‘Lady Juliana?’ The stranger hailed her in an accent she didn’t recognise. ‘Empress Matilda sends greetings. Will you discuss terms?’
For a stunned moment she thought she’d misheard him. A besieging army usually offered terms only once, were under no obligation to do so again. After that, if the castle fell, its inhabitants and their possessions became fair game. She’d already been to negotiate terms with de Ravenell at the start of the siege, venturing out under a flag of truce that had failed to provide any protection whatsoever. She’d told him exactly what he could do with his terms, though her mind shied away from the memory of that encounter. She certainly wasn’t going to trust one of the Empress’s men so easily again.
And yet...unbelievable as it seemed, this stranger was actually offering her a second chance, probably a last chance to save her men if the castle fell. No matter what her debt to Stephen, how could she refuse such an offer? Besides which, he’d definitely said terms, not surrender. The word gave her hope. If the Empress was prepared to open negotiations again then surely it meant she had some new offer, something besides outright surrender, something that might buy them some time?
‘Lady Juliana?’
The stranger repeated her name and she gave a start, realising that she still hadn’t answered.
‘I’m Lady Juliana.’
‘Are you willing to discuss terms or not, my lady?’
His voice sounded devoid of emotion and for a moment she was tempted to throw the offer back in his face just to see a response. He even looked like a statue, she thought resentfully, as if he hardly cared how she answered. Probably he didn’t. Whether she agreed to negotiate or not likely meant nothing to him, but if she refused then she’d be risking more than just the bridge. She’d be risking the lives of everyone inside the castle and she couldn’t do that. She was the one who’d got them into this position and she was the one who had to find a way out—had to hear what the Empress was offering at least.
‘Stay there!’
She whirled away from the parapet, hauling her tunic up to her knees as she raced down the tower steps, moving quickly so she wouldn’t have time to reconsider. If she were going to discuss terms—if—she needed to speak with him face-to-face, needed to look into his eyes to see if she could trust him first.
‘Prepare to lower the drawbridge!’ she called out to the door warden from the stairwell.
‘Lady Juliana!’ Her Constable, Ulf, seemed to appear out of nowhere, scowling from beneath a thatch of unruly white hair. ‘You can’t go outside.’
‘Only on to the drawbridge.’
‘I have to protest.’ He followed after her as she dodged around him. ‘It’s too risky.’
‘I won’t go far.’
‘He looks dangerous.’
She made a non-committal sound. She could hardly disagree with that, but she wasn’t about to admit it either. She’d no intention of being intimidated by any man, either the stranger or her Constable.
‘He won’t hurt me while he’s wearing the Empress’s crest.’ She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. ‘You can aim as many weapons at him as you like, just don’t shoot unless you have to.’
‘I still have to protest...’
‘It’s not your decision, it’s mine! I’m the chatelaine, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, my lady...’
‘Then it’s my choice, isn’t it?’
The Constable sighed. ‘As you wish, my lady, if you’re certain.’
‘I am.’ She made a swift gesture to the door warden, steeling her nerve as the heavy oak drawbridge creaked reluctantly and then started to descend.
‘I’ll be watching, my lady.’
‘I know you will, Ulf.’ She took up a position under the archway and threw a conciliatory look over her shoulder. ‘I do appreciate your concern, but this won’t take long. I’m only going to find out what he wants, that’s all.’
She turned around again, ardently hoping that she was telling the truth.
Juliana took a second look at the stranger and decided that she’d changed her mind. He was standing exactly where she’d last seen him on the far side of the moat, immense and foreboding, the very intensity of his gaze seeming to bore a hole through the mist between them.
A mistake. She caught her breath unsteadily. This had definitely been a mistake. Outside the protection of the castle walls she felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable, like a roe deer being stalked by a wolf. If this man were truly as dangerous as he looked, then she wouldn’t stand a chance. Ulf was right. It was too risky... That thought alone gave her courage. If she turned and fled now, then she might as well admit that she wasn’t strong enough to be chatelaine in her own right, without a father or husband or any other man to guide or protect her. And there was no chance in hell that she was going to do that.
She took a tentative step forward and the stranger did the same, mirroring each of her movements until they met, barely an arm’s length apart, in the centre.
‘Lady Juliana.’
He inclined his head and she dug her heels into the wooden planks beneath her feet, resisting the urge to back down, heart thumping so loudly she was sure his whole army must be able to hear it. She was reasonably tall for a woman, but he towered a full head above her, even bigger and broader than he’d seemed from the battlements, his shoulders so wide they seemed to obscure her view of the enemy camp behind. His stern expression was more forbidding, too, though he was also younger than she’d expected, probably no more than thirty, closer to her own age than de Ravenell’s. That fact made her even more nervous. They were as good as alone, out of earshot of her men, so close that she could smell the musky scent of leather and sweat on his skin, could feel the heat radiating from his broad chest, could see it rising and falling just inches from hers...
Her legs trembled unsteadily and she dropped into a token curtsy, glad of the opportunity to lower her gaze, if only for a moment. Everything about him felt overpowering, and the last thing she wanted was for him to guess how strongly he was affecting her.
‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir.’ She straightened up again, lifting her chin in the air defiantly. ‘You know who I am, but who are you?’
‘My name is Lothar, my lady.’
‘Just Lothar?’
‘Some call me the Frank.’
‘You’re from Francia?’
She tilted her head to one side, but the expression on his face didn’t encourage further questions. If anything, he looked even more severe. Well, at least that explained his accent... She cleared her throat hastily.
‘You said you’ve brought terms, Sir Lothar?’
‘Just Lothar. I’m not a knight.’
‘You’re not?’ She blinked in surprise. From his authoritative manner, she’d assumed that he was a baron at least, but now he mentioned it, she noticed that he wasn’t dressed any differently from the rest of his soldiers in a dark leather surcoat, black tunic, black hose and knee-length riding boots. But if he wasn’t a knight... She stiffened indignantly.
‘Is this a joke?’
‘In what way?’
‘Is the Empress trying