Knight's Rebellion

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Copyright

Just some of the terrific

praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay and her books!

“…a great superstar.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“…a fun, fast-paced read with an intriguing plot…”

—Author Kat Martin

“Barclay is dynamic!”

—The Literary Times

“A rare treasure!”

—Rendezvous

“5

—Booklovers

“…an exciting and talented new writer.”

—Author Susan Wiggs

“Pure gold! Read a Barclay Medieval and you are reading the best.”

—The Medieval Chronicle

“…richly detailed, completely believable and totally satisfying…”

—The Gannett News Service

“…page-turning adventure…seduces your senses and lays siege to your heart.”

—Author Theresa Michaels

“…a magician with words…”

—Romantic Times

“…pure magic…A glorious tapestry of love and redemption.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

If you haven’t read Suzanne Barclay, what are you waiting for?

“I cannot be what you want,” Alys said softly.

“And that is…?” Gowain questioned.

She shivered. “A—”

“Lover?” he whispered, pleased by the hike in her pulse.

She nodded and ducked her head.

Gowain grinned, stroking her forearm. She was still trembling, but not with uncertainty or fear. Nor was she trying to pull away. It was worth the strain on his selfcontrol. “I want you to be comfortable with me, Alys.”

“I am, but…” Her eyes locked on his, twin pools of startling blue, filled with trampled hopes. “This will not work.”

“It can, if you want it badly enough.” His gaze focused on her, his eyes as dark and mysterious as the forest at night. In their depths flickered a longing she understood only too well, for it mirrored her own. Loneliness, a yearning to belong to someplace and someone.

The ache in her chest grew, coiling so tight, she could scarcely breathe….

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Knight’s Rebellion

Suzanne Barclay

SUZANNE BARCLAY

has been an avid history buff all her life and an inveterate dreamer since she was very young. “There is no better way to combine the two than by writing historical romances,” she claims. “What other career allows you to journey back to the time when knights were bold and damsels distressed—without leaving behind the comforts of central heating and indoor plumbing?” She and her husband of twenty-one years recently moved into a new house with a separate office where Suzanne can dream in blissful peace…when not indulging her passion for gourmet cooking or walking their two dogs, Max and Duffy.

Suzanne has prepared a comprehensive Sommerville family tree, detailing the marriages and progeny of all the Sommervilles and Harcourts…even those who did not star in their own stories. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.

Prologue

England, April 1390

Night fell swiftly in this wild corner of the Peaks District, snuffing out the gray day and turning the hills black as the maws of hell. The wind rose, bearing with it a hint of rain, its chill fingers tugging at the shabby band of riders working their way down the rutted track between the mountains.

Gowain de Crecy hunched his shoulders beneath his threadbare tunic and rusted armor, his body’s instinctive reaction to the cold his brain was too preoccupied to note.

Riding beside him, Darcy Beaufort, his second in command, sighed, weariness mixing with exasperation. Gowain was a born leader, wise beyond his six-and-twenty years, brave and possessed of tremendous willpower. He was the sort of man other men would follow into hell itself. If Gowain had a failing, it was that he sometimes forgot others were not as strong and invincible as he. “Dammit, man, do you never tire?” Darcy grumbled.

“What?” Worn leather creaked as Gowain turned and raised the visor of his helmet. Within its shadowed depths, his eyes glowed like green fire, but his chiseled features were as stark and forbidding as this rugged land of his birth.

Silently Darcy cursed the woman whose betrayal had turned this idealistic man into a hard, driven one. “How much farther?”

“Eastham lies just around the next bend.”

“Good. For I don’t think the others could ride much longer.”

Startled, Gowain looked back at the rest of his troop. Thirty soldiers, veterans of the wars in France and used to long, hard marches. Yet even they were drooping with fatigue from the desperate pace he’d been forced to set when they took the babe and fled from Blanche’s home. Alarmed, Gowain sought the nursemaid riding in their midst.

Ruby’s thin frame was swamped beneath Gowain’s cloak, her shoulders bent as she shielded wee Enid from the elements. If the girl faltered, there’d be none to care for the two-year-old.

For an instant, remorse pierced Gowain’s icy reserve. “I could call a brief halt so she might rest”.

“Nay, we all need more than a few moments’ respite, and we dare not tarry that long in the open.”

Gowain nodded and looked forward. “We’ll have rest and a safe haven, if we can just hold out for another league.” Or so he hoped. A shiver of foreboding raced down his spine. He was even tempted to pray, though he knew God did not heed him.

“Are you certain your father will welcome us? It’s been some years, and you said you didn’t part on good terms.”

“Warren de Crecy is not one to hold a grudge, especially against a wild lad too much like himself. He did not like it that I left Eastham, but he understood that I was young and hot-tempered, a second son determined to earn his fortune in France.”

“And Ranulf?” Darcy asked. “Your wicked half brother?”

His head came around sharply. “I never called him that.”

“Not in so many words, mayhap…” Darcy hesitated recalling whispered words exchanged in the black hell of a French prison, dark confidences shared by men who’d never expected to see light or freedom again. Yet they had, thanks to Gowain’s sacrifice. “You told me your older “brother resented you and your mother. If he made your early years unbearable, he’ll doubtless not welcome us warmly. Mayhap we should bypass Eastham and press on.”

“There is nowhere else to go,” Gowain said flatly. The search for Enid had exhausted his funds. They had little food left, and no other hope of shelter. Damn, he hated returning home a failure, his dreams dashed, but needs must “We will not stay long. I only want a place where we can rest for a few days, a week at most, and to ask my mother for the use of Malpas, her dower property. She offered it to me before…before I left Eastham…but I was too proud to take what was not mine.”

“You will swallow your pride?”

“To save wee Enid, gladly.” He’d sold his soul to save her, now he’d barter his pride, beg, if necessary, to provide his little daughter with food, shelter and, most important, a place where she could heal. Gowain lifted his face to the cold breeze, but the fresh air, smelling of earth and home, didn’t scour away the past. “I wish I had written to them to find out how matters stood at Eastham. If they have not prospered, I’d not inflict an additional burden on them by appearing like beggars at the gate.”

“Always you think of others instead of yourself.”

“If I had thought at all, I’d not be in this mess,” Gowain snapped. “God rue the day I took up with Blanche.”

Darcy’s broad face, weathered beyond his eight-andtwenty years, softened. “If you hadn’t, there’d have been no Enid.”

Gowain’s chest constricted with pain and guilt. Enid, the child he’d got on Blanche a short time before he was captured by the French. The babe born while he was in prison and presumed dead. Poor Enid, born after Blanche wed another. They’d cast Enid out like soiled goods, Blanche and her noble husband. God, when he thought of the hovel where he’d found his daughter—

“Enid is only two,” Darcy said slowly. “She’ll forget.”

“Forget!” Gowain snarled. “How can you say that, when she wakes screaming every night? You’ve heard her. Jesu, what can those beasts have done to make my babe so terrified? If only she would tell us what happened, mayhap I could help.”

“Don’t!” Darcy said. “Don’t torture yourself, Gowain. None of this is your fault.”

“I’d speak of it no more,” Gowain said gruffly. He shoved the anguish to the back of his mind and shut the door on it. A skill he’d mastered as a child and perfected over the years. He didn’t just hide his emotions, he ceased to feel them. ‘Twas the only way he’d survived the French prison and Blanche’s betrayal.

“Is that Eastham?” Darcy asked, pointing ahead.

“Aye.” A sense of relief swept through Gowain as his weary eyes traced the familiar lines of his birthplace.

Set atop a rocky promontory, Eastham Castle’s twin towers rose defiantly against the rapidly darkening sky. Strong and stalwart as an ancient warrior, it cast a long, protective shadow over the village huddled at its base. After all that had happened to him of late, Gowain had half feared he’d return to find Eastham shattered along with his other dreams and hopes.

“Do we bypass the village or ride through it?” Darcy asked.

“Through. The way is shorter.” But as they approached the low wall of rocks surrounding the village, Gowain’s unease returned. The wall looked unkempt, the cottages neglected.

“This place looks deserted,” Darcy muttered.

“Hmm.” Gowain leaned from the saddle to examine the road in the fading light. The track showed signs of recent traffic. “It could be nightfall or the approaching storm has driven everyone within.” Yet no hint of light seeped out from around the tightly closed door and shuttered window of the cottage on his right.

Gowain knew who had lived there. Master Everhard, the tavernkeeper, and his daughter, Maye. Beautiful, lively Maye had been pursued by half the village lads, himself included. He was half tempted to dismount and ask for news, of Maye and the castle.

“I like this not.” Darcy loosed the loop of his battle-ax from the saddle. He was big as an ox, with arms like tree trunks. A good man to have on your side in a fight.

“Slip to the rear and alert the men,” Gowain whispered. Slowly drawing the sword from its sheath, Gowain laid it across his thighs. Just in case. Around them, the wind whistiled between the buildings, the only sound other than the ring of iron shoes on hard earth and the jingle of harness. By the time they cleared the village, Gowain had decided on a change of plans.

“I’ll not let you go up there alone,” Darcy protested when he heard what Gowain intended to do.

Gowain looked up the hill to the castle, set out against the billowing clouds, lights shining from the uppermost tower windows and flickering along the wall walks, where the guards no doubt made their rounds. Whatever awaited him there, he was used to facing his demons alone. “I need you to keep Enid safe. Dismount and hide the men in these rocks. After I’m assured of our welcome, I’ll come myself to fetch you. Myself. If another should come and say I sent him, know that I’m taken, and flee.”

“But—”

“I hate to leave you here in the wind and cold, but I will not be longer than is needful.” Gowain turned away before Darcy could say more. For all his resolve, the ride up the steep hill to the castle was the longest in his life. Nerves stretched taut with dread, he drew rein before the drawbridge.

“Halt and state your business,” a stern voice shouted down from atop Eastham’s walls.

“Open the gates for Sir Gowain de Crecy,” he called.

“The hell ye say,” came the reply. “He’s dead.”

Gowain lifted the visor of his helm. “I’m very much alive, as you can see. I come alone, in peace, to see my father and—”

“Wait here while I see what His Lordship says.”

Gowain stared at the closed drawbridge, unable to fathom that his father might not let him in. An interminable wait followed. Just when Gowain thought he might burst into a thousand pieces, the door of the sally port to the right of the drawbridge creaked open and a group of men rode out.

The tingle of apprehension in Gowain’s belly became full-blown alarm. He backed his stallion up till he stood on the crest of the road. It was purposefully narrow, so that an invader might bring up only a few men at a time. At the first sign of trouble, he’d spur down the path.

As the troop drew near, he recognized their leader.

Ranulf!

It was like seeing their father as he might have been at thirty. Ranulf had their sire’s fair hair and eyes the color of summer sky. How Gowain had envied Ranulf that link with the man he adored. How he’d hated the black hair and green eyes he got from his mother. Ranulf had known, of course, and taunted Gowain with it. Calling him “gypsy boy” and “black savage.” The passing years had intensified Ranulf’s resemblance to their father, Gowain saw as his brother halted before him.

“You are not well come here,” Ranulf snarled. Though they were of a height, he glared at Gowain as imperiously as Zeus from Mount Olympus. “Get you gone from Eastham.”

Gowain glared right back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ranulf’s men fan out, flanking him on the sides, but unable to get behind him on the narrow trail. So, they thought to take him. Reflexively his fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. “When I left for France, our father said I would always be well come in his castle,” he said, calmly yet firmly.

“My father is dead, and I am lord here, now.”

“Dead?” Gowain blinked, only years of absorbing physical blows keeping him upright. “When?” he whispered.

“A year ago…for all the notice you took.”

“I…I was in prison.”

“I am not surprised you ended up there.”

Gowain barely heard the taunt as he struggled to absorb this latest blow without revealing the pain it caused. Ranulf had the ruthless instincts of a wolf. If he knew he’d drawn blood, he’d close in for the kill. It had always been thus between them. Gowain the outsider, though he’d been born at Eastham, and Ranulf, the heir, jealous of the young rival for their father’s affection and for the wealthy estate.

“I truly did not know about Papa.” Gowain tried to think what he should do next. “I will not presume further on your hospitality, then. I assume my mother has gone to Malpas Tower, and I will join her there.”

“She has not gone to Malpas.”

“Where is she, then?”

Ranulf shrugged. “Gone back to Wales, I should think.”

“But why? Malpas was her dower property.”

“Nay. Malpas is mine, not hers. Since there was no marriage twixt my father and her, she has no dower lands.”

“What?” Gowain swayed. “That is impossible. They were wed.”

“They were not.” Ranulf sounded so certain, so smug.

“You lie. She was his wife. He…he called her wife.”

“Then he did so to humor her, for there was no marriage between them.” Ranulf smiled, his eyes cold, calculating. “No copy of their marriage lines could be found.”

“You destroyed them, then, you bastard.”

“I am not the bastard here.” Ranulf’s lip curled. “You are, entitled to naught, not even my father’s name.”

“Our father,” Gowain said firmly. “My mother was—”

“Was a clever little Welsh whore who inveigled her way into my father’s bed.” He stroked his chin. “Mayhap you are not even his get. You’ve her looks, and none of Warren de Crecy’s.”

“What have you done with my mother? By God, if you’ve hurt her…” Gowain cried, lifting his sword.

“He raises arms against me! Seize him!” Ranulf shouted.

Gowain’s bellow of denial was lost in the scramble as Ranulf’s men surged forward. Instinct saved him, prompting him to bring his blade up to counter the first blow.

Ten to one, they had him, but he’d spent the past six years fighting the hard, unforgiving French; these men had doubtless spent theirs subduing unarmed peasants.

With his left hand, Gowain whipped the battle-ax from his saddle and flung it at the foremost rider, catching him in the chest. The man screamed; his horse reared, slamming back into those who followed. The noise and confusion were horrific as men struggled to control horses gone wild.

Gowain wheeled his horse and plunged down the dark’ path toward the village. Mentally he calculated his next move. Did he go left, toward the rocks where his men waited? Or right, drawing his pursuers into the forest where he’d played as a boy?

Right.

He’d not risk a confrontation when there was a chance he could lead Ranulf’s soldiers away, lose them in the woods, then double back and get his people to safety. Where? Where could he take them that would be safe… even temporarily?

Behind him, he heard shouts. He risked looking back and saw he was pursued by six men. Ranulf was in the lead, weapon gleaming ominously in the gray light. Ahead, the forest beckoned. Dark. Mysterious. He plunged into it. The forest closed around him, swallowing him, wrapping him in quiet and shadow. The puny trail went right; Gowain headed left, into the thick brush. He couldn’t hide the signs of his passage, but if he could go far enough, fast enough, he might be safe.

Briars snatched at his clothes; branches tried to scrape him from the horse’s back. Ducking low over the saddle, he laid his face alongside the horse’s neck and watched the woods flash by. He’d had no destination in mind, or so he thought, but when he saw the clearing and tumble of chalky rocks, he halted.

Here he used to play with Maye and her brother, Rob. Slipping from the saddle, he led the stallion around behind the rocks, secured him, then crept back to watch. Faint light filtered in through the canopy of leaves. In the dimness, nothing moved. He could hear nothing, but as he pulled off his helmet and cocked his head, a twig broke behind him.

Gowain turned in one swift movement, crouching low as he brought his sword up.

“Gowain!” gasped a female voice. She stood a foot away, a peasant woman in coarse homespun. “Tis me.” She drew back the cowl of her cloak. “Maye,” she added when he didn’t speak.

Maye? Nay, the Maye of his youth had been slender and beautiful, a siren whose call he’d longed to answer. “Maye.” His voice was as unsettled as his pulse. “What do you here?”

“Waiting for you…same as always.” As she closed the distance between them, her features grew more distinct. Yet they were blurred in their own way, by six years’ worth of lines and extra pounds. Still, it was Maye. “We heard you’d died.”

“I’m too tough to kill.” He looked around. “You cannot stay here. Ranulf comes….”

“He’ll not venture far into the woods. Ranulf fears the dark. With good reason. ‘Tis the outlaws’ domain.” Her eyes moved over his face, no doubt finding the years had marked him, too. “You’ve scarcely changed. I saw you ride into the village and wanted to run out and warn you, but Rob feared I’d be reported.”

“To whom?”

“Ranulf.” She spat the name, then smiled. “When Rob’s back was turned, I came looking for you, and found your men instead.”

“Darcy and the others? Where are they?”

“Safely away where Ranulf’ll not find them, no thanks to that great, stupid bull of a man.” She puffed up. “That…that Darcy feared I’d betray you.”

“It’s happened before,” Gowain muttered.

“I’d never hurt you, Gowain.” She laid a work roughened hand on his arm. “Many’s the time I wished I’d gone off to France with you instead of staying to wed John the Miller.”

Gowain swallowed against the sudden tightness in this throat and looked away from her adoring gaze. In his youth, he’d lusted after Maye, but he’d never loved her. “Tis in the past,” he said gruffly. “Do you know what became of my mother?”

“Nay. She…she just disappeared. Rumor had it she was a witch who’d entrapped Lord Warren, and once he was dead, she turned herself into a raven and flew back to Wales.” She snorted. “I say ‘twas a bit of nonsense put about by Ranulf.”

“Aye. Likely she’s gone to Malpas Keep.” At least that’s where he hoped he’d find her. Gowain dragged a hand through his wet hair, more tired and dispirited even than he’d been in prison. “I’ve got to find a place where my men and I can rest till I decide where we’ll go.”

Maye smiled. “I know what you should do. You should join the others who’ve run afoul of Ranulf.”

“What others?”

“The dispossessed ones. Families he threw off the land after he became lord, soldiers who refused when he ordered them to kill, poachers who took his game rather than see their children starve last winter. There’s six score of them, at least, hiding in the caves. They’d fare better, did they have a strong leader to guide them.” She glanced at him as she used to, as though he were the moon and the sun.

“I’m no rebel,” he muttered. “And I’ll not fight my brother, no matter that he just tried to kill me.”

“You may not have much choice. Ranulf’s hatred of you has grown over the years. He’ll not rest till you are dead.”

Chapter One

“I cannot go to Newstead Abbey?” Stunned, Alys Sommerville sank down on the bench in her mother’s workroom. She barely noticed the sharp smell of hot metal in the air, a by-product of her mother’s penchant for goldsmithing. From the time she was old enough to mind, she’d played in a corner while her mother fashioned beautiful artifacts from lumps of ore.

Lady Arianna, Countess of Winchester, sighed, her grimy fingers tightening on the gold candlestick she’d been fashioning when Alys intruded. “Not till your father’s well enough to go with you.”

“But his broken leg is barely healed. It could take weeks before he’s up to so long a journey,” Alys fought to keep her voice steady. A Sommerville did not rail and whine, even for good reason. “Surely William could escort me.”

“He’s gone to Scotland on your father’s business. And Richard,” she added before Alys could drag in her other brother, “sailed for France yesterday.”