Her Noble Lords

by Ashe Barker

  We approach the cluster of small buildings where a clamour of activity centres around the tiny cottage where I abandoned my husband in such a hurry a little over an hour ago. The time which has elapsed seems somewhat longer than that. A group of peasant women are gathered by the door, their heads together as they gossip intently. The entrance to the tiny dwelling is blocked by the bulky form of one of my husband’s guards and witnesses to our ill-fated wedding. He sees us emerge from the trees and draws his sword as he advances.

  “What the…?” mutters my escort. “Hold there, what are you about, man? Sheathe your weapon.”

  The soldier points straight at me, his face contorted in fury. “She killed him. That bitch murdered Sir Ralf. We should string ‘er up right here and now.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Piers pauses, glances at me. His grip on my hand tightens. “What did you say?”

  “Stabbed ‘im, she did. With a dagger. She killed ‘im then fled to save her own miserable skin, the murdering whore.”

  I stagger, my knees threaten to collapse. “No, I swear, ‘tis not true. I—”

  The soldier is not yet done. “Left ‘im in a pool of ‘is own blood, she did. Just stuck ‘im like a pig, then left ‘im to die.”

  Piers lengthens his stride, dragging me along with him. He sweeps past the guard, whose expression denotes my likely early demise too and charges into the cottage. Ralf is lying on his back on the pallet, unmoving. His shirt is stained with blood, so much blood and his complexion is ashen. He is surrounded by the priest, two women from the village, and the other guardsman, who leaps to his feet when he sees Piers enter.

  “Sir, the earl is sorely wounded. We have staunched the bleeding but…”

  Not dead? Then perhaps there is hope for me after all.

  “Stand aside, man.” Piers shoulders the guard to the edge of the room, suddenly bethinking himself that he still has a tight hold of my arm. He pushes me at the soldier. “Hold her fast.”

  As the guardsman imprisons me in a bear-like hug, Piers crouches beside his brother and murmurs quietly to the priest. The father shakes his head, his expression grim. Piers leans over Ralf and grasps his brother’s blood-stained hand. “Can you hear me, brother? Ralf?” There is no reaction. Piers tries again. “Ralf? For the love of God, man, speak to me.”

  My husband’s eyelids flutter, he tries to shape words but no sound emerges from his mouth. His hand lies limp in his brother’s firm grip.

  “We have stemmed the bleeding. We can only pray for God’s mercy now, my lord.” The padre’s assurance, such as it is, offers little in the way of comfort, to any of us. The women are weeping, the guard mutters something obscene in my ear. Piers gets to his feet. He stands in front of me, his expression cold. God might show mercy but I suspect I will find none here in this room. Piers raises his hand and I flinch, anticipating the blow which will in all probability end my life.

  It does not come. He lowers his hand to rest it on the hilt of his sword and leans in to me. “You will be taken to Egremont to await us there. If my brother dies, you will hang.” His tone is low, his words all the more menacing for it. He raises his eyes to address the guard. “See her there, unharmed, then turn the wench over to Hugh for safekeeping until I arrive.”

  “Sir, my lord, I did not intend this, I swear.” My desperate pleas burst unbidden from my mouth.

  He does not even acknowledge I have spoken. Instead, he turns his back on me, crouching at his brother’s side once more.

  “My lord, I beg of you. ‘Twas an accident. I did not mean him harm. I was afraid and I sought only to defend myself.” I am weeping, begging for my life.

  “Take her.” The curt command is Sir Piers’ only response.

  I am dragged from the dwelling and over to where the horses await our departure. The two soldiers bind my hands tight in front of me, then toss me up onto the back of one of the horses. They make me sit astride and tie my feet to the stirrups. The hard saddle presses against my tender bottom but this is the least of my worries now.

  I have witnessed death in the making before. I am sure my husband will not survive.

  And then, his brother will hang me.

  * * *

  The journey to Egremont is brutal, though I am offered no overt violence or serious cruelty by my two guards. We ride from early morn until noon, then stop for sustenance and to rest the horses. Occasionally we halt at a wayside inn but usually the respite is taken in the hedgerows or meadow along our route. I am offered bread, some dry cheese, and just once, the younger of my guards passed me an apple which had been only partially consumed by a worm. I was glad enough of it.

  No allowance is made for the call of nature. I am reduced to begging them to stop and allow me to relieve myself, which I do as they watch from their horses. I am then secured back on my mount to continue on our way. At night I lie shivering in the dank night air, my hands and feet bound, with just a thin blanket to protect me from the elements. I am relieved to see each dawn, as it means I have somehow survived another night.

  Were it not for Sir Piers’ express command I doubt I would have arrived at Egremont alive. The baleful looks and hostile remarks from the older guard, the one who was so enthused at the notion of stringing me up back at the hamlet, are never-ending. He constantly accuses me of plotting to murder his lord, as though I might have contrived this wholly sorry mess on purpose. I soon tire of protesting my innocence and in any case, it is not them I need to convince.

  The younger guard is quiet, his attitude toward me more one of indifference than hate. He ensures I am given sufficient food to stave off fainting with hunger and a few mouthfuls of water each time we stop but his caring will stretch no further.

  By the second day the older guard has seemingly tired of insulting and accusing me and instead confines his conversation to his companion. Neither one of them speaks to me apart from to issue commands. I, too, prefer to keep my own counsel and concentrate on remaining awake whilst on my horse though that is difficult. At least I cannot fall off as each time I mount they secure my feet to the stirrups. I am numb from being constantly restrained, my bottom sore beyond anything Piers could have caused, desperate for this journey to end, yet dreading what awaits me at the St. John brothers’ northern keep.

  After four days on the road, we pass into the county of Westmoreland and I assume we are almost at our destination. In fact it is another day and a half before we crest a hill and the castle comes into view.

  My guards pick up the pace, no doubt anxious to reach their home and loved ones and I am dragged bobbing up and down behind them as we break into a trot. My horse is on a leading rein attached to one of their saddles. I grab the pommel and hang on as best I may as they canter the final couple of miles across the rolling fells.

  The drawbridge is lowered to admit us and we enter the bailey with a clatter of hooves on cobbles. Immediately, we are surrounded by stable lads and other inhabitants of this remote castle. Without exception they peer at me, their gazes curious as they take in my tattered, dishevelled appearance and the fact that I am bound, a prisoner.

  The older guard leaps from his mount, accepts a mug of foaming ale from a buxom woman with a ruddy, smiling complexion and looks about him. “Where is Hugh Belcher?” he demands.

  I am left to perch atop my horse, an object of curiosity for all around me, until a mountain of a man emerges from somewhere within the bowels of the castle. He lumbers across the bailey, his brows lowered in irritation he makes no attempt to conceal.

  Something awakens, uncurls deep inside me. It is raw, unmitigated fear. I know this man. I remember him from when I was here before, as a small child. He was the one we cowered from, the one whose wrath little ones could expect to face if they were disobedient or failed to carry out their allotted chores with the necessary diligence. I did not know his name, just that he was the fearsome denizen of the dungeons, the man who punished those who did wrong. I recall I once wit
nessed him whipping two unfortunate village lads who had been caught attempting to rape a lass from the Egremont kitchens. Lilith was just a couple of years older than I was at the time and though I shared her outrage and her pain, I cringed in terror from the sounds of her attackers’ screams.

  I am to be handed over to this monster, to be at his mercy. I open my mouth, intending to plead for some other treatment but can get no words past my chattering teeth,

  The dungeon master confronts the older of my guards and it is clear there is no love lost between the two. “Since when am I at your beck and call, Aitken? If ye have a prisoner for me, ye can bring ‘em down yourself.”

  “Sir Piers’ orders. This wench is to be delivered into yer keeping and no one else’s till such time as he returns to hang ‘er. Ye can take ‘er down with ye and mind ye keep ‘er secure, see? His lordship’ll ‘ave yer hide, too, if she escapes.”

  The monster of a man regards me with a dispassionate stare. “No one escapes from my dungeon. What’s the lass’s crime?”

  “Murder. She killed Sir Ralf, wi’ ‘is own dagger.”

  This announcement elicits a collective gasp from the assembled members of the household. People are murmuring, casting malevolent glances my way. I am not surprised. Ralf was always the favourite around here. For myself, I am quaking at the prospect of the horrors which will await me at this man’s hands. I had assumed I would be imprisoned to await my fate but a dungeon…

  “Aye, well, that’d merit a noose I agree. Right then, lass, let’s be having ye then.” The huge hands seize my left ankle and he examines my bonds. “Did ye fear the wee thing might overpower the both of ye and run away then? Makes ye tie ‘er so tight, ‘er feet are blue.”

  “Sir Piers said—”

  “Aye, I can imagine.” The behemoth produces a small dagger from somewhere about his person and slices through the rope around my ankle. I let out a sharp cry as the blood supply is restored. He moves around to my right and releases my other foot. “Down ye come, lass.” He extends his arms up and despite my terror of what he might do to me, I tumble into them.

  Rather than allowing me to crumple in the dust, the jailer—Hugh Belcher—hoists me onto his shoulder and carries me across the courtyard. I make no protest and hope for a merciful death since I have no doubt this man will serve as executioner, too, when the time comes.

  I quake as we enter a narrow passageway leading off one corner of the bailey, then immediately start to descend a flight of stairs. The way is lit only by torches set at intervals into the stonework but the man carrying me is surefooted. Or maybe he knows this route so well he could traverse it blindfolded. At the foot of the stairway he turns to his left, then after several paces he turns another corner, this time to his right. He pauses to unlock a stout wooden door and carries me through it. He deposits me on my feet and locks the door behind us.

  “So, if I have the right of this, ye’re a little wench with a fondness for daggers. I will have to search you before I lock you up. We don’t want you doin’ yerself in before Sir Piers has the chance to, now do we?”

  I back away. “I don’t… I mean, I wouldn’t…”

  “No? I daresay not. Even so, if you’d just stand still for me, we’ll get this bit done with.”

  His hands are brisk as he runs them all over me, checking for any concealed weapon. Had I been in possession of such an item I might have been tempted to use it to effect an escape before ever we arrived here but I see no merit in pointing that out. Mr. Belcher appears to have a set process for dealing with his inmates and I suspect he will be reluctant to deviate from it. I manage to stand still and suffer the indignity of the search in silence.

  It is soon over and I can at least be glad this man did not insist on stripping me. He steps away and I have an opportunity to survey my new surroundings.

  We are in a reasonably large, cavernous space. It is windowless, of course and the flickering light of several torches sends eerie shadows dancing across the grey stone walls. Apart from a low stool and a bucket in one corner, the space is empty. I heave a relieved sigh. I had expected to be flung into some tiny, cramped dark hole deep in the bowels of the castle or maybe even the dreaded oubliette. This place is not so bad.

  “Okay then, lass. Come with me.” Mr. Belcher unlocks a small door at the far end of the chamber and gestures me to precede him through it. The passageway beyond is unlit and narrower than the previous one. I shake my head, dreading what may await me down there, in the dark.

  “Please, could I stay here?”

  “Nay, lass. Now don’t be giving me no trouble.”

  “But, it’s dark. I can’t…”

  He considers for a few moments, then, “Once ye’re settled I’ll leave ye a light. Will that do ye?”

  Miserable, quivering with terror, I can only nod.

  “So, in ye go then. I’ll tell ye when to stop.”

  I make my way slowly through the passageway, aware of Mr. Belcher following close behind me. He has a torch, so we have some meagre light. The walls are damp and the scurrying sounds coming from the shadows on either side tell me all I need to know about my fellow inmates.

  “Stop there.”

  I pause at my jailer’s command and struggle to maintain some semblance of control. Absolute panic is just a hairsbreadth away. It would be so easy to imagine the walls closing in, suffocating me, crushing me to death.

  Mr. Belcher produces another set of keys and reaches past me to unlock a gate to my right. “This’ll be you then. In ye go.”

  He shines the torch into the opening and I see that it is a cell, maybe five feet square. A stone bench runs along the back but that is all the comfort it offers. It is not even high enough for me to stand fully upright.

  “No, you can’t mean to keep me here. Please…”

  “Give me any trouble, an’ ye’ll have no light.” He jerks his thumb toward the forbidding entrance. “Behave yourself an’ I’ll make sure ye have enough to eat. I’ll even let ye have a bucket to piss in.”

  It is in utter despair that I bend and edge through the gateway into my subterranean cell. I perch on the stone bench, shaking, as Mr. Belcher swings the gate closed with a heavy clang and turns his key in the lock. He turns to leave me, then seems to remember his promise. He wedges the torch in a sconce set into the wall opposite my cell door. It casts a dull glow which more or less reaches the spot where I now sit.

  “I knew ye were a sensible little wench. I’ll bring ye some victuals and a fresh torch.”

  With that promise he is gone, lumbering back down the dark passageway, leaving me to my thoughts.

  Chapter Five

  It has been over two weeks since I was incarcerated in the dungeons at Egremont. Mr. Belcher turns out to be a diligent jailer and much to my surprise he is neither cruel nor unnecessarily harsh. I suspect the man has been much maligned over the years. After the first day or so, he agreed to allow me out of my cell for a couple of hours, though he insisted I accept a shackle around my ankle. Thus hobbled, I was permitted to spend the precious respite in the chamber where I was initially searched. This is where Mr. Belcher passes most of his time and he even lights a fire in the grate occasionally so I am able to enjoy some small measure of warmth.

  By the end of my first week, I am spending most of the day in the larger chamber, only returning to my vile cell to sleep. There are no other occupants of the dungeon. It is just me, Mr. Belcher, and the rats that scurry in the corners, though they come right up to scamper around our feet as we eat.

  Mr. Belcher brings food from the castle kitchens for both of us and the fare is not bad. Stews mainly, made with mutton, carrots, potatoes, and occasionally a little pepper to flavour them. The bread is at least fresh. After much pleading on my part and grumbling on his, he provided me with a bowl of water for washing and a small sliver of lye soap. His companionship is pleasant enough, in fact, or would be were it not for the heavy mantle of terror which perva
des every day.

  Soon, Piers will return. He will have me brought up into the daylight again, there to be killed in retribution for the senseless death of his beloved brother.

  In response to Mr. Belcher’s questions I have shared my story with him. He seems to believe my account of events; certainly he has never questioned my identity.

  “Just tell his lordship the truth, Linnet. He is a fair man. He will listen.”

  I shake my head. “He won’t. Neither of them believes me. I told them, again and again, that I am not Lady Eleanor. And now, it has come to this.”

  “All is not lost, lass, not as long as ye draw breath.”

  Well, that’s true enough but I doubt that happy circumstance will continue for much longer.

  * * *

  “Linnet, his lordship has returned.” Mr. Belcher announces the chilling news as I awaken, stretching on my stone bed. I clutch at the blanket he has kindly provided for me and struggle to sit up.

  “Which… which lord? Is Sir Ralf here too?”

  A silly question. He will have returned to his family home, of course, if only to be buried.

  Mr. Belcher shrugs. “I can ne’er tell ‘em apart, lass. It could have been either.”

  “But there is just one of the brothers here?” I whisper, my heart sinking. If only one, it must be Piers.

  “I only saw one.”

  “Did he say anything? About me?”

  He shakes his head. “Not yet, lass.”

  Not yet but soon. Too soon.

  * * *

  A day passes, then another and still no summons from Ralf. Or Piers. Mr. Belcher is unable to allay my fears. He can only tell me that since the party returned but one golden-headed earl is frequently to be seen in the stables and the jousting courtyard, drilling the castle guards and barking out instructions to all around concerning the defence of the keep. At my constant probing, he does, eventually, concede that these circumstances are unusual. There would normally be the pair of them, though their roles seem interchangeable. Mr. Belcher explains that Ralf is nominally the lord here by virtue of having entered the world six minutes in advance of Piers but both brothers command and for the most part, members of the household neither know nor really care which one they deal with.