Warrior's Woman

WARRIOR’S WOMAN

By

Leah Lawson

( c ) copyright by Madris DePasture writing as Leah Lawon

Cover Art by Jenny Dixon

ISBN 1-58608-

Smashwords Edition

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

There was no reward for virtue in the life fate had handed her, Roslyn reflected bitterly.

Her fellow troubadours had been outraged when they had finally stopped running long enough to discover why they’d been chased from the dubious comfort of Castle Kilkane. The lord of the castle had thought to bestow his favor upon her and she had had the temerity to scorn him? Who did she think she was? A bleedin’ lady?

The question of whether or not they would even allow her to remain with the troupe had been up for debate for many miles. It was only Gilly’s reminder that she’d landed them the gig in the first place that had finally decided the matter in her favor, but she had been forewarned. If the next lord of the manor decided to favor her, she had best grit her teeth and let him toss her skirts over her head, otherwise she need not think she would be traveling with them anymore.

A ragged shout of excitement went up from her fellow travelers. With an effort, Roslyn lifted her head and peered through the sleet toward the keep they were approaching, resisting the urge to blow on her freezing fingers to warm them lest it remind those around her that she was the reason they were all freezing, weary unto death, and starving.

A dark, hulking shape rose up from the crag overlooking the moor.

It was Montrose, the lair of the dark lord, Roland Montague.

* * * *

Roslyn shivered, but it was more than the cold seeping through her ragged clothing. The villagers in the little town they had left behind had not merely been bursting with the news that nobles from half the kingdom were gathering at Castle Montrose for a wedding celebration. They had been eager to impart the dark rumors that surrounded the lord himself, Roland Montague, brother of the groom.

Bloodshed had gained him his holdings, but it was said that he had been cursed for the evil he had brought upon the land with his army, his manhood withered in the flower of his youth and that malady had only made him more cruel.

The young bride he had taken shortly after he had become lord had met an untimely and mysterious death.

A wave of nausea rolled over Roslyn with that thought.

She was more than passingly familiar with the ways a cruel man could invent to rid himself of an unwanted bride. She would not have been where she was now except for similar circumstances, and the fact that her own husband had been no great hand at subtlety. Thrice, he’d beaten her nigh to death and three times she had lost the seed he had sown in her, and yet neither the beatings nor the miscarriages had achieved his ends.

She had her kinsman to thank for the poison, for when they had warned him point blank that they would not tolerate the murder of their kinswoman, Rolphe had simply decided that subtlety was needed. He might have succeeded save for the fact that her nurse was well versed in poisons and he had been too impatient to administer the poison slowly, so that she appeared to be sickening.

She had fled then, knowing her life was forfeit if she stayed, fearing it would be forfeit anyway, for she had no notion of how to fend for herself in the world. Fortune had favored her when she had stumbled upon the troupe and they had taken her in, but the fear was never far from her that they would cross paths at some noble’s keep.

He might not recognize the girl he had once called his wife, in any event. Nearly eighteen now and no longer in the first blush of youth, she had grown nigh three inches in the two years since she had fled. Between the late spurt of growth and the scarcity of food, she had lost the plumpness that had once been hers and gained the lithe body of the dancer she had become. Her hair, once a pale, faded brown, had been lightened to a bright auburn with the lye she applied to it regularly.

She had had cause to regret that bit of cleverness for it had drawn unwelcome attention more than once, but it was not something that could be easily undone once done. In any case, she wasn’t entirely easy in her mind that her disguise was proof against detection as it was should she encounter the man she had lived with for more than two years and it seemed more prudent to err on the side of caution.

The lord of Kilkane had been the first who’d sought her out and tried force when persuasion had failed. Before, she’d managed to evade the amorous attentions of those whose eye she’d caught.

Perhaps, she thought, lifting her head to study the castle looming above them like a great, hulking beast of prey, Lord Roland’s infirmity would be enough protection.

They saw long before they reached it that the main gate had already been locked tight against the approaching night and the party moved off the road and made their way around the castle through the deepening gloom to the postern gate. There they were ordered to wait while the steward was sent for. No one spoke as they huddled together for warmth, too weary with cold and footsore to feel like bolstering their flagging spirits with conversation.

It was full dark and by Roslyn’s reckoning, an hour had passed before the steward finally arrived, peering down at them from the wall above. Braun, the leader of their little troupe, stepped forward at once and sketched a courteous bow. We were told in the village that there is to be a wedding celebration at Montrose Castle and have come to offer our services as entertainment.

The steward took a torch and leaned out, peering down at the huddled group. How many of you are there and what can you offer?

Seven—three are musicians, two dancers, two tumblers and jugglers.

The steward mulled that over for several moments. No singers?

Two of our members can sing.

How is it that you find yourselves without a patron in the middle of the winter? the steward asked sharply.

Roslyn shifted uncomfortably.

Our place was usurped by a troop with a dancing bear, Braun lied promptly.

The steward seemed satisfied with that. After haggling with Braun for some moments over the pay, he gestured that they might enter and everyone surged forward as they heard the groan as the gate began to slowly open. The castle is full to bursting at the seams now and barely half the guests have arrived, the steward told them as he led them through the nether regions of the castle. You will be fortunate indeed if you can find space on the floor to bed down and do not have to sleep on your feet. You’ll have to hurry if you expect to be fed.

Thus adjured, they ignored their half frozen limbs and hurried to keep up as the steward led them at last to the great hall where the diners were finishing their meal. Almost as they entered the great hall, the din of hundreds of voices petered to a halt as someone—Roslyn thought it must be Lord Roland—rose from his seat at the high table and bellowed a command for silence. His first words confirmed it. "After a great deal of consideration, I have come at last to a decision regarding my estate. Unless fortune should chose