by Sharon Rose
From that road, Tristan stared up at the regal towers that flanked the gatehouse. The sun’s rays set the castle alight, its beauty undimmed by time. Beyond the curtain wall, the inner towers bore a row of windows beneath their blue peaked roofs. No colors flew from any of the tower masts.
A strange thrill suffused him, making it hard to hear Cotrell.
“There is no sign of man or horse upon the ground, nor anything bigger than a fox. Odd, but welcome.”
“At the moment,” James said, “’tis the gate that troubles me. We will find no safety here if it remains closed.”
“True.” Tristan studied the gate. Drawbridge style, though there was no moat.
Cotrell scanned the walls. “It seems utterly deserted, but shall I shout?”
“Aye.”
Cotrell tilted his head back and took a deep breath. “Hail, keeper of the gate!”
A hawk sailed from a tower, and a flock of pigeons vacated the walls. If anything, the castle seemed more deserted.
“If birds roost, no one walks the walls,” Tristan said. “We’ll need a likely tree.”
They dismounted and left the horses with James. Cotrell began searching to his right, while Tristan turned leftward. He found the perfect specimen near the southwest tower. Tall enough and damaged, it leaned already toward the castle wall. “Over here,” he called out.
Cotrell joined him, and together they tried to turn that lean to their advantage. The tree proved stubborn. Since they had no ax, they tried to pull it with a rope and horses. It creaked, but they couldn’t get enough leverage. Cotrell tried his throwing line, hoping to anchor it higher, but the branches broke away.
Tristan glared up at the tree. “What I wouldn’t give for a chat with Captain D’Jorge right now.” That man could figure out the most perplexing dilemmas. “What would he do?”
They stared at the bare trunk and spoke in unison. “Climb it.”
Tristan smiled and said, “Give me the end of your line.”
The iron weight allowed him to loop a firm knot that could be easily tied and loosened. Tristan pulled it tight as far up the trunk as he could, then gripped it to climb.
“I can go up, my lord.”
“Nay, not an old man like you.”
“I’m thirty-nine!” Cotrell snarled.
Tristan grinned and handed his bow and sword belt to Cotrell, for they were already in the way. He dug the heels of his boots in and began his ascent. A slow business, what with moving the line and the crumbling bark that fell from the trunk. As the lean increased, he needed the line less for leverage. Cotrell had tied another rope to the dangling end. Not much farther up the narrowing trunk and Tristan should be able to attach the line where it couldn’t slip.
To the east, a wolf let out a long howl. That didn’t necessarily mean much, but still…an ominous reminder. This was all taking much longer than it should have.
Below him, James held all three horses near the gate.
Cotrell called up to him. “Do not rush and grow careless.”
Chest against the tree, Tristan bent his legs and scooted higher. He knocked off loose bark and scooted another foot. Something snapped at the base of the tree. A long, ominous crack vibrated up the trunk.
“Hold on!” Cotrell shouted.
Tristan clung, wrapping arms and legs around the trunk and pressing the side of his head tight against the wood.
The treetop struck the wall and bounced, nearly flinging Tristan off.
His muscles shrieked, but he managed to cling as the tree settled against the battlements. Oh, was he going to hurt tomorrow!
Debris rained to the ground as Cotrell shouted, “Are you all right?”
He managed a weak laugh. “Aye. Whose stupid idea was this?”
Cotrell’s voice shook. “We’ll blame D’Jorge.”
Another wolf howled.
“If we can stay alive long enough to tell him,” Tristan muttered. He scooted forward, despite complaints from his ribs. Not much farther, and he crawled off onto a flat-topped merlon. He jumped down to the walkway and ran toward the gatehouse, his shadow long before him. What were the wolves doing?
He shoved the tower’s wooden door, which groaned open. Stone steps curved down one wall and up the other. He crossed the wooden floor and flung the next door open.
Two great wheels with turning pegs…chains with counterweights raised high… He peered through a slot in the floor on the bailey side. Iron. It must be a portcullis. On the opposite side, there was not enough light to see, but it must be the same. Where was the mechanism to lower the draw gate? He groped in the dim space between the portcullis wheel and the exterior wall of the gatehouse. His hands closed on another wheel.
He tried turning it one way, then the other, but it only clanked as he shoved. He followed the sound and found a chain. Groping its length, he discovered a bar shoved through the heavy links, pinning it. Wolves in mind, Tristan jerked the bar out and tried the wheel again. This time, it turned, groaning. Around and around. A bit of light filtered up through the floor gaps.
“James. Cotrell,” Tristan yelled, “are you near the gate?
“Aye, but we’re clear,” Cotrell answered. “Keep lowering.”
Tristan turned it as fast as he could. A counterweight rose through a gap.
Cotrell finally called out. “’Tis down. Raise the portcullis.”
His voice sounded urgent. Why? Had he spotted wolves? Or worse?
Tristan hurried back between the other two wheels. He found the pin at once, jerked it free, then dropped his weight against the turning pegs. This wheel moved freer. He heard Cotrell say, “Get under.” Was that the snap of a bow? The counterweight was out of sight now. Tristan heard the horses clop onto stone beneath him. And another bowstring snap.
“Drop the portcullis,” Cotrell shouted.
Growls, a snap, and a yelp.
Tristan ran to the opposite side and threw his weight into it again, until the wheel stopped with a final clank. Why did that bow keep snapping? “Are you safe?” he shouted.
“Aye.” Cotrell’s answer sounded lazy. “Safe, if you can call it that on the smelly end of three horses. Anytime you want to open the other portcullis would be fine with me.”
Relief drew a breathy laugh from Tristan. He replaced the bar, pinning the outer portcullis, released the inner one, and raised it. “You are working these wheels next time,” he called down.
“You’re the one who wanted to climb that tree.”
Tristan groped his way down the dim tower, feeling almost giddy.
James met him at the bottom and looked him up and down. “You made it in one piece?”
“Aye, albeit a battered piece.” Tristan rubbed the tender side of his head. “We are not traveling tomorrow.”
The horses fanned out beyond the gate, though not far. They eyed the bailey, ears twitching this way and that. Cotrell was intent on something just under the archway, then a flame sprang to life.
“Ah, well-found,” Tristan said, as Cotrell placed a torch in a bracket beside the arch, then lit another for the opposite side. Golden sunset faded into darkening blue above, and shadows stretched across the bailey. They would soon need more light.
Cotrell scanned the expanse. “You scouted this all out before you opened the gate, right?”
“That’s your task.” The mansion—for that was no keep—dominated Tristan’s vision. It stretched along the western wall, much broader than its four-storied height. ’Twas built from pale stone, a fair setting for its broad, glazed windows. A decorative battlement with wide crenellations lined its flat roof. The twin, peaked towers rose from within that stately border.
The horses headed for the faded greenery of a terrace, which encircled a courtyard before the mansion’s arched entrance. Broad steps descended the terrace to the solid rock bailey. Simpler buildings with one or two stories clustered along the eastern and northern walls.
Cotrell pointed toward a long building with two wide d
oors and smaller split-doors. “The stable—and that looks like a well in front of it.”
There was little that mattered more than water. They strode to the circular stone wall with a trough extending from it. Cotrell found a pebble and threw it into the well. When it splashed, the three of them shared a smile.
A bare windlass perched above the well. “We need a bucket and line,” Tristan said. “Let’s try the stable.”
James found a lantern by the door. Striking the flint, he commented, “Again we find lighting paraphernalia made ready at an entrance.”
By the glow of a few lanterns, they discovered rope and a resin-coated bucket. Cotrell began hoisting water from the well. The sound of it splashing down the trough drew the thirsty horses.
“I suggest we eat,” James said, “before exploring furth—”
A distant yowl brought them erect.
“’Tis a long way off.” Cotrell dumped another bucket of water and said, “My stomach agrees with you, James.”
Tristan nodded. “Let’s just make sure we can keep enough lanterns burning to—”
Another yowl. Much closer.
A fiery chill coursed through Tristan. “The tree!” He raced for the gate, footsteps pounding behind him. Grabbing a lit torch, he ran for the tower stairs. Firelight flickered over stone walls and armaments stacked along them. He grabbed a spear and dashed up the winding steps.
At the top of the wall, he sprinted for the tree. His worst fear materialized. The top-most branches bounced. Something was on the trunk.
He caught a glimpse of it through a crenellation. Tawny and black—a big cat, but not a monster. They had a chance.
“Help me push the tree off!” he shouted to Cotrell, close on his heels.
He ducked under a branch and climbed atop a merlon on the far side. The trunk rested against the gap of a narrow crenellation. Cotrell pushed from below, while Tristan tried to pry with the butt end of the spear. The trunk moved, but not enough. He couldn’t risk breaking the spear.
The cat’s hind leg slipped as the trunk shifted. It snarled and kept climbing.
“It won’t work,” Cotrell shouted. He darted back to another crenellation, pulling his bow from his shoulder. His arrows flew, but they only annoyed the cat, catching in its hide but not penetrating.
Tristan pulled the spear free and tested its balance. Longer than the cat’s legs—might work once the beast was in range. He snatched up the torch and waved it, flinging a few sparks toward the cat. It snarled and crept nearer.
More running feet, and James flung an armload of arrows before Cotrell. “What else do you need?”
“Give me Cotrell’s torch,” Tristan shouted, pointing at it across the tree. He grabbed it from James. “Bring more of them.”
James sprinted away.
Tristan waved both torches, to no avail. He dropped to one knee and shoved a torch under the trunk, along with a broken branch. Keeping the other torch nearby, he hefted the spear. A poor weapon for a man perched on a merlon. A forward lunge would be his death. He braced himself, hooking his foot against the merlon’s edge.
Cotrell continued to shoot. An arrow tore through the cat’s ear. He must be aiming for the eyes. A small moving target. Still, the beast came.
Tristan jabbed with the spear. It pierced the hide but glanced off bone. He tried again. The enraged cat swatted it away with such power, the spear tore from Tristan’s grip. It spun through the air and clattered to the bailey below.
Running footsteps hammered nearer.
Tristan grabbed his torch and brandished it again. Once that cat got over, they were all dead. If the beast didn’t fear fire, he would ram the torch into its gaping jaws. Claws would rake him, but the others might survive.
James reached them. A small fire flickered among the branches. James shoved another torch into it and held a bucket up to Tristan, shouting, “Oil. Douse the trunk.”
With the cat’s claws not six feet away, Tristan flung oil along the trunk and down toward the beast. Flames licked up from below. Tristan vaulted away from the sudden blaze, landing beside the next crenellation.
The cat twisted and lunged sideways, sending another loud crack through the trunk. The creature hit the ground with a yowl and a few sparks. It fled westward, its tawny shape disappearing down the dark, wooded slope.
Tristan panted. A pity the cat hadn’t truly caught fire. He joined the others. They worked the torches like pokers, breaking branches to feed the fire. Flames licked around the stub of the trunk.
They paused when yowls sounded from the slope where the cat had fled. Two beasts, and then just one. Something heavy was dragged down the steep hill westward.
“I hope the loser was our visitor,” Cotrell said.
The burning trunk shifted under its own weight, and with a final crack, collapsed beyond the wall.
Cotrell leaned into a crenellation to peer down. “No flames.” He straightened. “The burnt end is wedged up against the wall, but I suppose we should pitch some water over.”
They chewed dry meat while drawing water, carrying, and dumping it over the moonlit wall. Until the windlass handle snapped off in Tristan’s grip. The full bucket descended with a splash. He sighed. Were his hands not raw enough already? He grabbed the rope and pulled the bucket up.
James returned with an empty bucket and tipped the water into it. Unperturbed as ever, he said, “’Tis enough. I will tell Cotrell.”
When at last they had stabled the horses, Tristan carried a lantern into the stable-hands’ room at the far end. Cots between partitions on one side, table and benches on the other. Even a basin and water cans on a sideboard. He hung the lantern from a chain that dangled overhead and sat down facing the cots. “James, your wish to sleep in a stable is fulfilled.”
“This is palatial after the last few nights,” Cotrell said. He took a blanket from a set of shelves and shook it out. “Why isn’t this moth-eaten?”
“Cedar,” James said, pulling Tristan’s boots off.
“In a stable?” Cotrell’s dirty face skewed.
“Not all of it, but in here and the external walls, aye.” James looked up at Tristan. “Your hair is singed, my lord. Are you burned?”
“Nay.” He forced a tired smile. “What do I look like?”
Cotrell smirked. “Sooty. I think I’ll carry one last bucket of water.”
Too exhausted to wash more than hands and face in the cool well water, Tristan soon stretched out on a cot. One of the others extinguished the lantern.
The questions resurfaced, weaving through his tired mind. Who had built this grand castle? Why did they never return?
Chapter 6
Within the Castle
Tristan was last awake the next morn. He groaned as he sat up. Best to move and try to work some of this out. Besides…something smelled good.
He found Cotrell tending a fire and… “What are those?”
“Pigeons.”
Tristan’s stomach rumbled. “You, my friend, are without peer!”
Cotrell chuckled.
Tristan and James carried benches outside, and they consumed their feast around the fire, relishing every scrap of fresh meat. Across the bailey, the mansion fairly glowed in the rising sun, beckoning.
James tilted his head toward the mansion and asked, “Is that where you’ll start your exploring?”
Trust James to guess his longing. “I’d like to, but it must wait. We should walk the walls first.”
Cotrell nodded and tore off another bite of meat.
“Do you not believe we’re safe within the castle?” James asked.
Did he? “Probably. What think you, Cotrell? Could the enormous black beast that took our mare jump the walls?”
Cotrell chewed, frowning. “That depends. How similar was it to the tawny cat we fought last night?”
“Much bigger. You must know that. The shape of its head and snout were similar…as far as I could tell by firelight. All black, too, but that means nothing,
especially since the tawny one had black markings. Why do you ask?”
Cotrell stared at the fire. “Tawny was a poor jumper—for a cat, that is—and a poor climber, too. I thought sure it would be up that tree in seconds, but…” He shook his head. “Its hind quarters didn’t seem right, somehow.”
“Injured?”
“Nay…ungainly. Like the back legs didn’t work well with the front legs. Reminds me of what you said about the black’s teeth. Tawny reeked like the black, too.” His words slowed. “’Tis oddly named. I could see calling it a fox-cat, since it has that long snout. But why vixicat?”
Unanswerable, but James suggested a possibility. “’Tis said that a vixen with kits is the most vicious of animals.”
“Mm. Unfair,” Cotrell murmured. “But to your question, my lord, if the black is just a bigger specimen, I doubt it can jump high. Its weight will work against it, too. These walls are tall.”
“Agreed—and built by those who would’ve known of the beasts. Let’s walk the full circuit to get the overall view. Then the mansion.”
They started by the gatehouse. From the circular tower, Tristan looked through a narrow window at the exterior wall. A blackened streak marred it, though he saw no actual damage.
They climbed to the top. Gazing down from the height, Cotrell said, “The wolf I killed while you were working the gates—’tis gone. Entirely.”
“Hm.” A small scavenger would take a piece and run with it, but the whole carcass… “Only a vixicat is big enough to drag away these overgrown wolves. But why?” Tristan mused. “Why would they bother?” He considered the woods descending the steep westward slope. Dense, like they had never been cleared.
They continued around. On the western side, the fourth floor of the mansion backed the curtain wall. They found no entrance at this level and continued past it. The view was stunning—a deep valley stretching to the sea—but Tristan kept walking.
James found much to comment on, from the fine details of the castle’s design to the provisions stored in the towers.