burnt with fever. He was only two years older than herself, but had already fought and won many battles. Alys felt the sharp sting of guilt as she applied another poultice of crushed yarrow on his stomach. The wound looked bad, and he had lost a lot of blood. The chirurgeon had said that he was not sure how much damage had been done, and that they should pray for Gael’s life. “Please don’t go”, she whispered. “Please don’t die.” They would need more angelica to fight the fever.

The chapel had been turned into a makeshift hospital for the critically injured. Like many women of her standing, Alys was learned in herbal medicine, and her knowledge was very welcome. Her mother was walking from man to man with the castle’s physician, noting which roots and leaves were still needed. She took note of her daughter tending to Gael, but did not say a word. When their eyes met, Alys blushed deeply and had to look away. After her angry confession earlier, Lady Magaidh had not addressed her again.

Other men were standing around, watching over their wounded friends, some were whispering to each other, their conversations interrupted every now and then by the loud screams of pain and the moans of their companions. It was frightening how still Gael lay.

“So you are saying de Lacy’s bastard son had turned against him?”

Alys froze, suddenly very alert.

“All I am saying is that the bastard was slung over that horse like a bloodied piece of hunted game, his hands and feet bound. Looked like a prisoner to me.”

Her hands started to tremble as she strained to overhear more of the conversation between Sir John of Olwayn, one of her father’s trusted lieutenants, and Artair, her oldest brother. They had saved Gael from being slaughtered at the hands of de Lacy’s men after he had been separated from the rest of the hunting party during the snow storm. However, they had not been able to save him from taking a treacherous arrow to the abdomen.

“So he was alive?”

Sir John chuckled coolly. “Unless these cowards were afraid of the boy’s ghost, I would say he was. Question is for how long. In any case – if his father doesn’t hang him by his guts, we can be sure that Lord Stephen will.”

Artair looked up at his sister who seemed to be concentrating on meticulously applying a linen bandage to his brother’s wound. “I wish they would leave that little shit to me”, he growled. “I have a few ideas of my own on what to do with his guts.”

***

Brae wiped her forehead as she emptied another bucket of hot water into the wooden bathtub. Curls of fragrant steam rose from the surface and filled the candle-lit chamber with the scent of rose petals. Her poor mistress would need a warm bath after what she had been through.

When she finally arrived, Lady Alys looked exhausted. Weary. Her tunic was bloodied. The sadness in her eyes made her look even more like a fragile, delicate fay. When she saw the steaming tub, Alys smiled. “Thank you, Brae. You have no idea how much I longed for this.” The young girl smiled, and nodded.

With a few quick motions, Brae loosened the strings of Alys’ hunting tunic and trousers, and then helped her out of her clothes. The soft linen undergarments were torn and with a frown, the handmaiden noticed a couple of dark bruises. Alys flinched when Brae softly touched the damaged skin. “Forgive me, my lady…” Her voice trailed off. “But you are hurt.”

Alys looked over her shoulder, straining her neck to see what the girl was talking about. “I fell off my horse. It’s nothing.” Then she thought of Stephen, of the cave, of their haste, and their breathless lovemaking on the unyielding rock. It all seemed so far removed already. Since his announcement in the great hall Alys had neither seen nor talked to him, she had not dared to. Working in the chapel had proved a welcome distraction – at least until she had learned that Robert was still alive.

She sank into the tub with a sigh. Only now did she realise how tired she was, and how cold she had been. She closed her eyes. Robert was alive. Alys forced herself not to think of the threatening words they had inadvertently been party to in the cave. She remembered what Stephen had said: “If he is not dead, he would soon wish it were so.”

Stephen. Had she acted rashly? Did he despise her? Did he desire her still? Would he ever be able to forgive her at all? But none of these questions made it out of her mouth.

For a while, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. Brae watched her mistress, relieved that she had indeed survived this most unlucky day. But she had the uneasy, frightening certainty that it might just be the beginning of something far darker, of many more sinister days yet to come.
 
Stephen could hear the crackle of the fire in the room beyond, Alys' bedchamber. He could smell the fragrant hint of rose-petals -sweet, fragile things crushed to paste to scent water, much as sweet, fragile Alys might yet be crushed in the coming conflict. That thought almost made him turn back, and he hesitated.

They could just talk. Though talk was not what he wanted from Alys' slender golden body, from those ripely kissable lips. But they could just talk. They needed to talk.

The anteroom was still and cold. No doubt Alys' maid slept in the cot by the fire. Stephen shook his head. He wanted no one else to know of his visit to Alys, for the sake of her maiden's reputation, but he would have to hope that her handmaiden was in her confidence.

He moved across the room and rapped on the door of Alys' bedchamber.
 
It was Alys who finally broke the silence.

“Robert came for me today.” Brae hesitated, unsure of what to say. Surely her mistress did not condone the violence he had unleashed on Crowsdale and their noble guests? Surely she realised that de Lacy’s bastard had been a fool to think he could simply ride off with the daughter of a powerful Northern lord as if she was a simple peasant girl? “I know, my lady”, she said softly.

Alys turned her head slightly, a sad smile on her lips. “I know what everyone is saying, Brae. But you must know that he saved both me and Lord Stephen.” It was as if the truth of her words just started to dawn on her. De Lacy’s men had been waiting in the forest, the plan had been his father’s, but Robert had spoiled it. He had prevented her father from much greater grief than he would ever know. “He sacrificed himself to save me and his rival. And his father will kill him for it.” A wild, silent anger rose in her throat like poison. She knew that nobody would want to listen to her, nobody would believe her. Her family was looking for revenge against the man that had really saved her and, in the end, her father’s lands. It was not right.

“Brae…do you think it is wrong to love one man, but to desire another?” Brae rinsed Alys’ hair, but did not speak up right away. She sensed that something else had happened in the forest, something her mistress did not wish to speak about. “And is such desire a sin, even if it might prevent greater despair?”

The young maid felt sorry for her mistress, but could not help a smile. She thought to finally understand her distress. “My lady…desire for a future husband is never a sin.”

Alys frowned. Future…husband? After her betrayal she had not contemplated the wedding again.

What did she have to bargain with? Raising one slender arm from the water, she contemplated drops of water rolling down alabaster-white skin. Would her beauty be enough? When Lord Stephen had taken her in that cave, they had acted on instinct, on pent-up emotions, maybe even despair. Alys suspected that Stephen rarely gave in to weakness, and that he was not likely to do so again.

But the only way to save Robert was de Lacy’s defeat, and for that the alliance that Stephen had come to Crowsdale for must not waver. Alys knew that her uncle was not in favour of an open confrontation with de Lacy and his powerful allies. Stephen de Valois might be the king’s cousin and a valiant fighter, undefeated in battle, but William de Lacy was much richer and indeed well-connected. If he so wished, he could buy himself an army and wreak havoc on the northern provinces until what was left of it would submit to his rule and that of his cronies. Alys suspected that de Lacy was at his most dangerous when he felt cornered, and that he would not hesitate to destroy everything he had hoped to gain for himself before surrendering it to his enemies. And quite a few of the Northern lords would look as much to Lord Thomas as they would to her father when it came to making the decision which side to align themselves with.

Resting her head on her knees, she pondered her options.

A soft knock on the door roused her from her thoughts. Alys sighed, suspecting that her lady mother had come to have words.

“Who is it?” Brae opened the door a little, peeking through the gap to inquire about the nightly intruder. The answer made her drop into a hurried curtsy and a hoarse stammer: “My lord de Valois…why…the Lady Aly is not…she is…indisposed and cannot…”

Alys froze. He had come!

Her heart suddenly racing she hurried out of the tub, and pulled the laid-out nightgown, a long-sleeved thin linen dress, over her head. With her skin still wet it clung to her slender form in places it should not have, and Alys hastily wrapped herself in a woollen scarf, aiming to cover as much as she could. Brae threw a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder, indicating that her mistress’ attire was not suitable for receiving a male visitor. But Alys also knew that she could trust her handmaid, and that she would never betray her confidence.

“It is fine, Brae”, she said. “Please admit him in.” She stood in the middle of her chamber, her golden tresses still dripping onto the floor, the light of many candles dancing in her hair and on her delicate hands that kept the scarf drawn around her body.

“My lord de Valois”, she whispered with a faint bow of her head. “I did not expect to see you.” And finally, her eyes lifted to his gaze: “Stephen.”

***

Exhausted, Raven crawled beneath the jutting edge of a large rock that would provide at least marginal shelter for the night. Beval and his companions were long gone, and true to their word they had let her go.

It was no use riding at night as long as the storm was still raging. It simply was too dangerous. Shivering violently she pulled her cloak around herself and curled up as tightly as she could underneath the rock. Her mare whickered nervously, but did not move. Raven prayed that she would not abandon her in the mountains, and that wolves and bears would also be hiding from the icy wind. Her teeth were clattering in the dark.

At first light she would continue her way back home. The sooner she reached Father Aldred, the better. All Raven now desperately wanted was somebody to confide in. A friend.

But all she could think about was Lord Stephen. Was he safe? Was he back in Crowsdale? She pictured him, his quiet smile, his blue eyes that so often had rested kindly on her. Raven tried to cling to her memories of him, as though this vague presence was able to inspire the same courage and strength in her that he always had. Did he miss her yet? She mouthed a silent prayer for the Lord to keep him in good health, before she finally sank into restless, lonely sleep.
 
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