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  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Kathryn Le Veque. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque, or their affiliates or licensors.

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  MY ENEMY, MY LOVE

  by Ruth Kaufman

  www.ruthkaufman.com

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  Table of Contents

  About MY ENEMY, MY LOVE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Ruth Kaufman

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  About MY ENEMY, MY LOVE

  Lady Aline de Lacy is one of hundreds trapped between a chateau under siege and the French army’s camp in the midst of winter. If she survives, she yearns to return to her happy life as an earl’s daughter in England.

  Sir Apollo de Norville, King Philip II’s messenger, prefers the freedom of the road to settling down with a wife and the responsibility of managing lands. But after he rescues an unconscious beauty from the cold, he’s commanded to marry her as a gesture of peace. How do you live with, much less love, your enemy?

  To Kathryn Le Veque for inviting me to tell Paris’s parents’ story.

  Chapter 1

  Winter, 1203

  Château Gaillard, Normandy

  “Hurry! This way,” an English soldier beneath Lady Aline de Lacy’s window shouted in Norman French, the language of this land she despised. “You’ll be safe soon.”

  “We must go,” her mother urged her and her two younger sisters.

  Aline’s heart sped faster than her feet as they grabbed their cloaks from hooks and hastened from the chamber. Her heart wrenched as Mary, the youngest, burst into tears as they fled down winding stairs.

  Château Gaillard erupted with shouts as hundreds of denizens and townspeople who’d sought succor after the French army destroyed their homes hurried through the vast castle’s baileys and over two dry moats toward the open gate in the outer bailey.

  Here a woman tripped on her skirts and struggled to her feet, barely missing being trampled by a pair of boys. There a child tripped and cried, arms raised. Caught in the flowing tide, Aline couldn’t choose her path or push her way to the child no one else seemed to notice. She shivered beneath her heaviest wool cloak.

  Where were her younger brothers? Her father? Shouldn’t he oversee their exodus and bid them farewell?

  An elbow jabbed her so hard she lost her breath. Aline struggled to keep her footing as the press of people pinned her arms to her sides. Never had she been so confined. Her heart sped even more. Shouts and screams added to her panic.

  Her blond hair nearly blinded her as her headdress tumbled off, only to be crushed beneath shuffling feet. Better her headdress than herself. So far she was unhurt. God hadn’t been as kind to a few who moaned nearby.

  Where were her mother and sisters? She’d lost them…but couldn’t turn back.

  The group surged through the single gate. Her heart caught in her throat as she fought to maintain her balance. A sigh of relief escaped her in a puff of white when she broke free of the crowd and stepped outside the limestone walls for the first time in months.

  Under stormy grey skies, her father, Roger de Lacy, was sending the rest of the women, children and elderly men from the stronghold King Phillip II had held under siege since September. The remaining men would be very grateful, because food was limited and no one knew how long the siege or supplies would last.

  Their enemies had recently permitted hundreds of people to pass. Now it was their turn.

  Her sturdiest boots crunched dead grasses. Some caught at her skirts. She tore her cloak free from a nagging branch as she trudged her way south.

  The frontrunners neared the French camp. As others joined them, forward motion ceased. Why weren’t the French allowing them to continue? Distress pulsed through her. She whispered a prayer that her mother and sisters had somehow made it past the French camp or had changed their minds and were still inside and relatively protected in their quarters.

  “What’s the delay?” yelled a short man she didn’t recognize.

  “Let us through!” shouted Ralph, an older, bald man who worked in the stables.

  Though it was unladylike, she joined others who took up and repeated the cry. Their demands and questions went unanswered. Soon she’d gone hoarse from shouting. What was happening?

  Suddenly, arrows flew overhead, then rained from the sky. The French were firing upon them! Everyone screamed, ducked and ran. Chaos.

  Hands guarding her head, the scant protection all she could think of, Aline joined the screaming crowd fleeing whence it came. The arrows ceased as she and hundreds more gathered at the base of the chateau. More than a few nursed injuries.

  The gate was now closed. So instead of collapsing in relief that so many had escaped unscathed, she made her way to Ralph and tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re louder than I. Call to the guards to let us back in.”

  “Of course, Lady Aline.”

  She was the highest-ranked person for the first time in her six and twenty years, and should take the lead. The respect Ralph bestowed on her raised her confidence. Having power to assist others was a heady feeling.

  He shouted, “Ho, Hubert! King Philip’s men won’t grant us passage. We can’t go back or they’ll fire on us again. Let us in. Open the gate.”

  The burning heat of fear and anger didn’t prevent cold, damp air from seeping into her very bones. She couldn’t catch her breath because the air burned her throat. Every muscle ached as icy gusts blew back her hair and cloak. Her nose and ears stung, and her hands and feet felt like ice.

  “I’m sorry, Ralph,” Hubert stood on the battlements high above. He didn’t look sorry. “We can’t. We have orders.”

  Surely she hadn’t heard him aright.

  “Against your own people?” Aline shouted. “We’re freezing. Some of us are wounded and need care.”

  “We have our orders,” he repeated stoically. “I’m sorry, Lady Aline.”

  “Hubert. Fetch my father. N-now.” Sounding imperious was difficult when you couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Lady, ’tis he who issued the order.”

  She gasped. Realization sent chills icier than the wind down her spine. “Fetch him immediately. I want to hear those words from his lips.”

  Let her sire look her in the eye and refuse to admit her.

  “Very well. I shall try.” He sighed and left his post.

  Aline couldn’t bear the renewed fear and uncertainty on all of the faces around her. They would haunt her sleep. She stomped in a useless effort to awaken her feet and tucked her hands beneath her arms. Her leather mittens were no match for this.

  Soon night would fall and the air would grow colder still.

  She closed her eyes, envisioning herself back at home in England, seated before a blazing fire holding and sipping a cup of hot mead, her sisters playing at her feet and mother sewing on a nearby bench. She could even see the
steam floating up from her drink, smell the honey. That helped, a little.

  When she opened her eyes, Hubert had returned. Without her father.

  The guard’s face was unreadable. He stared straight ahead, not down at her. “Lady Aline, I am sorry. Roger de Lacy refuses to speak with you. The Earl of Lincoln’s order stands.”

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Where are we to go?”

  More cries erupted from the group.

  A young kitchen maid, scarf askew, fell to her knees and burst into tears.

  Unbelievable. Her father, who commanded the fortress for King John, wouldn’t face her, much less allow his daughter or people in his employ, service and care back inside. He chose to conserve the remaining supplies for his able-bodied men and soldiers, no matter the cost.

  She and Ralph looked at each other in horror. Aline wanted to cry, too. She’d failed to escort her people to safety, and couldn’t think of another way to save herself, much less them all. Unfamiliar responsibility stung like nettles on skin.

  How would they spend the night out in the cold? Would they freeze or starve to death, forsaken? Until the Normans let them go or the English welcomed them in, they were trapped.

  Chapter 2

  Two months later

  Sir Apollo de Norville had witnessed gruesome consequences of war, from bloody, dead bodies abandoned on the battlefield to the seriously wounded who might or might not survive their injuries. The majority of those victims were soldiers, doing their duty to fight as commanded by their overlords. Not townspeople.

  He’d never seen anything like the scene before him. Hundreds of elderly men, women and even a few children roamed aimlessly in a narrow ditch beyond Philip Augustus’s camp and beneath the chateau. Others sat beside small fires at the base of the walls. A few lay motionless under shelters formed from branches and dead leaves.

  Upon his arrival moments ago from Paris with the king, he’d been horrified to learn that a group of people remained stuck between the king’s camp and the English-held fortress. How could either side permit these citizens to remain outside fending for themselves for weeks…and in the midst of winter?

  Even in times of war, innocent civiliens should be shown Christian charity. What could one man do? He’d hastened into the cold to the front line, just out of shooting range, to see for himself.

  And was surprised to see a thin woman stumbling toward their camp, weaving from side to side as if she’d imbibed too much wine. Long, golden blond hair caked with dirt and dried grass fell in limp strands to her waist. Her faded blue gown’s hem was in tatters. Her skin was near as white as the snow dotting nearby dried grasses. Suddenly, she collapsed.

  How had this lovely maiden, how had any of them, survived for so long?

  None of the soldiers on watch moved toward her, so he did.

  “Mademoiselle?” he asked softly.

  Her eyes opened. Bright blue, like a summer sky on a cloudless day. The beauty’s gaze met his with a flash of fear followed by defeat. He knew that look well, for he’d seen it on bound prisoners on their way to be executed. His heart wrenched that she’d been reduced to this.

  Clearly Gaillard’s commander hadn’t been convinced to yield and put an end to the siege, nor had Philip’s men yet found an ingress or had success undermining the walls. What did the leaders of two countries serve to gain by leaving innocent people to suffer and die?

  “I won’t harm you. I promise.” He knelt and extended a gauntleted hand. Her arm lifted, then dropped to her side. Her eyes closed again. She was helpless.

  Apollo picked the woman up and settled her in his arms. She was practically skin and bones. He carried her, ignoring curious looks and a couple of ribald jests from soldiers and officers as he passed through Philip Augustus’s camp to his own hut.

  He couldn’t save or even help them all, but it felt good to save someone. And it didn’t hurt that she happened to be a beautiful woman.

  * * *

  Was this Heaven?

  Aline’s hands and feet weren’t numb as they had been for weeks. They didn’t sting as they had when she’d claimed a few minutes next to a wind-tossed fire. She’d almost forgotten what being warm felt like.

  Wearing an unfamiliar, coarsely woven linen shirt that reached her knees, she rested on a fairly comfortable straw mattress between covers piled with fur pelts. And she was clean, blissfully clean…her hair was smooth once more and smelled of the same soap as the sheets. She took a deep breath and let it out.

  No. She wasn’t in Heaven, but in a bed that took up most of a small wooden hut heated by a glowing brazier and furnished with two stools, a table with a chess set, and a small trunk with a leather satchel on it. As she sat up, a young, lean man on the stool nearest the bed jumped to his feet.

  “Bien! You’re awake at last! I’ll fetch the master.” He grabbed his cloak and hastened out before she could speak.

  The master. Who might that be? Where was she? How long had she been sleeping?

  Aline’s head spun. She tried to gather her wits as she inched her way to the edge of the bed. She stood, but her legs failed to support her. Her right elbow and knee slammed into the ground. Regretting her decision to leave the snug bed, she lay there, dizzy, her elbow and knee throbbing. She couldn’t get up, and her throat was too dry to call for aid. At least she hadn’t hit her head on the bed’s wood platform. Cold seeped into her once more.

  Who would respond if she did call out…the young man? Whose shelter was this…had her brave, or foolish plan, of visiting the French camp every day finally gotten someone’s attention? What had happened to her family? Had the siege ended? Her head pounded with the questions.

  “Mademoiselle,” a rich, deep voice said softly.

  She opened her eyes. A burst of alarm faded at the sight of tall man with flowing dark blond hair. He crouched before her, his hand extended. Her mind flashed to a gauntlet held out the same way. Had she dreamed about a long-haired man in a blowing cloak trying to help her? Was the concerned look on his face part of the dream, or the last thing she remembered as she lay defenseless in dead grass?

  Though he was imposing, with well-muscled arms and broad shoulders filling out the long-sleeved tunic beneath his cloak, she felt oddly calm, which she hadn’t since what she’d come to think of as her imprisonment. Yes, she’d been outside, free to do as she pleased rather than confined to four walls of a dank cell. Given their extremely limited resources, lack of shelter in harsh weather and no means of escape, a prison nonetheless.

  Aline let him lead her back into the bed. Slowly, for her maltreated, weak body wouldn’t move any faster. His hands were strong, yet gentle. She appreciated the stranger’s care and the unexpected comfort of his touch. She should be afraid, left at the mercy of this man, one of the enemy. She wasn’t.

  He drew the covers over her. “My name is Apollo de Norville.”

  Her throat was dry and scratchy. She could speak Norman, as could most English nobles, though the hated language symbolized everything that had gone wrong with her life. “In English, if you please.”

  “Of course. I am Sir Apollo de Norville, one of King Philip Augustus’s messengers. I arrived from Paris two days ago.” His heavily accented words sounded intriguing and soothing rather than annoyingly guttural as she found the sounds of most Normans.

  Why was his voice the first thing, except for the wine, she liked about her foe’s country? And why wasn’t she afraid of what this towering man who had her alone and in his bed might do to her? Perhaps her ordeal had left her numb inside. Perhaps she’d lived in fear for so long, she had none left.

  Wavy hair several shades darker gold than her own fell past his chin and framed piercing golden brown eyes. A thick gold chain draped his chest. Her rescuer was most handsome and, so far, seemed like a kind man. In general, and especially for a Norman. Unless he’d brought her from the frying pan into the fire.

  He handed her a wood cup.

  It couldn
’t be poison, for why would he rescue her just to kill her? Watered wine. She took a few sips. Much better. “Did you take me from the cold? If so, thank you. I assume we’re in King Philip’s camp.” Her voice was lower than usual. “Why did you help me?”

  “As soon as I heard about the people stuck in between, I had to investigate.” He sat on the stool the lad had vacated. “Saving someone struck me as the right thing to do. You were the first person I saw, so I carried you to my hut. And yes, we’re in Philip Augustus’s camp opposite Château Gaillard.”

  Despite sincere gratitude at being free of wintry air and the siege, she’d gone from being trapped in a vast castle to being trapped outside to rest under the enemy’s roof. How could she relax when there were so many unknowns? Where were her mother and siblings? And what of those left in the ravine….

  “I lack authority to house and help everyone,” he continued. “And I mean help. As soon as you’re well, you’re free to go.”

  That was a huge relief. At least she wasn’t a prisoner, taken for ransom or worse. “My thanks again, Sir Apollo.” His name felt strange on her tongue. Not a bad strange. Exotic, like rare spices from China. “I’ll do my best to recuperate quickly and trouble you no more.”

  But where would she go, with what coin, alone in the land of her enemies?

  As a girl, when she’d learned about the Normans who’d invaded and conquered England over a century ago, she hadn’t wanted to believe anything good about them. Bad enough her parents gave her a Norman name to show their fealty to Henry II, William the Conqueror’s great-grandson, and that English nobles mostly spoke Norman at court. Exhibiting fluency in their tongue when she had to join her father for his assignment would make it seem as though she wanted to fit in and planned to stay. As if she actually lived in Normandy.

  “What is your name?” Sir Apollo asked.

  If she lied, surely the truth would come out. Would he change his mind about setting her free when he learned who she was? He might think to ransom her to make her father relinquish the new castle built so rapidly by King Richard I…now the last Plantagenet holding in Normandy. Sir Apollo would soon learn her life was meaningless to her father.