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  Angel of Fire

  A Medieval Romance

  Tanya Anne Crosby

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books

  Created with Vellum

  To the rise of the Phoenix...

  "with its thousand shades of gold glistening on its plumage ..."

  Praise for Angel of Fire

  “Superb… You won’t be able to put it down.”

  Rendezvous

  * * *

  “Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged...”

  Publishers Weekly

  * * *

  “Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.”

  The Oakland Press

  * * *

  “Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue...”

  Affaire de Coeur

  * * *

  “Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor... Fantastic, tantalizing!”

  Rendezvous

  * * *

  “Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.”

  Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author

  Contents

  The Medieval Heroes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  A Heartfelt Thank You!

  Also by Tanya Anne Crosby

  About the Author

  The Medieval Heroes

  More books in this collection

  Once Upon a Kiss

  Angel Of Fire

  Viking’s Prize

  Chapter One

  The odor wafting throughout the whitewashed hall was that of Gilbert de Lontaine’s favorite dish, pheasant in orange sauce. It was fast becoming a familiar scent, having graced the lord’s table four of the past five eves. The problem was that the lord of de Lontaine was conspicuously absent and his twin daughters sat together in silence, eating the last of the pheasants from their pantry.

  While her sister was all smiles and dimples, Chrestien had never felt more cantankerous. Her sister sat prettily in her chair, enjoying her pheasant and a portion of stewed vegetables with such vigor that Chrestien could but envy her. Her father had always claimed Chrestien was the strong one. But here sat Adelaine, calm and serene, refusing to take part in the fretting, while Chrestien could barely keep down her meal for the war being waged in her belly.

  Three arched doors led from the great hall; one led to the tower rooms, one to the garden, and another to the bailey. Yet another door lay behind the dais, beyond the wooden screen, and that one led to their father’s bedchamber—empty now for the past three months.

  Chrestien stared, unseeing, at the door that led to the bailey, stabbing at her full trencher with keen disappointment. It wasn’t so much that they were out of pheasants that upset her. Her father was not so persnickety that he cared one whit what they served to welcome him home. But his continued absence gave her a queasy feeling in the pit of her belly. And even more harrowing than his absence was the silence that echoed from Rouen.

  At the moment, the great hall bustled with servants; some clearing the trestle tables, while others began the tedious task of removing food bits from the rushes. Because most of the castle’s knights had accompanied their father to Rouen, the lower tables had been cleared and dismantled already, for they had been devoid of occupants to begin with. At the moment, Lontaine was left with a lean garrison—as lean as their pantries would be if their father didn’t return anon.

  Adelaine gave her a sideways frown. “He'll return as soon as his business is concluded, Chrestien. Stop worrying and eat.”

  Chrestien worried the poniard in her hand. “Jesu, 'tis been months now! This is by far the longest he has ever been gone.”

  As bid of him, their father had hastened to the side of Robert Curthose, believing it was the Duke’s right to hold that which was willed to him. Apparently his youngest brother Henry did not agree. Upon his death, the old Conqueror had split his lands between his sons, bequeathing the kingdom of England to Rufus—now dead and some say murdered by Henry—and the Duchy of Normandy to his eldest son Robert. It should have been enough for both to rule contentedly, though it seemed now that Henry craved the Duchy as well. Understandably so. Politically, a division between Normandy and England plagued the barons—many whose families owned estates on both sides of the channel. Certainly, if the dispute could not be settled amicably between the feuding brothers, they would be forced to take their men-at-arms into battle, and it was this possibility that weighed most heavily upon Chrestien's mind.

  Adelaine gave her another a sideways glance and Chrestien said defensively, “I would not be quite so distressed had Curthose not ordered him to raise all his levies before leaving. To me, that stinks of war. I mean, why else would he ask him to do so if he did not believe it would come to blows?”

  Adelaine responded with a patient smile that annoyed Chrestien. “Sister, please. Cease you’re fretting… in truth, Papa could come sauntering through those doors any moment.”

  “One can hope,” Chrestien returned. “But we both know 'tis unlikely.”

  Adelaine made a great show of carving a generous portion of the pheasant before them, and placed it within her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, then licked her fingers, casting Chrestien a forbearing glance. “A silly man lies awake at night, thinking of many things. When the morning comes, he is worn with care and his trouble is still there.”

  Chrestien resisted the urge to cover her ears. “Please! Do not begin that anew. If I hear aught more of those silly Northmen’s ramblings, I shall go mad!”

  Adelaine waved her eating dagger in admonishment. “How do you suppose Papa would feel if you died of hunger long before he could chance to return?”

  Chrestien rolled her eyes. “No one ever perished for lack of a single meal,” she argued. “Anyway, I am heartily sick of pheasant.” She pushed her trencher away. “I am quite content to go without supper tonight.” She laid her poniard down upon the table and Adelaine finally lost her calm.

  “Fie!” her sister exclaimed. “You worry overmuch.”

  “And you too little,” Chrestien returned, pleased at least to have brought a bit of a rosy blush to Adelaine’s cheeks.

  God's truth, why must she always fret alone?

  Sudden shouts resounded from beyond Lontaine’s twelve-foot-thick masonry walls and the castle guards bellowed in reply.

  More shouts came from the bailey, and the twins’ smiles brightened concurrently as they acknowledged the clamor.

  “See! I told you so!” Adelaine declared. Her eyes gleamed with pure delight.

 
Excited, and not the least interested in I-told-you-sos, Chrestien bolted from her seat, wrenching Adelaine from hers. Together they made their way from the great hall into the bailey, not even pausing long enough for Adelaine to fully gain her balance. In fact, Chrestien was nearly dragging her gentle sister in her wake, so delirious was she at the thought of their father’s return. Adelaine, torn between joy and exasperation over Chrestien’s treatment, snatched her hand from the pinching grip and stopped to brush dinner crumbs from her blue sendal skirt, eager to be presentable for her father. Once she was done, and in her own good time, she hastened after Chrestien.

  Out in the bailey, the villein had already gathered about the castle gates, but they swept to one side to yield a clear path for the master’s cherished twins. A hush fell across the courtyard as the drawbridge lowered and fell with a crash. One lone rider clapped over the drawbridge. A feeling of dread passed over Chrestien as their father’s squire emerged from shadows and mist.

  Chrestien eyed her sister apprehensively, knots of trepidation forming in her belly as Aubert’s eyes forewarned her of his words...

  Dismounting, his look dark, Gilbert de Lontaine's squire moved toward the lord’s young daughters, despising the task now before him. Once he stood before them, he was silent a moment while he formed the words he knew would devastate both. With a swoop of his hand, he wiped the gathering beads of perspiration from his brow, wincing over the pain of his own loss. With some effort, he kept his composure and spoke to them softly, his eyes revealing all the sorrow that was in his heart. “My ladies… ’tis a most dismal message I bring...”

  His gaze fell upon Chrestien. Somehow, to draw upon her strength made his missive a degree easier. Although before he could speak another word, Adelaine swooned. Chrestien’s arms went out to catch her sister as though she’d anticipated the response. She sank to her knees, pulling Adelaine down along with her, and there she sat cradling her sister’s head in her lap as she awaited Aubert’s dreaded next words.

  “Your father was felled at Tinchebrai,” he acknowledged. “The Duke was captured, as were many. Were it not for the grace of our Lord God... and... your father...” He shook his head mournfully. “I’d never have escaped with my own life.”

  Chrestien sat unmoving, clutching her sister.

  “Henry attacked with his Wolf.”

  She visibly shuddered at the mention of the much-feared name, for Henry’s slaughterer was well known to all, from the remotest woodlands to the farthest shores. Entire villages had been burned in his wake.

  “When the silver banner came into view, many of our troops turned and fled,” he said. “Your father did not. He stood his ground... fought... died honorably.”

  Chrestien peered up at him at last. He studied her face for some sign that she would swoon as Adelaine had, but the only features to betray her pain were those deep smoky eyes. There were no tears, but the sadness in their depths was heart wrenching. He would carry her burden if he could.

  In silence, he bent to lift Adelaine into his arms. And in silence, Chrestien rose to lead the way to their tower chamber. Aubert followed, bearing Adelaine’s limp form, and together, in grim silence, the three of them ascended the short timber stairs to the great hall.

  Inside, the servants had all returned to their chores, busying themselves with the clearing of the evening meal. They carefully avoided Chrestien’s gaze. Already the news had swept throughout the castle and none could bear to look into their mistress’ face, for no matter how much they cared for their master, they loved his daughters all the more.

  Woodenly, Chrestien removed a lighted pitch torch from its brace and led the way up a flight of winding stone steps to her bower. Once there, she placed the torch into a wall brace, while Aubert laid Adelaine onto the finely curtained bed. Chrestien's shoulders shook slightly as he passed her by and she made a pitiful choked sound. Aubert realized she was fighting tears and he gave her a moment’s privacy, avoiding her gaze.

  Without a word, he placed Adelaine upon the bed and watched helplessly as Chrestien came to her side and sat, lovingly stroking Adelaine’s face.

  Embarrassed, he averted his eyes from his sisters’ bed.

  Gilbert and his daughters were not aware that Aubert knew the truth of his birth—and he had never been allowed to enter their bower before. He felt as though, somehow, he betrayed Gilbert by being here now.

  Gilbert de Lontaine had been fiercely protective of his daughters, keeping everyone from them so diligently that there were few outside the castle walls who even knew them to be twins. Most believed Adelaine was his only child, and that seemed to suit Chrestien well enough as she fancied to remain unwed. Gilbert, not surprisingly, had expressed a likeness in thought, for he had confessed more than once to Aubert that he’d feared for Chrestien’s wellbeing, should she end with an impatient man. While Gilbert had loved them both dearly, Chrestien was his favorite by far, and he had little borne the thought of any man mistreating her because of her high spirits. He’d oft likened her to a beautiful wild filly and was loath to break her. Thus, he had taken it upon himself to become her lifelong protector—a role he had welcomed without reservation, for despite her willfulness, Chrestien was the lifeblood that ran through the veins of this demesne. She was the delight of all who knew her.

  A muffled cry from Chrestien interrupted Aubert’s thoughts and he turned to wipe a wayward tear from his eye, not wishing her to see it. He couldn’t recall ever hearing her cry before and to hear her now spurred his own tears. He had grown to love Gilbert’s daughters—his half sisters—and to see them both in such despair did naught but torment him. The room was silent and gray. Night had fallen and the chill air crept into his bones—a chill that could not be diminished by the dying fire in the brazier.

  With her back to him, Chrestien choked on her words and then asked once she composed herself, “What of Aleth de Montagneaux? Did he escape as well?”

  There was resentment in Aubert’s tone. “Aleth did not go to Tinchebrai, my lady.” But Gilbert had known and seemed not to fault the man for his wavering allegiance to Robert, so it was not Aubert’s place to judge.

  * * *

  Chrestien nodded, her breath catching on a sob.

  Now she remembered.

  Her father had said Aleth would not make this fight his own—at least Adelaine would have Aleth to turn to. Neither she nor Adelaine knew him well, but her father had loved de Montagneaux, and they held their lands in fealty to him. Chrestien could only reason that if her father had liked him so well, there must be just cause for it.

  Unfortunately, she and Adelaine had met him but twice—in times long past—though if her memory served her well enough, he was a kindly man. Twenty years her father’s junior, Aleth was possessed of an appealing face as well as a jovial disposition. And in fact, her father had once offered Adelaine’s hand in marriage and Aleth had declined, only because he was promised elsewhere, but he had never wed his coveted bride and now it seemed he was alone as well.

  Even if they could hold these lands without a man, these were not times of peace. Adelaine could not stay here without a man to protect her. Neither could Chrestien, for that matter, but her fate was not the same as that of her gentle sister’s.

  She thought about Aleth de Montagneaux and tried hard to recall anything she could. It was so long ago. But the first time they’d met the man, they’d played their little game, swearing their father to confidence and pretending to be one and the same person—a game her father seemed to enjoy no matter how oft it was engaged.

  Adelaine had shared a trencher with Aleth for a short time, and then had excused herself. Chrestien had returned in her place, donning a like gown, though she had been so hungry she had nearly given herself away, stuffing herself with the fervor of an animal starved. Aleth had noticed naught about the fact that he was sitting next to someone entirely new. That he thought she’d eaten enough for two merely amused him. Their father had laughed heartily over it.

&nb
sp; Of course, Aleth had visited Lontaine more oft than that, although not much, and her father had always banished Chrestien and Adelaine to their bower until their guests had departed.

  Still, from what she could recall, Aleth was amiable enough, and Chrestien hoped he would be a kind husband to Adelaine. Surely he would consider a marriage proposal now? These were once his lands, after all, and he would want them returned if at all possible. Holding Lontaine would surely strengthen his claim to the land.

  “Aubert, are you certain about Papa?” She needed to be one hundred percent sure that her father was truly gone before setting her plan into motion.

  Aubert nodded. “I saw him fall with mine own eyes.”

  Chrestien covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders shook softly. Aubert stood awkwardly, wanting to go to her but unable to comfort her as a true brother would.

  He knew she was struggling with the news. He could scarcely believe it himself, even though he had come straight from the scene of Gilbert’s death.

  He had, in fact, seen Gilbert fall, though ’twas a mystery as to how. His father was a skilled warrior and he’d had at least one other besides Aubert to guard his back—one of twenty hired men that Aleth had offered Gilbert in lieu of answering Curthose’s call for banners. Aleth had made no bones about his absence from Tinchebrai. He didn’t believe Curthose would win and he had too much to lose under Henry’s reign. It had been a gamble, for certain, because he could not have known that Henry would prevail. If it had been any other lord, Curthose would have crushed him on the way to Tinchebrai, but Montagneaux’s holdings were hardly meager, and even Curthose feared him. Now it seemed Aleth was the wiser man for Gilbert was dead, and Montagneaux had lost but twenty men—men that were vested in Gilbert’s livery so Henry was none the wiser.