The Maiden And The Warrior. Jacqueline Navin

who is not unused to doing the dinner dishes and tucking the kids into bed. However, finding time to do the laundry—that’s a problem.

      

      Jacqueline would love to hear from readers. Please write to her at this address: c/o P.O. Box 1611, Bel Air, MD 21014.

      To my parents, John and Patricia Lepore, for their unequivocal support and for teaching me an important lesson in real-life love.

      

      To my children, Kelly, Lindsey and Lucas, whom I adore beyond imagining.

      

      And to Mick, without whom I could never have done it. For your faith and strength and unfailing belief in me, I thank you. YOU are one in a thousand.

      

       Chapter One

       England, 1180

      Lucien de Montregnier stood over his opponent, his sword pressed against the tender flesh of the other’s neck so that the wicked edge raised a thin line of blood. Every fiber in his body was alive, humming with emotion, his mind exploding with a heady mixture of bitterness and joy. This moment, the one for which he had waited an eternity, was at last here. He had dreamed of it for so very long that the intensity filled him with exquisite, almost painful, rapture. His breath came in great gulps and a thunderous pulse pounded in his ears, but his hand was steady.

      His captive said, “I will pay any ransom you demand.”

      De Montregnier grinned, feeling a surge of victory that left him trembling. “I have enough riches,” he replied.

      He could see by Edgar du Berg’s sly expression that his mind was racing over possibilities. Patiently Lucien waited, watching every nuance of the other man’s face, savoring the intoxicating knowledge that he had this man, his long-despised enemy, at his mercy.

      Apparently du Berg decided on his tactic, saying, “Let us bargain, like reasonable men. I have no quarrel with you. I do not even know who you are. You have attacked me without cause, and have fought for two days. You were very clever to strike the day after my wedding, when my men and I are the worse for the night’s revelries. I can tell you, that is why it was so easy for you to breach the outer walls.”

      “You are lazy, du Berg, and too sure of your tyranny. That is why I defeated you.”

      Edgar spread his hands out before him. “What I do not understand is your challenge to settle the matter between us. You had already won. Why did you wish to fight me alone?”

      “Alone?” Lucien drawled, jerking his head to the tree line to his left. Beyond the clearing, Edgar had his men in hiding.

      Du Berg tried to laugh. “You did not truly think I would come unescorted. What if it were a trap?”

      “You excel at deceit, du Berg, but your men do not bother me as long as they do not interfere. In fact, I have made certain that they will not. You see, behind them, a bit farther into the woods, I have a few men of my own. Have you not wondered why they have not come to rescue you?”

      The widened eyes and dropped jaw of his adversary were satisfying. Until this moment, Lucien realized, the bastard had not really thought himself in danger.

      “You do not fight fair!” du Berg cried. He was losing the thin veneer of control that had fed his bravado thus far.

      “I have merely evened the game. It is just you and I, as it should be, for the matter we have to settle is personal.”

      “Who the devil are you?” du Berg shouted. His voice cracked with strain.

      Lucien held his gaze for an interminable period. Taking a deep, uneven breath, he said, “Do you recall the name de Montregnier?”

      Du Berg’s face registered puzzlement, realization and, finally, naked fear. “You are the boy. Raoul’s son. I thought you dead.”

      “You should have gone with more reputable murderers,” Lucien rasped. “They saw a second purse in selling me as a slave. They sent me to hell, du Berg, and like the demon I have been called, I have returned.”

      Du Berg tried to scrabble backward, but an increase in the pressure of Lucien’s blade stopped him. Pinned, the man froze, his Adam’s apple bobbing precariously as he swallowed. “Do you want Thalsbury back? I can give it to you.”

      “I will have it in any case.”

      “De Montregnier, listen to me,” du Berg rushed, “I will restore your lands. Think on it—’tis a good offer. The days of anarchy are gone. King Henry will not appreciate his nobles killing themselves in revenge wars. You may do better to deal with me.”

      “I would just as soon deal with the devil,” de Montregnier answered.

      “Be reasonable, man! I can give you more alive than dead. You will never succeed—we have common law now in England.”

      Lucien’s voice was very quiet, almost soft, as if he were imparting an endearment. “For my father’s life, I will take revenge. And for my own losses, I shall take everything that was yours for my own.”

      Du Berg’s mouth worked mutely, sweat pouring in rivulets from his temples. De Montregnier saw the intent on Edgar’s face even before a single muscle twitched. In a sudden move, he knocked aside de Montregnier’s weapon and lunged forward, reaching for a concealed dagger and bringing it to bear with a flash of reflected light as bright as a torch in the night.

      Lucien stepped aside at the last moment and the deadly thrust slashed harmlessly through the air. Du Berg staggered back, still brandishing his blade. He shouted, “What do you want?”

      “Your death,” Lucien answered, and in one swift motion brought his sword up and then down again in a controlled arc. The blow landed with a satisfying whack! and a spray of blood, nesting the blade deep into Edgar’s side.

      Eyes wide, he stared at Lucien. Not angry or afraid, simply surprised. Then, slowly, pain flooded his features and his eyes rolled up into his head as he collapsed.

      Dispassionately de Montregnier yanked out his sword. He stood very still for a moment, staring down at Edgar’s crumpled form. It was a long time before he turned away.

      Edgar’s men ran forward. Without a glance, Lucien mounted, calling over his shoulder, “See that he is buried. Have the grave blessed if you can find a priest that will do it, but do not bring the body back to Gastonbury. The barony is mine now, and I’ll not have his rotting flesh despoiling the land any longer.”

      

      Alayna of Avenford stood among the crowd gathered in the bailey of Gastonbury Castle. It had been a long day, one she had spent tending the wounded in the makeshift infirmary set up in the chapel. After two days of war—and that coming so quick on the heels of her disastrous wedding—she was numb, but with fatigue or relief, she was not sure. The news had come hours ago that the Lord of Gastonbury had been defeated by the leader of the attacking army, and, God have mercy on her, she was glad.

      Edgar was dead, yes, and a blessing it was, but she had only to look at the faces of those around her to realize that her providence was their tragedy. These were the families of the wounded and the dead, facing an uncertain future at the hands of their conqueror.

      A hand fumbled for hers, and she looked to see her nurse, Eurice. The older woman’s face was lined with worry. “Sweetling,” she whispered.

      Alayna shook her head. “Rest easy. I am well.”

      Eurice’s sharp eyes were troubled and searching. It was not difficult to surmise what was worrying her. “He did not harm me, Eurice. In fact, Edgar could not even remove his clothing, he was so far gone with drink. By the time he came up to the chamber, he was