By Right of Arms Read Free

dower purse from her Flemish father. The marriage took place and the dowry was given to the Sire de Pourvre, the vows to be consummated when Aurélie and Giles reached maturity. Two years later the old Sire had died and Aurélie had grown up with her husband. It was all she knew and held dear. Giles suffered the ridicule of many, but he was the only man to whom she had ever been close.
    She heard the sound of the bridge as it was lowered before she could see any change in the scenery. Within moments a single rider carrying the de Pourvre banner rode alone toward the advancing army and the English slowed to a stop. As she watched, she prayed, not for victory, for that was impossible. “Holy Mother of God, let us live.”
    Guillaume came up beside her and again took her elbow in his large, strong hand. She did not look at him, for if she saw fear on his face, she too would weaken. She licked her wind-dried lips and held her jaw tight, waiting.
    The rider stopped ahead of the army and the knights separated to let their leader advance. Only a few words could have been exchanged when Aurélie saw the English leader draw out and raise his broadsword. The metal flashed in the sunlight. She gasped in sudden terror. She expected to see her messenger’s head roll upon the turf, but instead she saw the English knight dismount and plunge his broadsword into the ground. The messenger turned and began riding back to the castle, while the English army held fast behind their leader.
    Aurélie looked at Sir Guillaume. “The English bastard is confident,” he growled.
    “He can well afford his confidence, Guillaume,” she replied somewhat sadly. “Let us see what he demands.”
    The distance from the tower to the courtyard was great and Aurélie arrived just as the gate was opening for her messenger. She was satisfied to see that Guillaume had sent one of their strongest archers and not a boy who might, in fear, have garbled the message. The man fell to one knee before Sir Guillaume and Aurélie. She braced herself for the news.
    “The Sire de Pourvre has fallen, my lady,” he reported. “Dead by the English blade. ’Tis Sir Hyatt Laidley, knight of Edward, who claims De la Noye by right of arms.”
    Aurélie felt her stomach jump up to swallow her heart and a dull gray began to envelop her. She swayed slightly against Guillaume, but would not let herself swoon. In her soul she screamed—
Giles! My Giles, my husband! My beloved friend.
But she straightened and lifted her chin, holding back the painful tears she wished to shed.
    “Are there survivors?” she asked, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.
    “Some, madame. They travel toward us under English guard. There are more of the English than those. This army is only his advance. This knight, Laidley, will hold his troops until you are given word of your husband’s death. He says it is his intention to offer you decent retirement for yourself and …” He paused a moment and then, looking down, continued, “Yourself and your heirs, if you will surrender the hall and lands.”
    Aurélie’s pain was like the point of a dagger; her eyes brightened with tears. “Did you tell the English bastard that the lady of this hall is barren and has no heir?” she asked bitterly.
    The messenger did not bother to answer but simply looked to the dirt at his feet. Aurélie had asked the question knowing full well that none of her people would speak personally of her, most especially to a conquering force. “My lady, I pray you beware; he carries the bend sinister on his shield. He is a bastard true.”
    Aurélie gave a short, bitter laugh and turned her watering eyes to Sir Guillaume. “Mother of Christ, there are so many bastards born.” Her knees threatened to give way and spill her to the ground. She felt Guillaume’s hand move to her waist to hold her. He feared that she was becoming distraught. What matter her absence of children when her life and all the lives within her