Battle Cry and The Berserker Read online

  Credits:

  Cover art: Rogue Reyer

  Editing: Melanie Billings

  There is no escape for Constantine when she is betrothed to the notorious man she has dubbed Lord Horrible. Never before had she set eyes upon the beast but the stories of his battles reached her ears tenfold. Her fear of their wedding night is so great she and her younger sister Juliette set off on a mission. They seek to waylay a man, any man, so Constantine may have her first bedding on her own terms. Her biggest problem is her innocence. An old crone from the village vaguely told her she was to make ‘it’ pop and the deed would be done once there is blood.

  Lord Rory Broc, back from the crusades, finds his coffers empty, squandered by his now deceased father. He begs a boon from the King and is betrothed to a wealthy woman he has never set eyes on. His people fear him, his castle is in near ruin, and his first encounter with his betrothed has him knocked out cold and flat on his back tied to a bed.

  Copyright 2017 C. L. Scholey

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from C. L. Scholey.

  Dedication: I know this isn’t my usual genre so I want to dedicate this story to anyone who buys it. There are no aliens, shifters or assassins but lots of laughter. If you are in need of a good laugh, I hope this makes your day. I had a lot of fun writing this and I hope it shows.

  — Connie

  Chapter One

  Her rapidly beating heart pounded. She must not be found. She calmed her gasping breath. The thick, ancient, solid oak door creaked ominously as someone entered her semi-darkened cool chamber. Small flickers of light danced haphazardly from the large hearth close to where she crouched, casting eerie mind-playing shadows. Constantine held her breath as long as she possibly could, knowing instinctively she was not alone. Her slight body huddled curled beside the massive armoire, spine tingling. Her chestnut hair, a riot of long ringlets, fell forward into her eyes. She dare not move to brush them away. She balled her hands into fists and pressed them to her mouth, stopping any telltale sound. Quiet footsteps sounded, closer, closer. Pensively, she glanced up through her wayward strands of hair. No one.

  Constantine listened, her ears tuned to any sound. The footsteps were gradually fading. The large solid oak door swung closed, a distinctive familiar crunch sounded as it settled into place. She sat still for just a moment more, releasing a deep sigh, then emerged. Her thundering heart began to calm. The young woman gazed around the room and emitted a small sound of relief. She was alone…

  A shriek ripped from her mouth as Constantine was tackled from behind. Her breath came out in a whoosh as she landed on the bed in a tangled heap of arms and legs. Hardly able to breathe, Constantine shoved the warm small body off her as she dropped to the other side of her bed, landing undignified, bottom first on the hard cold floor.

  “Capture!” a smug voice bellowed into her ear. Constantine could hear the laughter in her younger sister’s voice as a slight arm wrapped itself around her neck possessively from on top of the bed.

  “Yes, fine. You have captured me,” Constantine admitted annoyed, feeling defeated, harassed, yet resigned.

  The small arm relinquished its hold, and the excited girl sat back on the bed expectantly.

  Constantine looked up into the animated face of her younger sister from her position on the floor. The young girl’s long flowing raven-black hair was in chaotic disarray, her dark deep brown eyes, so like her own, looked back at her so hopefully alight Constantine relented.

  “Oh, very well. I will tell you what the old crone said,” she grouched, as she struggled to her feet, sitting next to her sister.

  Constantine felt vexed. Why had she promised to tell her little sister what the old crone had told her about what sex with a man was like? Most likely because she told her sister everything, she thought ruefully. That would be her downfall her father had always warned. Drat and double drat. Woefully, she felt perhaps he had been right, just this once. But Juliette was not just her younger sister; she was her very best friend. Although Juliette was ten and one-half months younger, it made no difference, sometimes Constantine felt they should have been twins. They may as well have been; they shared clothes, stories, fears, hopes, and dreams. Both were happiest when together, and they never quarreled with one another. They’d had no other playmates over the years; their father was terribly overprotective.

  Why should this be any different? Constantine knew why, and she shuddered regretfully. Only three nights ago, her father informed her she was no longer a child. Now that she was of a mature age, he’d made ironclad arrangements with King Edward for her to be wed to the notorious Lord Rory Broc. She was informed it was in her best interests, a brilliant match—there would be no escape. She could never undermine her father by refusing; the thought never once entered her mind.

  Lord Rory Broc was a despicable knight whose lands bordered their father’s. Just back from the Crusades, the hardened warrior had left his younger brother in charge of his lands while he rampaged across God’s green earth to kill, rape, and pillage. He was said to be nigh on eight feet tall with red eyes and the fangs of a great mad wolf, and without a shred of mercy or decency. Although, she doubted that much was true, as her dear father would not wed her to a monster. Her father had taken great pains, pointing out her happiness was foremost within his mind. Nevertheless, Constantine was terrified of Broc and of their betrothal. She did not want her sweet and gentle caring sister to fear for her.

  “Well?” Juliette gazed at her, wide-eyed with eager innocent anticipation.

  “I was told—she said, um, she said...” Constantine stammered, feeling a rush of heat flood her face.

  “She said what?” Juliette demanded.

  “She said I needed—I needed to make it pop,” Constantine confided finally.

  “Pop?” Juliette questioned. She sat back looking as confused as Constantine felt.

  “Yes, of course pop,” Constantine said brusquely as though she were well aware of what the old hag meant.

  Juliette sighed heavily. “You have no idea what she meant, do you?”

  Constantine looked at her sister and released a matching sigh. She could never lie to her. “No, not a clue.” She felt her shoulders slump.

  “Sounds rather painful,” Juliette said thoughtfully after a moment.

  “One can only hope.” Constantine sneered.

  Juliette looked to her older sister; she knew she was afraid, whenever Constantine grew fearful she hid it under sarcasm or bravado. Juliette knew Constantine tried hard to protect her. When they were younger if ever a problem presented itself her sister would take the blame, keeping Juliette as safe as was possible. Constantine’s only failing seemed her use of excessive vocal cords when overwrought. Thankfully it did not happen overmuch. Their father referred to it as—the howling.

  Their father was not at all a cruel man. After their mother had died of illness when Juliette was only seven months, their father had become very devoted. He loved his girls; they were his entire world, his only link
to his dearly departed wife. Ever indulgent, he allowed his daughter’s free roam of their small castle. On a few rare occasions his counsel of them from an old family friend had some of his punishments seem overbearing, but never unbearable. Lord Emit, an elderly uncle from his wife’s cousin’s side, had come to live with them shortly before their mother died. He was a mousy looking man with sharp angled features that the girls always laughed at. Constantine had Juliette convinced Uncle Emit could cut castle stones with his nose.

  “All will be well, Pepper,” Juliette soothed, referring to her in the well-used nickname she had used ever since she could remember.

  “Yes, of course all will be well,” Constantine declared. She jumped to her feet and began an erratic pacing. “All I need to do is wed with Lord Horrible, get into bed, and make it pop.”

  “Just whatexactly is to pop?” Juliette tilted her head to the side, revealing her delicate profile.

  “Hopefully his head,” Constantine replied, crossing her arms.

  “His—head?” Juliette asked a bit of fear in her voice.

  “’Tis what I was told,” Constantine said adamant.

  Juliette’s look was less than favorable at that comment. Her delicate brows dipped down in deep concentration.

  Constantine knew what Juliette was thinking. Most certainly a man’s head did not spew at sex; he would not like it so much if it did. None of the men in their father’s castle seemed averse to coupling, though they were exceptionally discreet at their father’s demand, neither girl had ever been exposed to lewd or indecent behavior. Neither knew what a man’s anatomy was made up of. Perhaps there was something more to it.

  “Perhaps there is more?” Juliette questioned.

  “Of course there is more.” Constantine sped her pacing. “There is groaning and grunting and...”

  “And what?” Juliette whispered with trepidation.

  “There is blood,” her sister confided in a quiet tone, her erratic pacing ceased abruptly.

  “Whose?” Juliette asked her tone apprehensive.

  “The woman’s.” Constantine slumped onto the bed beside her sister and could not, to her shame, stop trembling. “He will hurt me.”

  “No. I will not allow it,” Juliette thundered in outrage.

  “You cannot stop him, and no one can once we are wed,” Constantine told her. “Oh, if only I could have a man before him, then Lord Horrible could not possibly hurt me or do damage.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Juliette asked, peering at her curiously.

  “The old crone told me I would hurt and bleed only once, thereafter it would not be so bad.”

  Juliette added her pacing to her older sister’s as they moved off the bed once again as one. They marched back and forth across the semi-darkened room, the hearth crackling and flickering, while both young women thought hard.

  “Perhaps,” Juliette said and paused suddenly, her look a sea of thoughtful wonder.

  “No, no, it would never work,” her sister countered sharply. “Although...”

  “I do not think so,” Juliette said flustered, throwing up her hands.

  “Suppose?” Constantine stopped in mid-stride, her enlightened thoughts focused intensely.

  “Mayhap, but it would be quite dangerous; it would take careful planning,” Juliette agreed with a nod.

  “We must, Juliette, I am...I am frightened.” Constantine’s head bowed with the admission.

  Juliette moved to embrace her sister. Constantine knew she would do anything to help…or die trying.

  * * * *

  Lord Rory Broc was feeling beyond harassed. He’d arrived at Castle Braven only weeks prior and had ridden with his younger brother, Devon, out and amongst his people daily, people who were obviously terrified of him. People who had no doubt heard rumors of his exploits; frightened people who hid and cowered beneath wagons. Women snatched up their babes and fled into small thatched huts upon his approach. Men sent their daughters to hide in fields of tall grass.

  At one time, Rory would have laughed at their fear, exalting in his fierce reputation and been proud of it. But not now, these were his people. People he had sworn to protect. His people should clamor for his approval: a slight nod of recognition, a humble wave of his hand. And did they seek such gratifying gifts of his thoughtfulness? No. They ran from him; cowered and quaked before him. They smiled when first his brother Devon had approached, but when realization dawned as to Rory’s identity, they fled like rats from a flood. It seemed not to matter he had secured a brighter future for them with his recent prenuptial to the wealthy Lady Constantine Campbell. They loathed him, feared him; he was not a lord they welcomed.

  Rory trudged along a lone dreary track of land dejectedly. He had separated from his brother a short while ago and wanted solitude. He needed to collect his mountainous thoughts. He admitted he was putting off his nuptials. The Crusades had been exciting, if somewhat exhausting. Although he was looking forward to settling down, he wondered if he could overcome this feeling of slackness. Granted there were a great many undertakings of importance, but it was so humdrum: a roof needed repair, a fence or two replaced...no blood loss or heightened awareness needed there.

  While listening to a day of allegations he had almost, to his great embarrassment, fallen asleep. A pig had been stolen, though not really; it only wandered off into another neighbor’s yard who kept it out of spite when it trampled a row of flowers. A multitude of petty differences ensued, one even involving an old shoe; that was when he nodded off. A loud ‘hurumf’ had startled him awake to listen to more ramblings. A once full jug of ale found suddenly half full, no mystery there when the man’s own young son had stumbled in bleary eyed and red faced. The lad loudly asked his father where Lord Rory’s fangs were, then proceeded to vomit on his father’s dirty feet. The lot of them, in Rory’s opinion, fools, flittered out sheepishly. ’Twas apparent they had only come to gawk at their new lord—safety in numbers.

  Day after day, his training of the men proved hard and unrelenting, he was, after all, a superior fighter. Obviously they were as slack as the villagers and just as wary of him. There wasn’t anywhere that presented one decent challenge to add excitement. His horse stumbled a short time later, breaking Rory from his reverie.

  “What is it old man? Are you injured?” Rory asked concerned, steadying himself against the pommel.

  His horse, Adamas, meaning ‘rock hard’, stopped short and neighed a warning. Rory drew his knife. He berated himself fiercely, he never went anywhere without his sword, but Devon had pleaded, knowing the people would be even more fearful of him if they saw his huge longsword, and he foolishly left it behind. He was on a small trail in a deep part of the expansive forest. If there were many assailants, he would be doomed; forced to fight for his very life and limb. His fingers tingling, he felt the old familiar surge of his blood quickening. He lifted an eyebrow. Many would be good.

  Suddenly, two spindly young men appeared before him from the bush on palfreys, swords drawn. Rory looked at them, mouth agape, utterly amazed at their audacity. They couldn’t have been more than young lads, and he a seasoned warrior who stood taller than most warriors. His disappointment flowed so obvious he thought he heard his blood moan. Before he could speak, one of the young men leveled a small shaky sword at his chest. Rory groaned aloud. The weapon was so small he could pick his teeth with it.

  “You will accompany us,” the young voice demanded, the sword held awkwardly, drooping momentarily toward the ground before being hastily drawn up. The palfrey danced, frightened of Rory’s huge warhorse, and he could see the young lad was having the devil’s own time holding the little mare.

  “What if I choose not to?” Rory asked with some amusement, as his own mount stood quietly watching with curiosity. His arm draped to languish upon the saddle pommel. Both palfreys pawed at the ground and shied back fearfully.

  “I will be forced to hurt you,” a young voice cautioned sternly.

  Rory’s eyes widened
at the sheer audacity of the young lad, he had a moment’s thought of dispatching the both of them, but they were so young and though he had been spoiling for a fight killing children did not appeal to him, even obnoxious children. He then considered his present position. Rory thought of his options. He was alone. Darkness would soon descend. Both of the young men were armed, although he felt in armed combat he could thwart them both easily, smoothly, without the aid of his sword if it came to it. Also he was intrigued; what a nice diversion. He had been bemoaning sedentary life, for the past few weeks had been boring at best. He was used to being surrounded in action. This was the most fun he’d had in such a long while. Perhaps a small game of cat and mouse would be entertaining.

  “Please, I am unarmed; do not hurt me,” Rory begged, his one hand rising to hide a small smile. He watched with growing amusement as both lads struggled to control their mounts.

  Their agitation was apparent. One palfrey shook herself and the lad clung tight, his teeth rattling together, almost dropping his sword. The laugh that escaped Rory’s lips was covered with a hasty cough. Rory sheathed his knife, knowing neither lad had seen it. Finally, one of the lads jumped from his mount to stand at its head, controlling the palfrey effectively. He talked soothingly to the skittish palfrey while the other youngster followed suit. Soon both little horses stood docilely as the children regained control of them. They seemed completely oblivious to the fact Rory could now just turn his warhorse on its heels and be away.

  “We are not going to hurt you.” Rory heard one of the youngsters declare. The voice was quiet, soft, and Rory’s curiosity intensified. What were they up to?

  “But you have swords,” Rory said, mimicking a frightened plea. He was beginning to enjoy the game, the part he played was so foreign to his personality he decided he rather liked the ruse. He realized immediately the task they had undertaken must be their first attempt at something—he knew not what. It became apparent to himself he was in no serious danger. Besides, he was too formidable an opponent to worry about two mere youngsters.