Medieval 01 - Untamed

wooden palisades whose weaknesses Dominic’s keen glance catalogued in a single moment.
    At least John had the sense to dig a wide, deep moat to slow attackers. Even so, the keep is too vulnerable. A few buckets of Greek fire against the palisades and the outer wall would be breached. The keep itself would last no longer than the knights’ ability to endure thirst .
    Unless there is a well within the keep itself…. If not, I will see to that lack immediately .
    Dominic looked again at the looming stone structure astride the hill that was struggling to turn green. A gatehouse had been set into the partially completed outer wall. The bridge over the moat had yet to be lowered.
    â€œWhere is the gatekeeper?” Simon demanded. “Are we expected to lay siege?”
    â€œPatience, brother,” Dominic said sardonically. “John deserves our pity more than our anger.”
    â€œI’d rather put my gauntlet in his Saxon face.”
    â€œYou may get the chance.”
    â€œDo I have your vow on that, my liege?” Simon retorted.
    Dominic’s laughter was as hard as the metal of his helm.
    â€œPoor John of Cumbriland,” Dominic said. “His father and grandfather couldn’t hold back the Norman tide. Nor could he. Now he is dying of a wasting disease and has only a female for an heir. What a pitiable state. One might almost think him cursed.”
    â€œHe is.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Before Simon could answer, a slow grating of chain and cogs announced the lowering of the drawbridge.
    â€œAh,” Dominic said with savage satisfaction. “Our sullen Saxon has decided to bow to his Norman peers. Tell the rest of my knights to come forward quickly.”
    â€œOn their war-horses?”
    â€œYes. Intimidation now could save us bloodshed later.”
    Dominic’s cool assessment of tactics came as no surprise to Simon. Despite Dominic’s courage and skill in battle, he had none of the blood lust that some knights did. Rather, Dominic was as cold as a Norse winter when he fought. It was the secret of his success, and quite unsettling to knights who had never encountered such discipline.
    Just as Simon turned his horse toward the forest, Dominic called out to him.
    â€œWhat is this about John not outlasting the wedding feast?” Dominic asked.
    â€œHe’s far more ill than we knew.”
    There was silence followed by the sound of a mailed fist meeting a mailed thigh.
    â€œThen hurry, brother,” Dominic said sharply. “I want no funeral to interfere with my marriage.”
    â€œI wonder if Lady Margaret is as eager to wed as you?”
    â€œEager or dragging feet like a donkey, it matters not. My heir will be born by Easter next.”

2
    A LONE IN HER ROOM ON THE fourth floor of the keep, Meg unlaced her overtunic and tossed the worn russet wool cloth onto her bed. Her floor-length inner tunic quickly followed. The cross she wore around her neck gleamed like liquid silver in the candlelight. With each step she took, dried rushes, herbs, and last summer’s flowers rustled underfoot. Hurriedly she pulled on the simple tunic and coat of a commoner’s daughter.
    A woman’s laughter floated up from the great hall on the floor below. Meg held her breath and prayed that Eadith was too busy flirting with Duncan to bother about asking after her mistress’s needs. Eadith’s constant chatter about Lord Dominic’s brutal strength and cold demeanor had worn Meg’s nerves.
    She didn’t want to hear any more. She wouldn’t even be presented to her future husband until the wedding tomorrow because her father said he was too weak to leave his bed. Meg didn’t know if that was true. She did know that she would be married tomorrow to a man whom she had seen for the first time only yesterday.
    The wedding was being rushed too much forMeg’s peace of mind. The vision of Dominic le Sabre condensing out of the mist astride a savage battle stallion had haunted her sleep. She had no desire to lie in pain beneath a cold warrior while he planted his seed within her infertile body.
    And she had no doubt it would be an infertile, painful mating. Denying the harsh knight any children would be small recompense for a future spent being harrowed by a harsh Norman plow.
    Chills coursed through Meg’s blood at the thought of it. For many years she had known what had driven her Glendruid mother to walk into the forest and