him, her face ablaze with a look of such searing, hate-filled defiance that he felt the unfamiliar urge to take a step back.
He took a pace forward instead, claiming even more ground as he waited for her to drop her gaze and turn away, but she didn’t move, didn’t even flinch at the challenge. What had de Ravenell called her—a girl? No, she was no girl, in her early twenties he guessed, though from the look of her, if she didn’t surrender soon, there’d be naught left but a ghost. The rain was heavier now, casting a murky veil over the space between them, but the effects of the siege were all too evident in her emaciated appearance. Her eyes were too big, the shadowy circles around them too dark against her pale skin, her cheekbones too sharply prominent in her narrow face. Yet he could still feel the heat of her gaze, as if she were channelling all that remained of her energy into that one look of defiance, more eloquent than any words. Something about that look, in the determined set of her jaw and her resolute posture, caught his attention and held it. She looked like a Celtic queen, rebellious and undaunted, the long coils of her red hair tumbling loose over the parapet wall in front of her, the only splash of colour against drab, unrelenting grey. For a fleeting moment, he found himself wishing that they were on the same side of the battlements...
He tensed, surprised by a stirring sensation deep in his chest. He’d seen sieges enough to consider himself hardened to their effects, but this woman’s wraithlike appearance disturbed him more than he would have expected. He was accustomed to being the observer, not the observed, used to opponents dropping their eyes in front of him, but she held his gaze like the Empress herself. Standing on the ramparts, windswept and buffeted by the elements, she looked as though she’d rather throw herself into the moat below than concede defeat. He had the distinct impression that she’d stand there as long as it took for him to look away.
Well, he could allow her that victory at least.
‘So you have a girl holding the castle.’ He rounded on de Ravenell. ‘Yet you never thought to attack? You have two siege engines. Why haven’t you used them?’
‘I saw no point risking men in an assault.’ The Baron looked taken aback. ‘A siege was the safest approach.’
‘Under normal circumstances I’d agree, but you were ordered to secure the castle by the fastest means possible.’
‘She can’t hold out much longer.’
‘That’s still too long for the Empress. Where are your trenches?’
‘My...what?’
‘Tunnels. Have you tried to dig under their walls?’
‘The moat’s too wide!’
‘You’ve had four months. You could have dug a tunnel all the way under the river by now.’
‘How dare you?’ the Baron spluttered angrily. ‘I’ve done everything that could possibly be expected of me. The Empress knows me and my abilities. Who are you? Nothing but an ill-bred, peasant upstart!’
Lothar’s expression didn’t waver. He knew well enough what Matilda’s high-born supporters called him behind his back, though he rarely met one foolish enough to say the same to his face. When the time came, he’d have more than one score to settle with Sir Guian de Ravenell. He was starting to look forward to it.
‘I’m the peasant upstart sent to finish your job,’ he countered smoothly, ‘but you’re right, the Empress knows all about your abilities. That’s why I’m here.’
The Baron puffed his cheeks out and then seemed to deflate suddenly. ‘Well, I don’t see what can be done about it now.’
‘Then let me tell you.’ Lothar gestured towards a range of oaks on a nearby hillside. ‘First, you’re going to order your men to cut down those trees. Second, you’re going to have them build a bridge and battering ram. Third, you’re going to attack.’
‘What? When?’
‘Dawn tomorrow.’
‘But we can’t! Even if we manage to cross the moat, the walls are too steep. We can’t possibly scale them.’
‘Then you’ll need to build ladders as well.’ Lothar gave a cynical half-smile. ‘Don’t worry, Sir Guian, you’ll still get your chance to impress the Empress. You’ll be the one leading the assault.’
He turned on his heel abruptly, calling out orders to his soldiers as de Ravenell gawped after him. In truth, he had absolutely no intention of letting the man lead anything, but the look of horror on his face was a small form of revenge, the very least he could do for Lady Juliana.
Had she noticed? He stole another glance up at the battlements, but she was staring past him, out into the distance as if she were searching for something. Help most likely, though if she were waiting for Stephen then she’d be waiting a long time. He narrowed his eyes as he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows behind her. The glint of an arrow, the distinctive curve of a bow... His lips curled upwards appreciatively. It seemed that Lady Juliana wasn’t quite the easy target he’d taken her for. Her archer must have been there all along, guarding her back the whole time de Ravenell had been urging him to shoot. Not bad for a girl. She might make a worthy opponent after all.
He came to a halt finally, taking up a position opposite the gatehouse. This was the newest part of the castle, twenty feet high, with a heavy oak drawbridge and sloped walls at the base to deter an assault. It would be madness to launch an attack from here, but a battering ram would keep the castle garrison diverted whilst he led an assault from the river, the side that they wouldn’t expect.
If it came to it, though he’d try a different approach first, one his own code of honour demanded. Would she listen to him? For her own sake, and for reasons he didn’t even understand himself, he hoped so.
‘Lady Juliana?’ he called up to the battlements, his deep voice reverberating loudly off the thick, stone walls. ‘Empress Matilda sends greetings.’
Lady Juliana Danville leant over the parapet wall and let loose a volley of unladylike sentiments. If she’d learnt anything during her brief tenure as chatelaine, it was a far more colourful vocabulary than that of a typical Earl’s daughter, even for one who’d grown up with only a father and soldiers for company. She didn’t use the words very often, but looking down at the raven-haired stranger below, she couldn’t think of anything more fitting to say.
‘My lady?’ The archer behind her sounded shocked.
‘Oh... Sorry, Edgar. Nothing.’
She bit her tongue, her whole attention absorbed in the scene of activity below. Since the stranger’s arrival an hour before, the whole atmosphere of the enemy camp seemed to have changed, become seized with a new sense of energy and purpose, so that the air itself now seemed to crackle and hum with tension.
Why? She narrowed her gaze as if his appearance alone might somehow reveal the answer. Who was he?
He was talking to de Ravenell, apparently about the castle, though his face displayed no more emotion than if they were simply discussing the weather. He looked forbidding and yet, she had to admit, ruggedly handsome, too, with strong, chiselled features marred only by a pale scar running like a streak of white lightning down
