Montague - The Warlord Part 1

THE WARLORD.

By Elizabeth Elliott.

Prologue.

The Holy Lands, 1278.

Very little remained of the ancient city. The work of countless generations was reduced to rubble in a battle that lasted little more than three days. Skeletons of walls and buildings that had stood since the time of Christ rose in a shadow of their former glory, silhouetted against the dawn of a desert sky. Tendrils of smoke snaked upward from the smoldering ashes to join the hazy cloak that shrouded the city.

A lone knight rode through what remained of an archway, over smashed gates that had barred the enemy for a thousand years. Scattered among the tumbled stones and burnt timbers were the people who once lived there, their bodies a mute testimony to the battle that had raged through the city the day before.

With the sights and sounds of battle still fresh in memory, the knight didn't appear disturbed by the carnage that surrounded him. His warhorse picked a careful path through the rubble, the animal alert to his footing even though his head hung low with exhaustion.

Kenric of Montague's dark face remained expressionless, the knight as unmoved by these deaths as the countless others he'd witnessed in the three years he'd been on Crusade in the Holy Lands. The people of Al' Abar had refused to surrender. Their city had been besieged until nothing remained of their defenses and no single structure stood whole that would provide any shelter. They had died. Such events had been repeated too many times over the years for Kenric to feel anything more than the bone-deep fatigue that followed a long battle.

Kenric's armor and that of his horse were covered with ashes, crusty with sweat, the leather stiff with dried blood. Another tunic ruined, he thought idly, gazing down at the once white garment with the scarlet cross emblazoned on his chest. Only the st.i.tches that outlined the cross distinguished the holy emblem from the rest of the mutilated fabric. Luckily, this time none of the blood was his own. With an annoyed sigh, he nudged his horse forward again when the animal ambled to a weary halt.

He saw the shield first, three golden lions on a fiery red field. It lay just outside the ruins of what might have been the home of a prosperous merchant. The half-naked body of a woman lay next to the shield. The soldier Kenric was looking for lay facedown just a pace from the woman, with the body of a young Arab boy sprawled half on top of the soldier.

Kenric considered the scene with the dispa.s.sionate logic of one who can no longer be shocked by the atrocities of war. The boy was probably the woman's son or brother. He'd likely saved her from the first knight, but others had finished what the first had begun.

Kenric dismounted and nudged the knight's body with the tip of his boot, rolling the corpse onto its back. He reached inside the soldier's hauberk and removed a gold necklace with an efficient jerk. Next he took a ring from the dead man's hand and placed both items safely inside his hauberk before he remounted and turned the horse toward the edge of the city.

Normally Kenric wouldn't bother with such trinkets, but King Edward would be displeased if his nephew's signet ring or cross fell into the hands of infidels. The personal effects would also prove to the king that his nephew died in battle, rather than meeting an inglorious death from one of the many tortures inflicted on Christians by their Arab captors. He knew the bards would compose sorrowful ballads for the young man, full of brave deeds and glory, with no mention that he'd died attempting rape. Kenric doubted his own ballads would be so generous if he fell in battle. No, there were ballads aplenty about Kenric of Montague, and none could be called flattering.

A small group of knights had gathered near the outskirts of the city and one pointed toward Kenric as he emerged from the ruins. The men turned as a whole to watch the approach of their leader, each trying to guess Kenric's mood as he rode from the city. The king was sure to be upset by his favorite nephew's death, but Kenric had shown no more concern over this death than he would for a common footsoldier's. Some wondered what it would take for any emotion to cross the warlord's face.

A young squire hurried forward to hold Kenric's horse as he dismounted, and a knight named Roger Fitz Alan stepped away from the group to greet his leader. A young priest also hurried toward Kenric, the priest and Fitz Alan noticing each other at the same moment. Both men hastened their steps as they tried to be the first to reach the warrior.

"Sir Kenric," the priest called out, waving a pudgy hand in the air. "A moment of your time."

Kenric ignored the priest and tossed the horse's reins to his squire. "Make sure he has plenty of water, Evard.

And a good brushing. Be quick about his care. We leave within the hour."

"Aye, milord," the squire murmured, leading the horse away.

"He found out about the de Gravelle brothers," Fitz Alan said, jerking his head toward the priest.

Kenric acknowledged the warning with a slight nod. "Send Simon to make sure the supply carts are loaded and ready to move. The scouts returned at daybreak with word that Rashid's army is less than two days' march from here. The men are too worn to face that devil right now. With luck, we will encounter little more than skirmishes before we reach the sea."

Fitz Alan bowed slightly, then turned away to find Simon and carry out Kenric's order.

"Sir Kenric," the priest called again, coming to a halt near Kenric's elbow. His face was flushed by the early morning heat, sweat collecting already in the fleshy folds of his pale neck. Father Vachel drew himself up to his full height of five and a half feet, still looking small and insignificant next to the towering figure of the warlord. "You cannot mean to punish the de Gravelles as I have heard, Sir Kenric. No matter their crime, no Christian deserves such a death."

"Begone, priest." Kenric dismissed Father Vachel with a casual wave of his hand, as if to brush the priest away. He strode purposefully toward the group of knights, leaving the priest behind. The knights were gathered around two men who lay side by side in the sand, stripped naked and staked out spread-eagle. Kenric came to a halt at the feet of the staked men, looking slowly from one man to the other. The expressions on the bound men's faces reflected their fear. Kenric crossed his arms across his broad chest and p.r.o.nounced their judgment.

"Ranulf and Dominic de Gravelle, 'tis known you conspired to murder me, but instead your poisoned wine killed four of my men. For that you will die."

Kenric gave the de Gravelle brothers a moment to come to terms with their fate. He looked toward the horizon at the rapidly rising sun then his gaze swept across the ruins of the city. "Aye, you will die by the heat of the sun, or at the hands of infidels who will be drawn from across the desert by the smoke that still rises from Al' Abar."

Ranulf de Gravelle clenched his jaw bravely, but Dominic broke down and began to sob, his pleas for mercy nearly incomprehensible. Kenric slowly drew his sword, his dark eyes devoid of emotion. "Or you can die a more honorable death than the one you intended for me."

Dominic continued to wail but Ranulf's eyes narrowed, considering his leader.

"You want to know who hired us," Ranulf stated flatly. He levered his shoulders up, struggling against his bonds to look at his brother's tear-streaked face. After a brief glance his head fell back to the sand in defeat. A quick death was the only mercy they could expect. Death from a man who should be dead. Ranulf cursed softly, refusing to reveal the name of the man behind their plot.

"We were approached at court," Dominic blurted out. "We made it known that we were mercenaries and our swords came with a price. My brother and I had no intention of becoming a.s.sa.s.sins, b-but the reward for your death was too tempting, milord. Gold, a fine keep, and rich lands. Ranulf was also promised the dowry that comes with your sister's hand in marriage."

"My father," Kenric stated quietly, his face expressionless. He'd known without being told that the old warlord was behind this scheme. Yet he'd wanted to be sure.

Dominic nodded uncertainly. "Baron Montague calls you a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. A sp.a.w.n of the Devil. He grows old and sickly, but he is determined that your younger brother, Guy, inherit his lands and t.i.tle. He hoped that you would die here in the Holy Lands, as so many others have. Indeed, 'tis known the infidels search you out on a battlefield for the glory of your death. Even they have a price on your head. Yet you will not die. When he learned that the king intended to call you home, Baron Montague arranged for us to journey here and join your army."

"Was my brother, Guy, involved in this scheme?"

"I cannot say," Dominic admitted. "The boy was at none of our meetings."

"Was anyone else involved?"

"Nay, just Ranulf and myself. But I would have you know that the plot to poison the wine was Ranulf's, not mine," Dominic confessed. "I beg you, have mercy, milord. I had no wish to involve myself in this blood feud and told Ranulf so."

"But you did not tell me, did you, Dominic?" Kenric asked mildly. "You knew of his plot yet remained silent, thus four men are dead. You will pay the same price for treachery."

"You've wasted your breath, Brother dear," Ranulf said sarcastically, though hatred blazed from his eyes toward Kenric of Montague.

"You should have died," Ranulf told Kenric, his voice a harsh, defeated whisper. "What keeps you alive?"

"G.o.d's will," Kenric lied. His emotionless gaze moved slowly from Ranulf to Dominic. Dominic's eyes grew round and wide with complete terror as the warlord's sword moved toward his neck. Pinned to the ground, Dominic could do nothing to escape his fate, say nothing more to sway his executioner. Ranulf's shout to face death bravely was drowned out by Dominic's screams.

Kenric turned and stalked away from the de Gravelles, his mood grim. Four men dead by treachery, now another two by his own hand. And the ruins of a city at his back, filled with corpses. Kenric mentally calculated his losses, already planning the knights and soldiers he would move into new positions to replace those who would never leave Al' Abar. His mind conjured images of the dead, men who laughed, drank, and boasted of their skills until they were silenced forever beneath the relentless sun of this h.e.l.lish place. Yet there were others just like them to take their place. Knights and soldiers, all intent on gold and glory. They would die the same deaths as those who went before them.

And Ranulf de Gravelle wondered how Kenric could survive amidst so much death. The answer was so simple, it was laughable. There was no fear of death left in Kenric. He'd faced the Grim Reaper each day of his life for the past three years and had grown accustomed to the specter's constant presence. It was that acceptance of Death that kept Kenric alive, as much as his skill with a sword. A warrior who fought without fear made few mistakes, his mind intent only on tactics and strategy.

Aye, Kenric knew his worth to king and country. He had all the characteristics of a perfect warrior; a body molded from childhood to the art of combat, a mind educated to the military strategies of a thousand years and countless cultures, and a heart robbed of its soul long ago. Such a warrior left only death and destruction in his path, an instrument of Death itself. There was no thought of glory or honor in this warrior, no gloating or boasts, just calm acceptance. Another battle won. Another would follow soon enough.

Kenric headed toward a blue and white striped tent, the only tent remaining of the battle camp that had stood outside the city for nearly a fortnight. After a quick meal and change of clothes, he would order the army forward, back toward the sea, back to England. And another war.

Aye, Baron Montague was right to fear his return. The old man knew that Kenric's power would only increase when the king sent him to join the war in Wales. As the king's favored henchman, Kenric would not be so easy to murder in England, or even in the mist-shrouded forests of Wales. He just might live long enough to inherit the lands Baron Montague fought so desperately to keep from him.

"Sir Kenric!" the priest shouted. He rushed forward again to tug on Kenric's sleeve, trying to bring the warlord to a halt. Kenric merely shrugged his arm away and continued without breaking stride.

"You begin to annoy me, priest. Best say your blessings over Al' Abar and find your donkey. We do not tarry here."

"You did not give the de Gravelles an opportunity to confess their sins, to meet their Maker with a clear conscience," Father Vachel said defiantly, though he seemed appeased by the justice meted out to the traitors. To leave them here alive would have been the greater sin.

"I heard their confession," Kenric replied, unconcerned.

"You speak blasphemy!"

Kenric shrugged, his attention on his army's preparations to move out. "Take a walk through the streets of the city, priest. Count how many lie dead there, none with benefit of priestly confessions to meet their deaths."

" 'Tis not the same. Those few of your knights who died gave their lives bravely in battle and had no need for confessions," Father Vachel said reasonably. "And the infidels of this city were not ent.i.tled to confession. They died by G.o.d's will."

"Nay," Kenric said slowly, turning at last to face the priest. Father Vachel backed away from the cold, unblinking gaze. His hand went to his chest, crossing himself against what he saw in those eyes.

"They died by my will."

1.

Five Years Later Northern England .

The winter night was not nearly dark enough for Kenric's mission. His gaze swept over the inky silhouette of Langston Keep, scanning the shadows of the battlements for any unusual movement as he silently cursed the cloudless sky. The bright half moon turned the snow-covered ground a silvery shade of blue, making anyone who ventured into the open an easy target for guards posted within the fortress walls.

"This may yet be a trap," Fitz Alan whispered.

Kenric nodded to acknowledge that truth. He could see his breath in the faint moonlight and he stirred restlessly, trying to ward off the frigid night air and his own misgivings. The woods behind them provided little protection. They would be an easy catch, should an ambush be in order. The very fact that their plan depended on one Scotsman betraying another nearly guaranteed a trap. But Kenric was determined to see this through and Fitz Alan wouldn't challenge the decision. Not when the king had a hand in this scheme.

"The plan seems too simple," Fitz Alan warned in a low voice. "We should have brought men to guard our backs."

Kenric didn't reply. He stared intently at a clump of large bushes that filled a gully leading to the keep. The vague outline of two cloaked figures grew more distinct as they emerged from the brush, the soft crunch of snow announcing their approach. Despite the danger they were in, Kenric nearly laughed aloud when he spotted their quarry. One was tall and broad-chested, the other short and amazingly plump. Kenric's soldiers would roll with laughter when they caught sight of this prize. A bear and a b.u.t.ter-ball were hardly fitting trophies for two of England's fiercest warriors. Five years of war in Wales, suffering every discomfort known to a soldier, and this was to be his reward? .

"Perhaps her face will not be as difficult to look upon as her person," Fitz Alan whispered, his smile heard but unseen. " 'Tis the oddest-shaped woman I've ever laid eyes on."

The approaching man raised his head, as if he'd caught the scent of danger. Kenric moved silently to the edge of the brush, disappearing into the black shadows of the forest. Fitz Alan crouched low to the ground, watching the two odd shapes as they walked cautiously toward his hiding spot. They halted less than ten paces away.

"This could be a trap, Uncle Ian."

The soft, feminine voice belonged to the b.u.t.terball. Her words pleased Kenric considerably. It was a good sign that their prey shared their concern. The woman drew her hood back to look around the tiny clearing, attempting to peer into the dark forest as she whispered her plea.

"I say we escape by ourselves while we can. I'll guard your back well enough should we meet with any thieves. 'Tis obvious he is not coming. Let us be gone from here."

The woman gasped at the same instant her uncle swung around with his sword drawn.

"Put your sword on the ground, Laird Duncan. Slowly," Kenric ordered.

Ian Duncan didn't move. The moon provided enough light for Kenric to make out the Scottish laird's shape, but his expression remained obscured by the night's shadows.

"Do as I say," Kenric warned, nudging the woman's bulk with the tip of his sword. "Else she'll take my blade between her ribs."

Ian lowered the weapon to the ground, then pulled his niece to his side, away from the warrior's sword. He looked at Kenric, but nodded toward Fitz Alan. "You were to come alone."

"My man is loyal," he replied with a shrug. "Get the horses, Fitz Alan."

"Lady Remmington will ride with me," Ian said, maintaining a protective hold on the girl. "I left my horse less than a mile from here."

"We have your horse." Kenric picked up Ian's sword then sheathed his own, queerly disappointed that the lady was falling into his hands so easily. He hadn't the slightest desire to get a closer look at his prize. No matter how comely the face, it couldn't possibly make up for the package it came with. She was undoubtedly as homely as his horse or she would have shown herself by now. "The arrangements have been made at Kelso Abbey."

"You are prepared to see this through, to do what is asked of you?" Ian asked. He waited several long, silent moments for an answer.

"Aye." Kenric's reply was firm. "You can stay at Kelso Abbey until the search parties are recalled or make for your fortress immediately after-"

"I ride for Scotland tonight," Ian interrupted.

"Why are we going to Kelso Abbey?" Lady Remmington asked, her whisper nearly m.u.f.fled by the cloak's heavy hood.

"Hush, Tess," Ian scolded. "Here are the horses. Be a good girl and everything will be fine. Quickly now, we must hurry."

"Yes, Uncle," Tess replied obediently.

Fitz Alan returned with the horses and the two warriors mounted. Ian placed the bulky girl on his horse then swung into the saddle behind her. The animals moved almost silently through the forest, their hooves wrapped with rags to m.u.f.fle the noise. This late at night they wouldn't have to worry about patrols from Langston Keep, but the woods were home to outcasts; thieves and murderers who controlled the king's highways by preying on unprotected travelers. Kenric knew they could handle that threat, but he didn't have time to deal with such a distraction. The night was half spent already and every hour counted.

Tess Remmington gave little thought to thieves. Her worry centered on the pack of soldiers that could thunder out of the fortress at any moment. Her stepfather was going to be furious when he discovered her escape. Just the thought of Dunmore MacLeith made Tess's blood run cold. In outward appearance there was nothing to dislike about the Scot. Tall and fit, he had two wings of gray at the temples of his dark hair that gave him an air of distinction. But Tess, more than any other, knew a heart capable of coldblooded murder lay beneath the deceptive facade. The beast had married her mother a mere week after her father's suspicious death. Even then the odd set of circ.u.mstances that put Dunmore MacLeith inside the fortress had seemed a little too convenient. A month later her mother had also been laid to rest in Remmington's cemetery after a "fall" from the tower steps. Everyone knew the baroness planned to pet.i.tion the church and King Edward for an annulment. Some, including Dunmore MacLeith, had believed she might get it.

Tess wondered again how King Edward could have turned a blind eye toward MacLeith's evil deeds all these years. Could the war in Wales, problems with the church, and the endless quarrels among his barons keep the king too busy to bother with such a remote barony? Aye, he'd gone and forgotten about her and Tess had no way to bring her cause before him. Dunmore MacLeith sat as lord at Remmington Castle while Tess, the rightful heir, had stayed locked away in remote Langston Keep these past five years.

The only good fortune she could claim of late was the recent discovery of a secret pa.s.sage that led from her bedchamber to the gully outside the walls. Such pa.s.sages were common in border holdings of Langston's age, built to allow the family a means of escape if the keep fell to an invading army. Now it provided Tess with a different sort of freedom. Freedom from Dunmore MacLeith's plans for her life.

Two hours later, the group dismounted outside Kelso Abbey's main gate.

A small side door swung open and, as if he'd been awaiting their arrival, a cowled monk thrust a lantern through the doorway. Tess watched the taller of the two men they had met in the forest step closer to show his face. The monk nodded, turning without a word to point toward a dark path.

Tess drew her cloak closer, trying to shake a sudden chill. The monk looked like an unholy specter of death with his black robes and long, bony finger pointing them forward. She clutched the back of her uncle's cloak and walked as close behind him as the narrow path would allow.

The path led to the doors of a large chapel and the group stepped inside. Tess pulled her hood aside just enough to get a better look at the structure, but she was careful to keep her face hidden, as Uncle Ian had ordered. Ian had said he wasn't sure what kind of men they'd meet with this night and the less they knew of Tess the better. Yet once inside the chapel she couldn't help but gape in wide-eyed wonder at the fine Gothic architecture and Norman workmanship that made Kelso Abbey one of the church's prize jewels. Tess was sure she'd never seen anything so grand. Beautiful religious paintings covered the walls and ceilings, and most statues were leafed with gold. The soft glow from an uncountable number of precious beeswax candles made the place seem more fairy-tale castle than chapel. An old priest stood near the pulpit, garbed in richly embroidered red satin and gold-trimmed robes, his presence lending an air of royalty to the scene. The priest's face was wrinkled with years of wear, but his eyes twinkled with a smile that grew broader as they pa.s.sed each row of kneelers.

"Greetings, my son." The priest walked stiffly toward Kenric, his gait slowed by age. He grasped Kenric's strong hands with thin, frail ones. " 'Tis been too many years, but you've grown into a fine man."

"Thank you, Father Olwen. 'Tis good to see your familiar face this eve." Kenric smiled grimly at the priest. "I'm sure you remember my friend Roger Fitz Alan. And this is Laird Duncan."

Kenric turned then to get his first good look at the giant Scot. Although Kenric stood well over six feet, Ian Duncan was nearly as tall. The Scottish laird's face was weathered and his blue eyes creased around the edges with the lines of a man who smiled often. Much as he was smiling now at Kenric.

Kenric soon spied the reason for the Scot's humor. Ian's cloak was tossed over his shoulders to reveal not only the Duncan clan's blue and green plaid, but the handle of a ma.s.sive claymore that was strapped securely to his back. So much for disarming the man. Kenric acknowledged his oversight with a slight nod, then his eyes dropped to Ian's side to inspect Lady Remmington. Her back was turned to Kenric and she seemed absorbed by the doomsday paintings on one wall of the chapel. He tried to imagine a short, fat, female version of Ian Duncan and was immediately glad she had the good grace to keep herself covered. Whoever told King Edward this girl was a pleasure to gaze upon had an odd sense of humor.

The priest interrupted Kenric's thoughts by clearing his throat, a subtle hint that he was waiting for an introduction. Kenric said simply, "Father Olwen, this is Lady Remmington."