by Alexa Aston
Geoffrey fell into a deep sleep.
And awoke to searing pain.
Chapter 8
Merryn awoke with a start, unsure where she was. A low moan sounded in her ear. She sat up and found Geoffrey pinned to the tree. An arrow protruded from his right shoulder, holding him fast in place.
“Sweet Jesu!” She jumped to her feet.
“Must be a stray shot from the hunt,” he muttered, “though I wouldn’t think any hunter had come in this direction.” He strained his neck trying to get a better look at the arrow.
Merryn knelt to examine his wound. She gently pressed the flesh around his injury.
“It’s penetrated the fleshy part of your shoulder, not the bone. That’s good news.” She thought it would be awful to be pierced by an arrow, but she wanted to keep his spirits up as she watched the agony grow on his face.
“During the war, we would break off the shaft so the arrow could be pulled out in the same direction. Then the wound needed to be seared with a hot knife.”
He tugged on it. “My left hand is too weak to dislodge it.” He grimaced at the effort.
“Let me see what I can do.” Merryn struggled to remove it, but the arrow had gone through him and sunk deeply into the tree behind him.
Fear gripped her. Not only was her husband anchored to the tree, but once he was free, his wound could turn into an abscess which might putrefy.
Which could lead to death.
She couldn’t lose Geoffrey. Not after waiting so long for him to come home. Not after what she had discovered about love last night.
“You must go for help since I’m pinned to this spot,” he told her. “Only a trickle of blood flows. The arrow has plugged the wound for now.” He took her hand and gave her an encouraging smile. “I will be fine, my love. You are the healer. You know what will be needed once I am freed.”
She tried to put on a brave face, but a few tears escaped. Geoffrey wiped them away with his thumb and caressed her cheek.
Merryn kissed him. “I won’t be gone long.” She gave him a weak smile. “And this little scratch will not be an excuse for you to lay abed and order me about.”
“Nay. I fear I shall never be able to order you about.” He gave her hand a squeeze.
She covered him with the blanket from their feast and left a wineskin within reach in case he grew thirsty. She mounted Destiny and waved at Geoffrey before she rode like the wind back to Kinwick.
Her tears flowed freely now, but she couldn’t let fear stop her. She couldn’t think about what might happen. She needed to make sure of what did happen. And that was bringing back someone to free her husband.
Merryn made a mental list of the things she would need to treat him. Clean cloth to staunch the bleeding was a priority. She wondered if it would be wise for Geoffrey to ride since that might jar the wound and cause excessive bleeding. But a litter might take too much time.
She prayed as she never had before, imploring the Living Christ to help her make the right decisions and keep her husband alive. He was a good man—the best of men—and he would be an excellent lord to the people of Kinwick.
Merryn thought she had loved Geoffrey while he was away at war. His image often came to her in quiet moments, awakening a great longing within her. But after they’d wed and consummated their union? She would do anything in her power to protect this man of hers.
Anything.
After a hard ride, she came within sight of the castle, breaking from the forest to cross the meadow. To her left, a group of riders emerged from the woods. She recognized the hunting party, which must be returning to the keep.
Merryn dug in her heels and urged Destiny on.
She spied Geoffrey’s cousin, Raynor, and his father, Ferand, and rode straight toward them.
“It’s Geoffrey,” she said as she reached them. She paused and swallowed, slowing her breathing, trying to remain calm.
Raynor gave her an impish grin. “We noticed the two of you appeared to have strayed from the hunt. I knew—”
“No,” she cried. “There’s been an accident. Geoffrey’s hurt.” She explained the situation.
“We will ride at once,” Ferand said.
“I’ll need my bag of herbs and cloth to bind the wound once you’ve freed him from the tree. And a knife.”
“I’ll send someone back to Kinwick for your things.” Ferand motioned to a rider and gave him instructions.
The man took off.
Ferand sent most of the hunting party back to the castle. The remaining men turned their horses in the direction of the lodge.
They made better time returning with Ferand leading the way. He knew a few shortcuts to the hunting lodge that Merryn hadn’t been aware of. Mystery stood where Geoffrey had left the horses.
But Geoffrey was gone.
“He was here,” Merryn insisted. “We both tried to free him. He couldn’t possibly have done it himself.”
“Maybe he loosened it and is now inside,” Raynor suggested.
She sprang from her horse and ran into the small dwelling. “Geoffrey! Geoffrey! Where are you?”
The ground floor was empty. She raced up the stairs to check both bedchambers. Her husband was nowhere in sight.
Fear washed over her.
Merryn hurried downstairs and outside where the men waited.
“There’s some blood on the bark. And here, on the ground,” Raynor pointed out. “Maybe someone happened by and helped release him. But who?”
“And where is he?” Ferand asked. “Why not take his horse?”
“He knew I was going for help. He would not have left here willingly,” Merryn insisted. Her stomach twisted painfully.
“Mayhap, he’s at Kinwick,” one of the other men suggested.
“Let us return at once,” Ferand commanded.
They mounted their horses and rode quickly back to the castle.
Geoffrey wasn’t at Kinwick. No one from the gatekeeper to the servants in the great hall had seen him since that morning.
Ferand immediately organized a search party to look for his son.
Raynor took Merryn aside. “I am a great tracker. I shall find him, Merryn. Have faith.”
She watched the men ride out. Hours later, she still stood rooted to the same spot in the bailey as each group returned with nothing to report. There were no signs of Geoffrey anywhere.
It was as if he’d vanished off the face of the earth.
Chapter 9
Geoffrey’s shoulder throbbed dully. He’d quickly figured out how to breathe shallowly to keep his body still. The harshest pain had subsided for now.
But he knew that wouldn’t last once Merryn returned and had help in removing the arrowhead.
A snapping noise drew his attention to where Mystery stood. A stranger stepped from the woods, a weapon hanging by his side.
As the stranger approached, something in his eyes told Geoffrey not to trust him.
“Spot of trouble you’re in, my lord? Mayhap I can help.”
“My wife has gone for help, thank you.”
The stranger’s eyes gleamed. “I know. I saw her leave.”
Feelings of danger flooded him. Instantly, he understood.
“You shot this arrow,” he said, his tone flat.
“That I did, my lord,” the man confirmed, an evil smile playing about his thin lips. He raised the weapon. “A nice crossbow accomplished the task. It has more force behind it, so I knew it would hold you in place.”
Geoffrey sensed movement behind him. He could only turn his head since his body was pinned to the tree. He caught sight of a swinging object and then his head was struck with great force.
Bright stars exploded against a field of black. The world spun about him. A second blow crashed down.
And then darkness enveloped him.
*
Geoffrey awakened to a loud roar sounding in his head, mixed with dizziness and nausea. The wound in his shoulder burned hot.
He for
ced his eyes open. Darkness surrounded him with a small shaft of light nearby. A constant bump jostled him and he realized he was being carried down a flight of stairs. The dank smell he inhaled gave him a clue as to where he’d been taken.
A dungeon.
He spied a young boy in front of him carrying a torch and wondered who he might be. The lad looked over his shoulder once. Their eyes met, then the boy turned away and hurried down the last of the stairs.
When they reached the bottom, the Earl of Winterbourne awaited them.
Geoffrey fought to make sense of the scene.
“Go,” Lord Berold barked at the child. “Get the healer, Hardwin. Be quick about it. And not a word to anyone lest I flay the skin from your back,” he threatened.
Hardwin. That was Berold’s youngest. Geoffrey thought him about ten and two. With Barrett’s death, Hardwin would be heir to Winterbourne.
The boy rushed past, stealing a quick glance at Geoffrey again.
Two soldiers dragged Geoffrey down the remaining steps and pitched him on the floor inside a cell. One cuffed Geoffrey’s wrists to chains anchored to the wall, while the other restrained his ankles.
Finished, they stepped out of the cell but left the door ajar.
Geoffrey’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. Only a couple of candles flickered.
“Excellent work,” Berold praised. “I must be certain, though, for ’tis a sensitive matter you’ve been entrusted with. You’ve told no one of your task? Not another soldier . . . nor a pretty serving wench?” He looked from one man to the other.
“Nay, my lord,” they answered in unison.
“That must remain so. My thanks for completing your task this day. You will receive your just rewards in time. Leave—and tell no one.”
The men nodded and turned to depart the dungeon. Before they’d taken two steps away, Berold drew his sword from its sheath. Without warning, the earl swung the weapon behind one man’s back and sliced his head clean off.
Shock reverberated through Geoffrey at the swift, cruel act. Before he could call out a warning, the second of the pair turned, horror on his face as he spied his companion’s head.
Geoffrey winced as Berold ran his sword into the man’s gut and twisted it. The nobleman yanked the weapon out as the soldier fell to his knees, blood bubbling from his lips.
Geoffrey was speechless. He had witnessed violence on the battlefield, but nothing compared to this deliberate cruelty.
Berold dragged the bodies into the darkness.
The nobleman returned, a satisfied look on his face. “The rats will feed on their remains. Their bones will turn to dust.” He stepped into the small cell. “No one can ever know you are here.”
A sinking feeling overpowered Geoffrey. He sat mute as he comprehended the evil plan unfolding before him.
Voices sounded in the distance.
“My healer,” Berold told him. “She will tend your wound. There’s magic in her old fingers.” Berold studied him. “I’ve heard it said numerous times that you are a man of your word. Give me your promise now, de Montfort, that you will allow her to care for you and not harm her in any manner.”
Geoffrey knew that to escape, he must live. And to live, he needed the healer to help him.
“On my word of honor, I vow she will not come to any harm by my hands.”
As he finished speaking, Berold stepped from the cell. The healer arrived with Hardwin. She walked into the tiny space, a bag in one hand and a knife gleaming in the other.
She called for the boy and light. Hardwin brought the lantern close. The healer cut into Geoffrey’s flesh. He groaned. Her fingers probed his shoulder. Indescribable pain shot through him and he thought the agony would never end.
Finally, the old woman finished her last stitches and then packed a poultice onto his wound. She then wound cloth round and round his shoulder and arm to secure it. Without a word, she picked up her goods and left, the boy following her.
No one spoke as Geoffrey heard her slow tread up the stone steps. A faint grating noise sounded. He assumed she shut a door from far above.
Hardwin now cowered in the shadows, his eyes darting nervously from his father to Geoffrey.
“Come,” Berold commanded, motioning to his son.
Hardwin joined his father. Berold placed an arm about the trembling boy and pointed at Geoffrey.
“Look upon the man who murdered your brother. He tells the tale one way, but he knows what he took from me.”
The earl came closer to Geoffrey, bringing the reluctant boy along with him.
“This man took my beloved son from me,” he hissed. “My heir who would one day rule Winterbourne. I now take something precious from him.” He spat in Geoffrey’s face. “Yesterday was the happiest day of this man’s life, Hardwin. His wedding day. But he will spend the rest of his life here. In loneliness. In misery.”
Icy fear coursed through Geoffrey’s veins. Berold must be mad to think he could get away with such a scheme.
“I’ll feed you every day, just enough to survive.” He frowned at Geoffrey. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said. “I want you to live for many years. In suffering and anguish. To atone for what you did to my boy.” He beat a hand against his chest. “My flesh and blood.”
Geoffrey trembled with rage.
Berold told him, “Very few people cross me at Winterbourne. In the past, I have thrown them in the dungeon for the slightest infraction. Now, I want you alone to occupy this domain. I plan to conduct all future punishments in front of everyone who lives at Winterbourne. I’ve already had the stock placed in a prominent spot in the bailey. I’ll lock those who disobey in it and cut off their hand if they displease me. Branding is another punishment for all to witness. Thumbscrews and foot roasting will also become public punishments. That will leave my dungeons free for my only prisoner.”
The earl gripped his son’s shoulder, shaking the crying boy. “You must never come here again, Hardwin. No one shall know what became of this man. Not your mother. Not your sisters.”
Berold paused. “And upon my death, you will take over and do the same. If de Montfort lives, then your son will do the same. Until the bastard is dead. Then he can rot in Hell.”
The hope Geoffrey clung to slipped from his grasp. He looked at his captor as the man released his son and pushed him aside. Berold came to stand just outside Geoffrey’s reach, his eyes blazing in anger.
“You stole the life of my eldest, de Montfort. Now I’ll steal yours. I allowed you to have a wedding day, so you would know what you were missing while you spent days and weeks and months and years in this prison. You’ll grow old and never see another face but mine.”
Berold let loose a sinister laugh. “Your comely wife will either go mad with grief at your unexplained disappearance or she’ll grow old before her time. Her beauty will wither and emptiness will fill her heart. And she, too, will die, sad and alone, wondering what happened to her handsome husband. You’ll never hear anyone speak your name again, for down here, you are no one.”
Berold moved his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to your new home.”
Chapter 10
Geoffrey lay on the stone floor. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d been brought to this Hell. He’d been feverish for what he assumed to be days. The healer came and went, inspected his wound, changed his bandages, bathed his face with a wet cloth, and often forced him to drink a weak broth.
But she never spoke to him.
The fever had finally broken and his body no longer burned. Even the pain in his shoulder had calmed from a raging inferno to a dull ache. He wouldn’t die.
What awaited him was a living death.
Now that he could think coherently, he saw no way out of this prison. The only windows were high above him and brought only weak light to his cell. Geoffrey had shouted until he had no voice, but no one had heard him. True to his word, the earl brought food as he’d promised. Not enough to fill his belly, but far
from starving him.
How could he escape?
A sound came from a distance. His ears had adjusted to the quiet of the dungeon, so he could hear a rat scurrying about in the darkness beyond the torch that always burned.
Someone was coming. Maybe someone who could help him.
Hope sprung in his heart and fled just as quickly.
The Earl of Winterbourne appeared at the cell’s locked door. He opened it and put the day’s allotment of food before Geoffrey. The earl never came close enough for Geoffrey to touch him. He would eat later, not wanting Berold to see how hungry he was. Nor how dependent Geoffrey had become on his jailor.
“You may remove your bandages.”
Why would the earl tell him that?
Geoffrey knew the answer but said, “The healer must do so. She should look to see if I’ve made good progress.”
“She assured me you will be fine. That you will live.” Berold paused. “She won’t be returning.”
With that, the earl locked the door again and hung the key on the wall opposite his cell. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “They came here today.”
They?
But once again, Geoffrey knew without asking. This time he remained silent.
Berold’s eyes met his. “’Twas your father, cousin, wife.”
Geoffrey’s fists tightened. Thoughts of Merryn flooded him.
His captor frowned, as if concerned. “She seemed almost ill. She was quite pale. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in—”
“Enough!” he roared. “You aren’t to speak of her. Ever.”
“I sympathized with them, of course. My tone hushed and respectful.” Berold smiled. “And all the while, I wanted to shout to the heavens that you resided below in my dungeons. That you’d survived the crossbow attack. And that you would never see your family again.”
Berold backed away. “Till tomorrow.”
Geoffrey waited until the sound of the retreating steps ended, leaving him once again in isolation.
For the first time since he’d arrived here, he wept.