Another Man's Bride

  Another Man’s Bride

  By Ariel MacArran

  ©2013 Ariel MacArran

  Another Man’s Bride is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be produced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  Kindle Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author's work.

  Cover Design: Laura J. Miller

  www.AnAuthorsArt.com

  Interior Design: Linda Boulanger

  www.TreasureLineBooks.com

  Published by Here Be Dragons

  Also available in paperback publication

  Scotland

  October 1436

  The forest vanished.

  The bright autumn leaves, the muddy path, her palfrey’s pretty gray mane, Sir William ahead of her on his black horse—all blanched to nothing. And then Isabella was no longer riding, the chill air of the Scottish Highlands stinging her cheeks, but was somewhere else entirely…

  The walls splintered. The ladies-in-waiting surged back, their faces distorted with screaming. Where was Kat?

  He turned, a tall silhouette against the fire.

  She knew him!

  Isabella raised her arm to ward off the blow. He brought the knife down—

  The world rushed back into focus. Released from the vision’s hold, Isabella caught herself against the pommel of Cobweb’s saddle. Her own shriek—primal and raw—still echoed in the woods around them.

  “Defend your lady!” Sir William shouted to the guards.

  Isabella fumbled as she sought purchase enough to stay on her horse. Perspiration broke over her forehead and upper lip despite the cold.

  The warhorse tossed its head as William urged his charger into position to protect her. The knight’s silver hair caught the light as he scanned the forest, his sword at the ready. The hired guards too had their weapons drawn, tensely looking into the woods.

  Shaking, Isabella wiped her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. A vibrant, clear vision sometimes enticed her to murmur a name or smile in response, but no sending before had been as this one.

  God’s blood, did I truly scream aloud?

  The forest was silent and still. After a time William sheathed his sword.

  He brought his horse beside hers, his charger far better suited to the rocky path than her pretty, dapple-gray palfrey. There were no roads in this part of Perthshire. Their little group could travel only as fast as the carriage—carrying Katherine—and the wagons, loaded down with the finery and valuables of Isabella’s dowry, would permit.

  The knight had the leathered appearance of a man who had spent a lifetime outdoors, and his flushed cheeks showed him hale, despite his sixty-odd years. His fine clothing, road-worn now after days of riding, declared him a nobleman of some means.

  He glanced around the woods one last time then turned his frown on her. William’s hooked nose, reddened by the cold, was prominent in his face, and his kindly eyes, near as dark as his horse, were puzzled.

  Isabella swallowed hard. The half dozen hired guards were eyeing her, their expressions a mix of confusion and annoyance.

  Isabella scarcely knew the men who escorted her north to join her betrothed at court. Even Sir William—tasked by her cousin Queen Joan to bring her safely to Blackfriars Abbey where the King intended to keep Christmas—was barely more than an acquaintance.

  Katherine, the dark hair beneath her veil shot with silver, leaned out between the curtains of the carriage to regard her with a pale, anxious face.

  William’s frown deepened as he took in her tight grip on Cobweb’s saddle. “Wherefore did you cry out, my lady? I did not mark that your horse stumbled.”

  Unbidden, her mind flashed back years ago to Rouen and the French girl the English sent to die screaming in the flames …

  Despite years as a maid of honor at the English court, her courtier’s tongue failed her and she managed only a weak, strangled sound.

  “My Lady Isabella, are you quite well?”

  “Fool!” cried Katherine. “Of course she is not well!”

  Kat shoved aside the curtains and made to climb from the carriage. She threw a stern, angry look at the guard nearest her. “Baseborn knave! Help me down!”

  The guard stared up dumbly at that formidable widow. He either sincerely did not grasp the meaning of her words—Kat had spoken in the French of the court—or was far too intimidated by her scowl to step forward.

  Impatiently and, Isabella knew, quite rudely, Katherine repeated her demand in Gaelic, and this time the guard jumped to do as she bid.

  Isabella closed her eyes, silently thankful for Kat’s quick thinking.

  “And small wonder she suffers so!”

  Her kinswoman had already alighted and was striding toward William. Kat moved stiffly, her bright blue cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. The illness that had delayed by weeks their departure from the English Court still lingered on her. Too weak yet to ride, she traveled in the elaborately decorated carriage, but Isabella judged Kat knew little comfort inside that jarring, rocking contraption.

  Her face was pinched and pale but she leveled her glare at the knight. The hapless guard reluctantly trailed behind her.

  “To think of what my lady has endured on this journey!”

  “Mistress Katherine, I assure you,” Sir William returned, “Lady Isabella has my utmost—”

  “The poor lamb is nigh to fainting,” Katherine interrupted, throwing William a disgusted look. “Riding for days, in the roughest of conditions with freezing weather and not even a maid to attend her! An earl’s daughter and cousin to the Scottish queen and this is how she is treated? And but six men to guard her!”

  William’s mouth became a tight, angry line. “Why do you insist to hold me accountable for that, Mistress? ’Twas King James’s chamberlain who outfitted us so—over my objections, if you recall!”

  “I cannot believe Queen Joan ever intended my lady to travel through lawless wilderness so ill protected and ill served as this!”

  “I shall bring us all to Blackfriars Abbey safely, despite our thin ranks, Mistress Katherine,” Sir William said through clenched teeth. “I shall deliver you both to the queen and—upon my word—you will see your lady wed to Lord Douglas before Christmastide.”

  “It will be a wonder indeed if you do not bring us instead to Hades!” Kat retorted. “Naught but muddy paths barely wide enough for my lady’s wagons and hardly enough men to move them—let alone protect us! It can only be a reflection for how you are regarded at court that Robert Stewart dares outfit us so!”

  Katherine turned her back to him.

  “Come, poppet,” Katherine said to Isabella, gently reaching up to take her hand and ignoring William’s sputtering behind her. “Come to the carriage and rest yourself.” She raised her voice so that William should hear. “I expect we must resign ourselves to still more of this comfortless and overlong journey!”

  “God’s wounds, woman!” William exploded. “Are you sure your husband is buried and not run off?”

  As Kat turned to retort, Isabella frowned at the movement in the forest behind the knight.

  Another vision?

  “—should not even find ourselves at an inn this night!” Kat continued angrily.

  Isabella blinked rapidly as the shapes took form and coalesced into men, just yards away, moving stealthily among the trees. They were bearded, their ha
ir worn long, wild and uncovered, not cropped like Englishmen. In their rough tunics and trews and simple untanned boots, it was plain these were wild men from the north. Isabella’s stomach lurched as she realized how many they numbered.

  “—cannot offer comforts not to be had, Mistress Katherine! If I—”

  One of them—a broad-shouldered brute of a man, his face hidden under the folds of his mantle—stopped short. His head came up with an animal-like alertness when her eyes picked him out. Even as she drew breath to cry out, the man abandoned all stealth and burst forward, his fellows with him.

  “Sir William!” she cried. “Behind you!”

  The Northern men’s battle cries shattered the calm of the Perthshire forest. Their plaid mantles were bright with color as they ran down the slope. William blocked a stab from the outlaw’s long pike with his sword as the rest burst from the cover of the trees.

  Isabella’s horse tensed under her, startled by the rush of howling men. She reined in to keep Cobweb under control and felt Kat’s grip tighten.

  “Filthy whoresons!” William shouted.

  Isabella followed his furious glare. She watched in horror as the last of her guards vanished into the woods. The hired men had fled the barbarians, abandoning the packhorses and wagons along with the noblewomen under their protection.

  “Ride, poppet!” Kat croaked, seeking to pull her hand from Isabella’s grasp as the outlaws overcame William. “Quickly—go!”

  “No!” Isabella held Kat’s hand fast and kicked her foot from the stirrup. “Get on! Mount behind me!”

  She was so focused on getting her cousin on the horse and controlling the frightened palfrey that she did not see the outlaw at her side until it was too late.

  He seized Cobweb’s reins and with a quick movement the man swept her off the horse. Isabella gasped when she hit the frigid ground, pain shooting up her side. She instinctively scrambled backward as she realized she was in danger of being trampled by her own mount.

  Cobweb broke free of the man’s hold and the outlaw stumbled, landing on his knees in his hurry to get out of the way. In that moment Isabella kicked out and caught him full in the face with her heel. He fell back, cursing.

  Kat was screaming. Isabella twisted, gritting her teeth against the pain in her side, struggling to get her feet under her. Her only weapon was a little knife used for eating but if she could somehow make it to William’s sword…

  She was on hands and knees now, the frozen rocky ground biting into her palms. Her dark hair hung in her face, pulled loose from its fine linen veil, and the smothering folds of her heavy woolen gown tangled in her feet. The outlaw fumbled at her fur-lined cloak, trying to catch hold of her. She threw herself forward and pushed hard against the ground to break free.

  Her legs were stiff and heavy from being so long in the saddle, and she managed only a few stumbling steps before he caught her.

  Isabella screamed, struggling against his hold, kicking at him. He was the stronger by far and the blows she landed made no impact. Soon he held her fast from behind, one arm around her middle, her wrists clasped painfully in his hand.

  He was breathing hard from their scuffle. She could faintly feel the heat radiating off him as he held her fast, his breath ragged in her ear.

  She shook the hair out of her eyes.

  “William,” she murmured. The knight, unmoving, lay prone upon the ground, bleeding from the head. One of the outlaws stood watching over him as another ran to capture his horse.

  Isabella caught no sight of her cousin. Her captor yanked her to her feet.

  She could not hear Kat any longer either.

  “Kat!” she called.

  “Quiet!” her captor ordered in Gaelic.

  “Kat!” she screamed again, her voice cracking.

  “Here, poppet!” Katherine called, terrified but out of sight. “I am here!”

  Isabella’s captor held his hand over her mouth to silence her and she clamped down, hard.

  He started and yelped in pain. His hand tasted of salt and dirt as she sank her teeth into his flesh. He cursed viciously and pinched her nose between his thumb and knuckle, depriving her entirely of breath.

  “Let go!” he snarled.

  Isabella tried to bite harder but her vision was beginning to swim, the trees swaying. She must not faint. She let go, gasping at the sweet, cold air as he pulled his hand away. The vile taste of earth and sweat was still in her mouth and she spat. He held her tightly against him, cursing again as he examined the damage to his hand.

  The horses were restless, still upset from the noise and confusion, but one of the outlaws already had command of the carriage. The packhorses tied to the wagon whinnied as the outlaws tried to soothe them.

  Isabella felt a knot of terror in her belly. She had been a maid of King Henry’s court under the protection of his uncle, the Duke of Gloucester, since the age of twelve. In her seven years at court she had witnessed the horrors of torture and slow death visited upon the weak, unfortunate, or friendless by the powerful.

  If civilized men committed acts of such brutality, what would they know at the hands of these Highland barbarians?

  Two of the outlaws, armed with swords and elaborately decorated leather shields, emerged from the trees in fine spirits.

  The older man, his ginger hair and wild beard streaked with gray, limped toward Isabella and her captor with a swaying, straddling walk. His face was weatherworn and scarred but his yellowed and crooked teeth showed in a wide grin.

  “They run off, quick as rabbits,” the old man declared, his eyes merry. “Halfway to the sea by now, I’ll wager!”

  Isabella’s hands curled to fists. She would see the guards hanged for this! The cowards would be better served to fall prey to wolves in these woods than to face King James in his wrath. The Scottish king—never a man to waste mercy on those who crossed him—would have the lot of them executed for this desertion of his queen’s cousin.

  Robert Stewart, too, would pay for the cowardly, useless guards he had given them.

  Another outlaw, nearer to King Henry’s age—perhaps sixteen and showing clear resemblance to his elder—came with him. The young man’s eyes were wide and his face flushed; he trembled with excitement and nerves.

  “What now?” the younger man asked.

  Her captor’s tone was sharp. “Ye can make yerself useful, Jamie, and go after the lady’s horse, she’ll nae have gone far.” The young man was off instantly. To the elder one, he said, “Set the lads to prepare the packhorses and wagons to go. Others may happen upon this place and I’m of nae mind for another fight. The sooner we’re gone, the better.”

  The man nodded in acknowledgment and hurried to do his leader’s bidding.

  These thieves had everything of value, Isabella realized. Would they abandon the three of them here? Men like these would have no need of captives.

  She swallowed hard, realizing the outlaws might well find a use for her and Katherine.

  There was a fortune of coin, wine, and goods on the packhorses and in the wagon. A rich portion of her dower filled those packs but she could not bargain with what these criminals already had.

  Life at court taught her there were times when brazen courage turned the wheel of fortune back in one’s favor.

  “Unhand me this instant!” she commanded. “I am Lady Isabella Beaufort, betrothed of Lord Alexander Douglas, and daughter of the first Earl of Somerset!”

  To Isabella’s utter astonishment the outlaw let her go.

  Unprepared for the sudden release, she stumbled on the rocky path and nearly lost her balance entirely.

  “Are ye now? Turn around, then. Let me see this gentle-born lady who bites like a she-wolf!”

  Isabella was tall for a woman, a fact much despaired by her grandmother, the dowager Countess, but this man easily stood a head taller. He was lean but there was no question of his strength. He was well suited to the rough life of an outlaw.

  His narrowed gray-green eyes
were sharp with intelligence as he glowered at her. His cheeks were reddened, his face dirty where she had kicked him. She could see the spot above his right eye already swelling. He might even have a black eye by the morning.

  Clad in a brightly patterned mantle, his long hair and beard a fiery red, he looked as wild and fierce as a pagan god.

  For a long moment Isabella could do nothing more than stare up at him.

  Katherine’s whimper broke the spell.

  Isabella brought herself up to her full height.

  “I am Lady Isabella Beaufort, cousin to Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Joan,” she said. She pushed her cloak hood back and shook her thick, dark hair out of her face.

  He blinked and his lips parted slightly.

  She lifted her chin. “Surprised to discover whom you have waylaid, outlaw?”

  He gave a sharp, humorless laugh and wiped at the dirt on his face with the edge of his mantle. He casually brushed at his tunic and sleeves.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Expectin’ me to kneel, are ye?”

  She clasped her hands together so he should not see they were shaking. “I expect only to be treated as my rank demands! I should think even one such as you would understand I am quite valuable.”

  “One such as me.” He nodded as if considering her words then crossed his arms, taking a few leisurely steps forward, his movements graceful for a man so tall.

  He was near enough that Isabella had to tilt her chin to meet his eye.

  “How valuable, lass?”

  “I’faith,” she managed, unnerved by his closeness. “You will be well rewarded if you return me unharmed.”

  He leaned down, his cheek nearly touching hers. His breath was warm against the sensitive skin of her ear as he murmured to her.

  “Returned ye still a maiden, ye mean?”

  Her gaze flew to his face and his gaze was mocking.

  “Dinna waste yer time in worrying, lass,” he said coldly. “I think even one such as me can resist yer charms.”

  Isabella’s face went hot. Her cousin the queen’s delicate, fair-haired beauty was legendary and it was well known King James married her for love and kept no mistress. Unfashionably dark-haired with eyes to match, Isabella had heard often enough from her grandmother how disappointing it was she were not more like Joan.