Beholden (The Fairest Maidens Book 1)

by Jody Hedlund

  For a short while, I distracted Curly with talk of his plans to propose to Molly. But my redheaded friend was persistent, and I wasn’t surprised when he brought it up again as we climbed up the hatch. “Ye don’t deserve to be here, Gabi. And if ye marry him, ye’ll be set free.”

  None of us deserved to be working as slaves in the mine pits. But I couldn’t argue with Curly. Not when he only had my best interests at heart. “I shall think about it.” Even as I conceded to him, I knew I would never take the easy way out of the mines, no matter how appealing the option might be.

  Chapter

  8

  Vilmar

  The fire at the center of town crackled, sending sparks into the night. The flames leapt high, illuminating the flush on Gabriella’s face as she twirled in a simple folk dance with the other women. A slight smile graced her lips, and her eyes shone with delight. With her long hair unbound and glimmering a pale auburn in the firelight, her beauty took my breath away.

  “Ye love her.” Curly’s statement was low and certain from beside me.

  I hadn’t known he was there, had been too focused on Gabriella to pay attention to anything else. In fact, since the lute music had started at dusk and Gabriella had pulled me into the first dance, I hadn’t thought of much else besides her.

  “I don’t know the folk dances,” I’d said, as the others around us began to dance.

  She’d tugged me farther into the fray. “Then it is my turn to teach you something.” When she smiled, I hadn’t been able to resist.

  The dances hadn’t been difficult to learn, and I’d found myself truly making merry for the first time since entering the mines six weeks ago. With the coming of warmer air and the lengthening of daylight, more people congregated outside in the evenings after we returned from the mine. Thankfully, the overseers didn’t seem to care what we did, so long as we didn’t cause disorder.

  With a day of rest on the morrow, there was less urgency to retire to our huts and more freedom to take the little pleasures we had amidst the drudgery of slavery, and the pleasure of this eve was one I would not soon forget—especially the images of Gabriella’s happiness in the dancing.

  “Ye love her,” Curly said again, louder.

  I glanced around to see who might have heard him, but Farthing, Ernie, and the others were laughing and talking amongst themselves, oblivious to Curly’s bold declaration. Only Ty, two steps away, glanced at me, as though gauging my reaction.

  How exactly was I supposed to react? Of course I’d grown to care about Gabriella more than I’d wanted, more than I’d thought possible. Holding her in my arms last week during our training had left me shaken and filled me with longings I’d tried hard to forget. And I’d been afraid that if I touched her again, no matter how innocently, I would stir up desires that needed to remain dormant.

  The simple truth was, I was not free to love her, and I couldn’t give her that hope nor could I give it to Curly. I shook my head. “It’s too soon to speak of love.”

  “It’s been long enough for me to see that ye be the right match.”

  “I didn’t come to the mine to fall in love.”

  “Nobody comes here expecting much of anything but pain and death. So if ye be one of the lucky ones who finds a jewel amidst the rubble, then ye best not be squandering your treasure.”

  The words were profound, and I couldn’t keep from meeting his gaze and seeing the sincerity in the depths of his eyes. I’d long since learned from Gabriella that Curly had once been a huntsman for Queen Margery, providing game for the royal household from the vast forests surrounding Kensington. Last summer, he’d been part of the hunting party with the queen’s daughter that had resulted in the princess suffering a fatal riding accident.

  While the princess’s death hadn’t been anyone’s fault, the queen still condemned Curly and two other huntsmen to life sentences in the mine. He’d survived nearly a year. But how much longer would he last?

  Just this week he’d asked Molly to marry him. And from the tender way he watched his betrothed all evening, he’d found a jewel of his own amongst the rubble of his life.

  “Gabriella is indeed a rare gem,” I conceded. “You are not wrong about that. But I cannot make promises to her I won’t be able to keep.”

  “Aye, I’ve seen that ye be a man of honor.”

  Gabriella swirled past, only an arm’s length away. I wanted to reach for her and dance with her again. But what good could come of it? I would only end up hurting her when I left. Where was the honor in that?

  “Ye want to do the right thing?” Curly asked more insistently.

  “Of course.”

  “Then be marrying her and taking her out of the mine pits with ye when yer sentence here is completed.”

  “That’s certainly one way to ensure her safety.”

  “Aye, and I wouldn’t be suggesting it if I didn’t like ye.”

  I appreciated his paying me a high compliment, but he also didn’t know what he was asking. As a prince of Scania, I had no right to pick my own bride based on feelings or whim. Rather, wise counselors put a great deal of time into seeking out the right bride, and I couldn’t deviate from that tradition.

  Thankfully, the dance ended before Curly could say anything more, and Molly whisked him away. As Gabriella approached and invited me to dance again, I held back, encouraging Farthing to take a turn instead. Though everything within me resisted letting go, I had to be careful henceforth. I was treading in dangerous territory in more ways than one.

  When the dancers grew tired and the music ceased, some made themselves comfortable around the fire, while others drifted toward their huts, yawning with exhaustion. My conversation with Curly still foremost upon my mind, I headed away also, only to stop at a gentle touch to my arm.

  “Will you not stay by the fire a while?” Gabriella peered at me hopefully. “It is too beautiful a night to be inside.”

  She was too beautiful for me to be inside. But I stuffed that thought aside. I had to endeavor to keep our relationship from progressing. I’d done a pitiful job of that so far, and now with Curly’s entreaty to wed her, I had to halt any notion that we had a future together.

  My mind scrambled for anything I might say that wouldn’t be too hurtful. But what else could be as effective as the truth?

  “Curly just tasked me with marrying you,” I whispered. “Thus, I’m inclined to think we’ve taken our pretense of affection too far.”

  She studied my face as though trying to see deeper inside me. “Have you no wish to follow through on his task?”

  I tried to read her expression too, but if I’d hurt her, she masked it well. “You must know I regard you highly and consider you a true friend . . .”

  “But you do not want to marry me?” Her question was straightforward, without any bitterness.

  Nevertheless, I hesitated with my next response. “I’m not in a position to make promises to any woman, no matter how much I might have grown to care about her.”

  She was quiet a moment, then nodded. “You have summarized my sentiments exactly. Curly has tasked me with the same. And while I understand he is thinking of my future, I am not in a position to make promises either.”

  At her easy agreement, my ready response stalled.

  “Since neither of us plans to consider Curly’s suggestion,” she continued, “let us put it aside and give it no more thought.”

  Again, I was speechless. I’d been certain my rejection of a future together would hurt her. How could she disregard Curly’s admonishment instead of grasping a chance to escape the mine?

  “Now, come.” She held out her hand. “The night is still young. Let us not waste the beauty of it because of our fears of the future.”

  I could do nothing less than place my hand in hers. As she led me back to the fire and tugged me down to the ground to sit beside her, I couldn’t fend off my confusion—and perhaps disappointment—that she’d so easily accepted my decision not to marry her. I’d e
xpected some tears, protest, or even anger. But she seemed fine. More than fine, in fact.

  Was she relieved?

  I wanted to ask her more. But as we joined the others in conversation, I tucked away my questions for another day. Next time we met for training I would pry further. For now, I would do as she bid and try not to waste the small moment of beauty amidst the unending toil and hardships.

  “Only two weeks until Midsummer’s Eve and the yearly sacrifice to Grendel,” someone said across from us.

  Gabriella stiffened. While our shoulders weren’t touching, we were close enough that I was keenly aware of her every move and breath, though I’d been trying not to be so conscious.

  Was she afraid of Grendel?

  I searched my mind for everything I’d learned about Grendel. In Scania we called men like Grendel berserkers. They were madmen who frenzied and raged with the strength and wildness of a bear. When having a fit of fury, such men became dangerous and bloodthirsty warriors known to bite their own shields out of rage, foam at the mouth, and howl like beasts. Some kings throughout Scanian history had enlisted berserkers into their armies because they were known to kill without conscience and could wreak mass destruction amongst an enemy.

  As a peace-loving king, my father had banned the army from using berserkers and had attempted to eradicate them from the land, locking them up in dungeons for their own safety and the protection of the people.

  It was said Grendel had escaped capture in Scania and now lived in Warwick, coming out on occasion to terrorize the people and the land. Had the queen learned of a way to appease the berserker? What was this about a yearly sacrifice?

  I wanted to blurt out my questions, but doing so would reveal me to be the foreigner I was. Instead, I entered the conversation with care. “I have no doubt Ernie can regale us with a story about Grendel, especially the one relaying how the sacrifice came about.”

  “Oh, yes.” Ernie shifted his legs away from the fire and situated himself more comfortably, clearly settling in for a long story.

  Gabriella, on the other hand, stirred as though to rise, yawning in the process.

  Before she could move too far, I slipped my arm behind her and drew her into the crook of my body. “Stay a little longer. The night is still young.”

  At her own words coming from my lips, she stalled. For a heartbeat, I was afraid she’d go anyway. But then she leaned into me and rested her head on my shoulder. While she remained somewhat stiff, I was relieved she hadn’t run off, although a part of me warned I should have let her go, that no good could come of holding her like this in the firelight.

  I silenced the warning. After all, she’d told me she had no interest in a future with me. I had naught to worry about.

  “Once upon a time,” Ernie began with his deep storyteller voice, the one that oft kept us entertained during the long hours in the mine, “a young warrior by the name of Grendel was exploring for gold in the depths of a mountain cave with his brothers. Little did the brothers know that their digging had awakened the wraiths who lived in the heart of the mountain. Before they knew what was happening, the wraiths blew their poison into the brothers. From then on, the brothers turned into monsters.”

  In Scania, some physicians believed that those who had changed into berserkers consumed a rare mushroom that made them rage and have visions. But, of course, no one knew for sure the cause of their madness.

  “For a time, the brothers used their superhuman strength to defeat armies, but eventually scorned by kings and generals alike, one by one they all died or were locked up until Grendel was the only brother left. Hunted like an animal, he disappeared only to come out once a year on the day when the sun reaches its zenith in the summer sky.”

  With each word of Ernie’s tale, Gabriella grew tenser. I stroked her arm and could feel her try to relax again.

  “At the beginning of Queen Margery’s rule in Warwick,” Ernie continued, “every Midsummer’s Eve, Grendel would come out of his cave and stampede throughout the countryside, leaving a path of death and destruction in his wake, killing hundreds of animals and people. Not even the mightiest warriors in the land could withstand Grendel’s rage to capture him. And every year after his rampage, he retreated to his cave home in the steep cliffs at the edge of Wraith Lake, where he hibernated until the next summer.”

  Wraith Lake? I wished I knew more about Warwick. But I’d never studied the country in great detail, never been interested. Now, after meeting the people and living here, I felt a stirring of compassion I’d never expected.

  “Finally, after witnessing the needless destruction, Queen Margery decided to try to appease Grendel. So, when he came out of his cave and began to cross the lake, she was waiting with a gift for him . . .”

  “The fairest maiden in the land,” whispered someone in an ominous voice.

  I sat up. Why the fairest maiden in the land? Why would Grendel want to kill a lone maiden? I almost blurted my question and would have surely given away my ignorance, but at Gabriella’s sudden shudder, I rubbed her arm again and tucked her more securely in the crook of my body.

  “In addition to a dozen sheep, a dozen goats, and a dozen pigs,” Ernie said, “the queen offered the fairest maiden in the land. Legend says that the beauty and purity of the fairest maiden has tremendous power—even the power to tame the wildest of spirits . . . and so it did.”

  A sick weight settled in the pit of my stomach at the vision of the berserker, raging about and slaughtering not only the animals but a beautiful young woman. How frightening for the woman and how devastating for her family.

  “Henceforth,” Ernie finished, “every year, on Midsummer’s Eve, the queen holds a Choosing Ball at the royal palace and selects a maiden to be given to Grendel. The sacrifice of one prevents the death of many.”

  Silence descended over the group remaining around the fire, so the popping of the flames filled the air. A dozen questions raced through my mind—foremost, why had no one yet captured and killed Grendel? Surely, while offering the yearly gift, an army of the queen’s best warriors could lay a trap and confine the berserker.

  Gabriella squirmed to free herself, yawning again. This time I didn’t attempt to keep her by my side. As she rose and walked away, I could only think of what the other slaves had said about her, that she’d been known as the fairest maiden in the land. And suddenly, I was glad more than ever that she was in the mine pits. While this was a dangerous place, at least here she had no worry of being chosen as the yearly sacrifice to Grendel.

  Chapter

  9

  Gabriella

  “Please, Gabriella. Go up to the surface with the others.” Vilmar didn’t pause in his rapid tapping against the granite. Bent over in the tight space, his voice was muffled and tired. Ty knelt beside him, hammering just as steadily.

  “No, I am staying this time. You are the one who needs to rest.”

  “I shall rest once I have the gem in hand.”

  In the low torchlight, my frustration mounted as I watched Vilmar work. “You cannot keep going without sleep.”

  “We’re close to finding it. Are we not, Ty?”

  His manservant nodded, his shoulders stooped and his face haggard.

  The two had been laboring nonstop since the previous day, since Alice had come down with the fever again, as had another woman. This time the fever raged hotter with each passing hour, and Molly had stayed above today to bathe the women and attempt to keep them alive.

  I, on the other hand, had abandoned all else in order to aid Ty and Vilmar in searching the new vein for a gem. I’d been praying Ty’s keen senses would prove right once more and that we would be rewarded with another jewel to trade for medicine. But the chances were slim, and we were running out of time since the fever had spiked so quickly.

  I held the torch above Vilmar and Ty, hoping for some sign we were close. But all I could see was the same granite we chiseled every day.

  “Please, my lady,” Vilmar said again
. “You need rest too.”

  At his statement, I swayed from exhaustion and hunger. I hadn’t slept much over the past couple of nights while tending the sick women. During the moments when I’d rested and succumbed to slumber, my dreams turned into nightmares filled with Grendel drawing nigh, wearing the bear head and brandishing his bloody swords.

  I closed my eyes to ward off the images that were growing more frightening. How would I defeat the wild monster with one small knife? Even though Vilmar had done his best to train me, I still trembled more times than not when I held his knife.

  I glanced down the passageway toward the others, both dreading and hoping to see one of the duchess’s knights coming to collect me. With merely four days until the Choosing Ball, I’d expected her to send someone by now. She must have received my note, and she would most certainly accept my offer to take the place of her daughter Tilde, wouldn’t she?

  If no one fetched me by the morrow, I would have no choice but to plead with the overseers to aid me. If I explained my plan, would they be inclined to assist my leaving? At the very least, would they convince the guards to allow me to cross the bridge without trying to stop me?

  My nerves quivered at the prospect.

  At a sudden rumbling and cascade of stones from overhead, I ducked and covered my head with my arms.

  Ty halted his tapping. He placed a hand on the wall as though taking the mountain’s pulse. His eyes widened, and he grabbed Vilmar. “We need to leave.”

  “No.” Vilmar easily shook off Ty’s hold. “I’m staying now that we’re this close.”

  “The stone will collapse—”

  Before Ty could complete his warning, the tunnel shook again, bringing with it an ominous crackling and crumbling. Vilmar glanced at his manservant and then at the low ceiling.

  As a crack in the granite widened, I could only stare.

  “Run!” Vilmar shouted.

  Before I could move, larger rocks began to break and fall against me. I couldn’t keep from crying out in pain. In the next instant, Vilmar thrust me down and spread out over me, the curve of his body sheltering me from the onslaught.