by C. C. Wiley
She stopped to cast back a stern gaze. “I know you think me ill willed, but I’ll help you if I can. Your secrets are safe with me. For now.”
Clarice pushed weakly against the weight of the bed furs. The effort stole her ability to rise. Helpless, she watched the door ease shut, sealing her in another prison.
No! “Not this time.” She swung her feet over the edge of the great bed and clung to the thick mattress. Her ears buzzed like an angry hive. The floor pitched under her legs. The walls heaved until she slowed the drag of air into her lungs. In time, the blood returned to her limbs and the buzzing stopped.
Once able to focus on her surroundings, the warmth of the room struck her as unusual. Would a prisoner such as she often receive the luxury of a large fire or a soft pillow on which to rest her head? Even as the daughter of the manor, she had never known such grand accommodations were possible.
In the past, her orders had been to keep to the tower whenever her stepmother and stepbrother arrived at Margrave. There she kept herself hidden in her bedchamber until they took their leave. This, her father promised every time the tumblers turned, was done in the name of safekeeping.
Now she knew the truth. Safety resided in the same place as love. It existed only in fairy tales and dreams. Once, she had dared to envision a knight who would save her from the tower. But that was when she was young and still believed in such.
Clarice ran to the door and pounded, shouting for the sentry to release her. After a time of no response, she pressed her damp cheek against the door and worked out a plan to escape her new prison.
Chapter 9
Arms crossed, Ranulf rested his back against the stable entrance. Merry shouts lifted up to the rafters, threatening to shake down the aged timbers. Someone had fashioned a trestle table out of spare lumber. A side of wild boar rested on two rough planks. His stomach grumbled when the air, scented with smoked meat and warm mead, reached his nose. He did not care to count the cost to his storehouse until after his guests had taken their leave.
His attention drifted over the room until he came to rest on a familiar back. Broad shoulders towered over the regiment of men. He knew of two men who would feel comfortable making camp in his dilapidated stables. One stood before him. The other was sure to be nearby.
He advanced into the stable, and the troop of men quieted as he filled the space. Purposeful strides brought him within inches of their leader’s wide back.
Ranulf placed his hand on the meaty shoulder. “You dare make camp without permission?”
The man flexed his muscles and swung around. His fists curled into tight balls. “The king’s men go where they will it.”
Ranulf sighed. Some things never changed. Nathan Staves always did like to lead with his fists. Ducking the blow, he caught the knight’s jaw with an undercut of his own, knuckles scraping against the coarse red beard.
The towering man squared off and charged, throwing his massive weight of muscle and bone at his attacker. Ranulf dodged him at the last moment. The timbers holding the weight of the roof shook from the impact. Leading with his head instead of his brains, Nathan struck the post. His thundering motion stopped and he toppled over, as if cut off at the knees. Bits of thatch slid down from the rooftop, showering dust through a hole in the ceiling.
“Damn,” Ranulf muttered. “Someone will have to repair that, too.”
“Enough, Nathan,” Sir Darrick of Lockwood called out. “Continue this nonsense and we shall yet sleep under the stars.”
Face flushed, Nathan shook his head and pushed the tangle of hair out of his dazed emerald eyes. “Ah, Darrick.” A lopsided grin stretched as he struggled to prop himself up with his elbows. “He knows better. Had he been a man of honor, the esteemed Sir Ranulf, lord of Sedgewic, would not have jumped out at me from behind.”
“Honor, is it?” Ranulf offered his hand to the man on the stable floor. “What manner of knight enters a man’s castle without notice?”
“A man’s castle?” Nathan repeated, his eyes now focused and alert. “We thought ’twas a deserted ruin until ol’ Scoggins showed his ugly face at the gate.”
Ranulf’s smile slipped, and he withdrew his offered hand. The man had a vexing way of making him lose his temper. “Darrick has the right of it. Get your arse off the floor.”
Sir Darrick let his gaze drift upward to the ruined ceiling. “If we may dispense with the pleasantries you exude for one another, I suggest we carry our reunion somewhere less—drafty.”
“Right as usual.” Ranulf hid his reflexive cringe by dusting off the imaginary dirt from his sleeve. “Although soon you will find that this is one of our finer buildings.”
“A great leader sees to the comfort of his men.” Darrick nodded his appreciation. “I noted the fresh mortar in your masonry. Bringing an ailing castle back to its glory is a massive undertaking.”
Ranulf managed to tip his head. In the short time he had been lord of Sedgewic, he had come to think of the falling-down heap as his own. It fit him well. He understood the damage abandonment created.
After waiting for Darrick to leave orders with Sergeant Krell, one of the oldest soldiers he had ever known, Ranulf led Darrick and Nathan across the bailey yard and past the stonemasons. The outer wall was no longer the pile of rubble ’twas when he first inherited the castle. It now stood strong. Despite the decay, he had begun to think of the king’s gift as a blessing instead of a curse. With every improvement, he staked his claim on the lands. He would not release it without a fight.
“Ranulf, pray tell me what you did to irritate our king,” Nathan prodded. “Mind you, I ask to ensure I don’t make the same misstep. Banishment would be far more pleasant.”
Darrick laid a hand on Ranulf’s stiffened shoulder. “’Tis only jealousy. In time, we, too, will receive a boon from our king.”
“Jealousy?” Nathan grabbed at his chest and stumbled, feigning a stab wound. “I would rather be landless than have to rebuild a hovel.”
“Enough,” Darrick said. “One day you’ll go too far.”
Ranulf shook his head. “He speaks what others are probably thinking.”
Nathan had the good sense to flush with embarrassment and stammer out an apology. Ranulf grunted. The hotheaded knight meant no harm. There had been a time when he, too, had not been ready to take on the responsibilities of a castle. The back of his mighty steed, Aldwyn, had been his home. The simple possessions required were his broadsword, a strong suit of armor, and an occasional willing wench to warm his bed.
Sir Darrick reached out, staying Ranulf by his arm. “A word.”
Nathan stopped beside them. A knowing look passed between the two men.
Gnawing irritation boiled under Ranulf’s skin. He held out his hand and Darrick dropped a silver swan into his palm. Ranulf closed his eyes, hating to see the sign that Henry didn’t trust him to complete the task. Why is the king involving more of the brotherhood? He opened his eyes as Nathan dropped another silver swan into his hand.
“By all that is holy, you are not needed.” He gripped Nathan’s wide wrist, forcing his palm open so that he could return the swan to its owner. “I can fulfill my vow without your help”
“Our king disagrees.” Nathan hissed. “Margrave remains free. The threat continues.”
“’Tis not for our pride,” Darrick reminded Ranulf, “but for King Henry’s life.”
The simplicity struck Ranulf, clearing his head. “I know this. I spoke with Margrave and could have taken him into custody, but I have a plan to clear out the rat’s entire nest. Not just one.”
Nathan arched a brow. “Go on.”
“Come,” Darrick said, stepping between the two men. “Show us where we are safe to discuss this in private.”
At Ranulf’s reluctant nod, Nathan grinned back. “Bites you in the arse, doesn’t it?” He added an explanation, “Three heads, three souls, all working together again.”
Ranulf forced his fingers to uncurl and willed them to stay pea
ceful. “This way,” he said, pointing to the main hall.
They moved as one, already the seams of a team, sewn together by duty.
When Nathan Staves lagged behind them, Ranulf could not help the question. He had to ask. “Darrick, what in Christ’s blood did he do to be included in the brotherhood?”
Nathan brought his head between them and slapped their shoulders. The heavy, ham-sized grip nearly brought Ranulf to his knees. Refusing to let the knight see the weakness, he tightened his muscles, just as he did when he prepared for battle.
“’Tis bloody good to work with you, too,” Nathan growled.
A plaintive wail came from the castle hall, drawing all three men up short.
“In the name of all that is holy, what is that?” Darrick asked.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Without further explanation, Ranulf took off at a run toward the main building. He had been a fool to leave one guard to protect his household from the stranger. Maybe he needed help after all. He thundered up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. The report of boot heels told him his friends were right behind him.
The men reached the hall as Erwina and Hamish left the stairs and turned in the direction of the cutlery. She pinched the child’s ear as she led him away. Ranulf swore under his breath and relaxed his grasp around the hilt of his sword. He had intended to be there when Sedgewic’s castellan doled out the punishment, but it looked as if she had it well in hand.
“Did the boy commit murder?” Darrick watched the two retreat from the hall before turning on Ranulf. “Whatever his crime, surely you don’t approve of beating a child.”
“Beat a child? Don’t be ridiculous.” Ranulf knew that under Darrick’s cool mask of indifference was a heart that existed for righting the injustices on the defenseless. “’Tis more than possible Mistress Erwina will drag him to the kitchens, where she’ll stuff him with meat pies.”
“Meat pies, you say? Wild boar?” A hungry look in his eye, Nathan rubbed his stomach, reminding Ranulf that they had yet to break their fast.
He looked for the two serving girls usually found tucked in the corner by the great hearth. Just as he thought, they had been hiding near the fireplace. They stared with longing toward the hallway that led to the kitchens, no doubt planning a way to earn their own punishments.
“You there,” he called out. “Fetch Mistress Erwina. Tell her our guests have need of food and drink.”
Bobbing a curtsy, Faith and Mercy ran to the kitchen, their shiny blond ringlets bouncing with each step.
The wail began again. It came from the bedchamber overhead and wove down the stairway, lifting the hair on Ranulf’s arms.
“Many thanks for your hospitality,” Nathan said, tugging on the neck of his tunic. “But if that boy is crying out while eating her meat tarts, I think I shall plead mercy and try my luck with our troop’s own larder.”
Distracted by the frantic cries for help, Ranulf shrugged and walked toward the stairs. He waved his friends on. “If you will excuse me, I won’t be but a moment.”
* * *
Ranulf kicked shut the warped door with the heel of his boot. His eyes adjusting to the dim light, he noticed the empty bed. The anger he had worked so hard to keep in check began to build. He spun around at the sound of a muffled hiccup. The bedeviling wretch lay huddled on the floor beside the doorway. Curled into a ball, she shivered pathetically in the dark bedchamber, a wide strip of linen wrapped around her upper arm.
“Christ’s blood.” He marched over, intent on yanking her up by the neck and propelling her to his bed. But instead of scratching and clawing her way free, she lay still. ’Twas as if all the fight had left her, a notion that irritated him like a poisonous plant rubbed against the skin. “This is intolerable.”
He smoothed the damp hair out of her face. His own tanned skin stood out against the soft glow of her cheek. He grunted, forcing the tender image away. Mindful of keeping the bedsheet wrapped around the small frame, he lifted her from the floor and deposited her on his bed.
After pulling the coverlet up to her chin, he carefully withdrew her hands. Fresh wounds marred each knuckle. Her slim nails were broken and jagged, bleeding around the tortured edges. He dipped a clean rag into a bucket of cool water to wash away the stains on her hands.
“Who are you?” Her voice was a caress of velvet across the skin.
He paused in his task and turned to see chips of deep sapphire observing his every move. “I think I am in a better position to request the same from you.”
He stifled the shiver as soon as her jeweled eyes glanced away. The need to bring a sparkle to them surged through his veins. Hopeful he was mistaken in her attempt to harm Hamish, he decided to offer his information first. After all, his singular concern was to discover where she came from and send her racing back to her nursemaid’s skirts. It did not matter how he gathered the information. The quicker the better. King Henry’s patience would last only so long.
“A bargain.” He used the gracious smile he had perfected years before. “I’ll tell you what you need to know and you’ll tell me what I ask. Fair enough?”
Blue sapphires slid over him again, leaving a heated path in their wake. He shifted uncomfortably. Though he had many faults, sexual depravity was not a common companion of his. Though some would disagree, desiring someone so young was wrong. Depraved. ’Twas not so long since he had lain with a woman. He lifted his eyes and locked onto her gaze. Their depths were shadowed with secrets and pain.
He sat down on a chair near the bed and leaned in. “Who hurt you? Where is your home? Ah, you shake your head; how naughty of me. I forgot our agreement.”
He hated having to force a captive to reveal her secrets. But the mantle of protecting the king weighed heavily on his shoulders. ’Twould prove most enjoyable to have this over and done with.
“I believe I promised to go first.” He settled into the chair, his back pressing against the oak spindles, folded hands resting on the planes of his stomach. Never far from his blade. “This fair keep you find yourself in is none other than Castle Sedgewic. And I . . . well, I am the lord of Sedgewic and your host.” To his dismay, he swore her hand flinched at his name. Her skin paled as she worked to unhinge her jaw.
“You brought me here?” The simple question, spoken a little louder than a whisper, did something to him internally, awkwardly heating parts he chose to ignore.
“Yes.” He bent forward, trapping her hand to engage her attention. “You can trust me.” Fear flashed in her eyes, causing a guilty twinge to bite at his conscience. Briefly. “Where are your people? ’Tis dangerous for a young girl to travel alone.” His thumb slid over the back of her hand. “Were you attacked? ’Twould pain me greatly to know my lands are not safe to cross. Is that how you came of your wound?”
She pulled her hand away, tucking it by her chest. The edges of binding peeked out from the coverlet and fur. The pink skin above it drew his attention. It looked painful to the touch.
“Why was the child tortured?” she whispered, disregarding his question.
“No one is tortured here. You heard a wayward lad crossing Mistress Erwina’s path one too many times.”
A frown tugged a line between her raven brows. “The watcher?”
He shrugged, doing his best not to convey his annoyance with her questions. “I’ve never thought of her in those terms, but I suppose you are right. She watches over all of us. Been here for years. Came with the castle.”
The dismissive sniff that followed reminded him of a woman he once called his wife. The triangle of muscles between his shoulders bunched.
“She doesn’t do a very good job,” the girl said, her tone proving her displeasure.
“Ah, because she forgot to remove those hideous bindings? Pray forgive her. She has had a trying time with young Hamish’s disappearance.”
“Binding?” she squeaked.
He flicked his hand. “Slide over, child, and I’ll help you with them. Wouldn’t want yo
u to harm yourself again.” He nodded his approval as she wiggled to the far edge of the bed.
“I should wait for Mistress Erwina.”
“’Twas an ingenious way to make yourself seem larger than you are. Indeed, it fooled young Hamish. The lad was terrified at first.” He paused, searching her face. “I thank you for not using your little knife to cut him. Here,” he motioned. “Turn and I will deliver you from the binding.”
“Do not bother yourself. I’m fine, really! I do thank you for your offer, but I can tend to it myself.”
“Takes a steady hand to wield a sharp blade.”
She clutched the coverlet closer. “I would wait upon Mistress Erwina’s help instead.”
Bemused by her reaction, he held out his hands. “You have no need to fear me. Our castellan is busy keeping the workings of the castle running smoothly. In truth, your wait for her help will be long.”
The simple explanation given, he waited for the bedcover to drop. Instead, for his patience, he watched it climb even closer to her chin. ’Twas as if he had barged unbidden into a lady’s chamber. Her eyes were as large as the duck-egg sapphire ’twas rumored King Henry had given to one of his favorites.
His skin itched, recalling the feel of her curvaceous hips as he dropped her into the bed. Memories of hidden shapes, hips, and buttocks flashed before him. Ranulf squinted at the maiden. Correction: make that woman, you fool.
His blood sizzled with the memories of accidentally brushing against curves that should not be on one fresh from the nursery.
Thanks to the pressure in his breeches, he rose on unsteady legs. “I—ah—believe you will have to tend to the binding after all.” He moved from the bed and brushed against a tattered piece of embroidery. Picking it up, he smoothed out the stiffened fabric, bloodied from the wound it had staunched earlier. The bits of thread formed a design he had seen before. What were they? Frowning, he tucked the discarded bit of satin under his belt and turned for the door. “I’ll have Erwina return with a bite of food for you.”