by Regan Walker
“That is why you insisted on the dungeon?”
A muscle leapt in his cheek. “I did warn you of consequences.”
The icy wind stirred the thin fabric of her gown. She hadn’t even been allowed to fetch her cloak. “What about my wellbeing? Have you once considered that?”
His dark brows rose.
“There may be rats in the dungeon.”
“There may well be,” he agreed.
“What if I am bitten by one?”
“You would need to see a healer. There is one here at the keep.”
“What if I catch some awful disease from the rat? A pestilence that cannot be cured?”
Holden sighed. “’Tis unlikely.”
Her mind raced, while her shivers strengthened. “’Tis the middle of winter. I might catch a chill in the dungeon. I could fall very ill with a cough and fever and…and….”
“I am not changing my mind, milady.”
“You are willing to endanger my life, then?” Helplessness threatened to send her into a swoon.
Holden’s gaze softened the barest fraction. “Will you return to the hall and kiss me, as I ordered of you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then you have no one to blame for your misfortune, milady, but yourself.”
Holden pulled Mary down the stone steps into the dirt-floored dungeon, their footfalls and the rustle of her gown echoing in the underground chamber. Penley and the men-at-arms followed, but he’d told the guards that once inside, they were to wait by the stairs.
The odors of mildewed stone and fetid soil tainted the cold air. Torches flickered in iron holders secured to the dungeon walls, but did little to dispel the murky darkness.
All of the cells were empty. In the spirit of goodwill to be found at Christmas, de Lanceau had freed the two men—both of them husbands and fathers—who’d been arrested days ago for stealing sows from a neighboring farmer, after the men had returned the livestock they’d taken and vowed they wouldn’t steal again.
Despair still permeated the dungeon, though, as if the souls of prisoners past who hadn’t been fortunate enough to have been granted mercy haunted the shadows.
Mary made a small sound of dismay, while Holden hauled her toward the isolated cell at the very back, the one reserved for the worst offenders. A little voice within Holden told him to reconsider, that he’d taught her enough of a lesson and should forgive her and take her back to the hall. But, another, more persuasive voice reminded him that she’d embarrassed him in front of people he respected. She deserved to be punished for what she’d done.
Not that she’d suffer for long. He’d already decided to rescue her soon after shutting her in. He’d slip his own cloak around her shoulders to warm her, escort her to the hearth in the great hall, and hand her a mug of hot, spiced wine. Mayhap then, she’d be so grateful she’d agree to kiss him.
“You are putting her in that cell?” Penley asked, from close behind Holden.
“I am.”
Penley whistled.
Mary shuddered; he felt it through his fingers clamped around her arm. Was she going to plead for leniency?
To his surprise, she didn’t say a word. As he slowed and opened the thick cell door that didn’t have a window, he sensed her struggling to rally her courage.
Releasing her, he gestured inside the cell. “In you go.”
Light from a nearby torch flickered over her. Her eyes glistened; in her expression, he saw misery and a plea for mercy.
Remorse weighed upon him, but he mentally pushed the emotion aside.
Her lips quivered. Was she going to yield?
She walked into the inky darkness.
He and Penley exchanged glances. Holden had expected to feel victorious, not unsettled and even guilty. Spurred by his discontent, he shoved the door closed. It shut with a booming thud, and he took the iron key from its peg on the wall and locked the door.
As he returned the key to its holder, a draft swept over Holden’s ankles. Hurried footfalls sounded on the dungeon stairs.
“Holden!”
He recognized Selden’s voice. Was the squire going to berate Holden for locking Mary away? “What?” he called gruffly.
“Lord de Lanceau has ordered us to the horses.”
God’s blood. “Why—?”
“Fire. In the town. Hurry!”
Standing in the pitch-black cell, Mary hugged herself, crushing the sleeves of her silk gown with her fingers. The chilly air was growing even more frigid. The coldness seeped through the soles of her embroidered leather shoes into her feet and up into legs. Rubbing her arms, she fought not to dissolve into a sobbing mess.
Holden would not return to find her with red, swollen eyes and a blotchy face. He’d unlock the door to see her waiting with ladylike poise, having remained brave and patient.
Aye, you will show that arrogant knave.
She shouldn’t have to endure her situation too much longer. In the hall, Holden had confirmed to Lord de Lanceau that she wouldn’t be imprisoned for long.
So, any moment now, she should be freed.
Aye.
But, he’d left the dungeon. She hadn’t been able to clearly hear the exchange of words that had prompted him and the others to leave, but had heard them rush off. She’d almost cried out, asked them to release her, but Holden likely wouldn’t have heeded her anyway.
How long ago that had been she couldn’t say. Since then, she’d heard only silence, apart from her own breathing, the clink of chains on the ground when she’d moved near the wall and her foot had bumped them…and the faint scratching noise that had come now and again from outside her door.
Oh, how she longed to sit down. An unpleasant smell, however, wafted from the floor; an odor she didn’t dare ponder too closely. Sitting would also crease her gown and get it dirty. Her father would be upset, for ’twas the most expensive item of clothing she owned, and he’d paid the tailor extra to have it ready for her to wear to Branton Keep.
Holden was going to let her out soon.
Surely.
The scratching noise came again. It sounded louder than before.
What was it? A rodent?
The ghost of a criminal who’d died in the dungeon?
Oh, God.
Her teeth chattered. Hugging herself tighter, she jumped up and down, her shoes tapping on the dirt floor. Eight, nine, ten—
The scratching came from inside her cell. Something scurried across her foot.
Mary screamed.
Chapter 3
Smoke spewed toward the wintry sky and cast grayish smog over the town. Flames roared and crackled; hellish sounds.
In the market square crowded with spectators and frantic townspeople, de Lanceau, Lord Rowell, and Lord Westbrook discussed the fire with the sheriff. The blaze, started by toppled candles, had spread quickly down the side street of two-story buildings where shopkeepers had run their premises on the ground level and had lived above with their families.
Some folk would lose all that they owned. A terrible thing to have happened at any time of year, but above all at Christmas.
Holden toiled alongside other squires and men-at-arms to unload the buckets, barrels of water, blankets, and other supplies that had been hurriedly loaded into wagons and brought from Branton Keep.
The wind held a biting chill, but sweat streamed down his face. Beneath his cloak, his garments stuck to his skin.
The wagons finally emptied, Holden dried his brow with his sleeve. Nearby, a line of townsfolk passed buckets of water to the men battling the blaze, while another line handed the empty buckets back to those drawing from the well.
Closer to Holden, the healer crouched beside a woman lying unconscious on a blanket on the ground, a bloody gash across her brow. Her son, no more than four years old, stood crying at her side while clinging to a brown cloth horse.
“What happened to the woman?” Holden asked a man.
“She fell rushin’ out of ’er ’o
me.”
“The poor child is frantic,” a woman added. “’E keeps cryin’ fer ’is Mama.”
The gritty crunch of footfalls signaled de Lanceau’s approach. “Squires, help with the water. The rest of you, follow me.”
Holden recognized a gray-haired woman struggling with a heavy bucket in the nearby line; she and her husband, a tanner, had sold leather goods from their premises on the street that was now ablaze. Holden moved in to take her place in the line.
Clearly exhausted, she nodded gratefully.
“Your husband?” Holden asked, shouting to be heard over the din.
“Helping draw the water.”
“I am glad he is all right.”
The woman patted Holden’s cheek then hobbled away to rest against a shuttered shop. He took the next bucket by the handle, passed it to the man on his left, grabbed hold of the next bucket, heedless of the water sloshing down his cloak.
Holden tried to ignore the weeping of the young boy, but the child kept crying. The tanner’s wife tried to comfort him, but the boy shook his head, pointed to the blaze, and wailed.
Holden hated to see or hear children in distress. He still remembered the feeble cries of his infant brother, who’d died in his arms.
After passing the next bucket, Holden broke from the line and went to the boy. His face streaked with grime and tears, the child stared up at him.
“’Twill be all right,” Holden soothed.
“Mama,” the boy cried.
Holden exchanged a glance with the healer, who nodded. “She is going to be all right,” he said.
“Mama.” Sobs wrenching from him, the child pointed to the building.
The woman on the ground stirred. Her eyes flickered open.
“Do not move too quickly,” the healer murmured.
Hearing her son, the young mother reached out her hand, caught his tiny one in hers, and then looked about. Panic filled her eyes. “Anna?”
The healer smiled. “Your husband took her to visit his parents, aye?”
Shaking her head, the woman struggled to sit up. “She…stayed with me.”
The healer’s face paled.
When the mother’s gaze found the burning buildings, she cried out in anguish.
“Who is Anna?” Holden asked the healer.
“Her five-month-old daughter.”
The fine hairs at Holden’s nape stood on end. No wonder the boy was upset. His sister was still inside their home.
“My baby,” the mother shrieked. “Please—”
“I will find her. Which house?” Holden asked.
“Sixth one down from the corner,” said the healer, embracing the distraught young woman.
Holden raced to the line of folk passing water, yanked up his cloak’s hood, snatched several filled buckets, and dumped them over his head to dampen his garments. Ignoring the stares and mutterings of the townsfolk, he ripped off part of his shirt’s hem, soaked the fabric in water then tied it over his nose and mouth.
The firefighters moved to stop him. “Stay back!” they yelled.
“Baby,” Holden shouted. He rushed through thick smoke toward the sixth home, its roof covered in flames.
He dropped to a crouch and crawled in through the open door. Intense heat and smoke enveloped him.
The ground floor had been a children’s clothing shop. He prayed the baby wasn’t upstairs, for the roof was close to collapsing.
His eyes watered, making it hard to see where he was going. The acrid stench of smoke seeped through the wet fabric as he crawled in farther.
His hand landed on a fallen garment, and he skidded sideways, bumping into a rack that toppled over. Righting himself, he forced himself onward. God’s blood, but he’d better find Anna soon.
And then he saw it: the cradle, barely visible behind the shop’s counter. He scrambled over to it. The little girl lay inside. He scooped up her limp body, tucked her inside his cloak, and raced out. Safely away from the flames, he yanked the fabric from his face and fell to his knees, coughing and heaving in breaths of cleaner air.
He was vaguely aware of people shouting his name, of someone taking the child from his arms, of a mug of ale and damp cloths that smelled of herbs being pressed into his hands. He pushed back his hood and slowly moved to sit against the wall of a nearby building. After soothing his stinging face with the cloths, he drank the ale, blessedly cool going down his sore throat. His chest hurt when he breathed, no doubt from inhaling smoke. He closed his eyes, overcome by weariness, but determined to rest for only a moment.
Sometime later, he felt a touch on his arm. He opened his dry, scratchy eyes to see the boy beside him, along with his mother. Gaze solemn, the boy handed Holden the toy horse.
“Thank you,” he croaked, “but I cannot take your toy.”
The mother smiled. “’E wants ye t’ave it.”
“Anna?” Holden asked, his voice hoarse.
“She breathed in too much smoke. But, the ’ealer believes in comin’ days, she’ll recover.”
“Thank God.”
“The ’ealer said ta tell ye she’ll tend ye soon,” the woman said.
Holden shook his head. “I would rather she care for Anna. Please tell her that.”
“I will. And thank ye for all ye did today. I am very grateful.”
The little boy hugged Holden, set the horse beside him then took his mother’s hand as they returned to where the healer was tending to the baby.
Gratitude warmed Holden. No matter his injuries, he’d saved a life; as heroic knights did.
As he studied the blaze—the firefighters appeared to be getting the fire contained—de Lanceau crossed to him, followed by Lord Westbrook. “Well done, Holden,” de Lanceau said.
“Thank you, milord.”
“Take Penley with you and return to the castle. Our healer should look at your wounds before you wash up. Later, we will laud your bravery.”
Pride flared inside Holden, even as his thoughts shifted to events earlier that day. His heart jolted. “God’s blood. Mary.”
Seated with her back against the stone wall, Mary shivered in the darkness of the dungeon cell. Sitting on the ground might be foolish, but whatever creature had visited her earlier had long gone.
After standing for what had seemed an eternity, even with jumping up and down now and again, her feet had gone numb inside her shoes and her legs had ached. She hadn’t managed to eat much during the meal, and hunger, combined with exhaustion from little sleep and the day’s stresses, had overwhelmed her. With a reluctant sigh—she’d just have to deal with her father’s anger over her dirtied gown as best she could—she’d sat and looped her arms around her bent legs to draw them in close, and had felt a tiny bit warmer.
When Holden had agreed with his lordship that she’d only be imprisoned for a short time? He had lied.
Wherever he was, she’d hoped he was freezing cold and completely miserable, too.
Dropping her forehead to her crossed arms, she’d listened to the endless silence, prayed for the sounds of the dungeon door opening and footsteps on the stairs that would foretell her imminent freedom.
She’d waited.
And waited some more.
The quietness, though, had continued; unbroken; relentless. The ember of hope that had glowed inside her had sputtered and gone out, leaving behind crushing desolation.
Tears welled in her eyes as she imagined finally being set free. Her father would not only be upset about her gown, but that she hadn’t been strong enough to stay on her feet, as he’d have expected of his flesh and blood. If she fell ill because of her imprisonment, he’d be angry about that, too.
Oh, mercy, but instead of tormenting herself with what she couldn’t control, she should draw strength from the knowledge that Holden hadn’t gotten a kiss from her. She hadn’t compromised what she believed to be right, and she would not give in.
Not to him.
Not ever.
As she blew on her hands to wa
rm them, a faint creaking noise came from across the dungeon, followed by a draft that swirled over the floor. Her pulse quickened. She struggled to move her stiff limbs and stand upright.
Voices, muffled by the cell door, sounded in the dungeon. Then a brisk rap on the door that made her jump.
“Mary?”
’Twas not Holden’s voice. Penley’s, mayhap?
Metal scraped in the lock, and the door opened. Oh, thank God. Relief rushed through her, so intense, her knees threatened to buckle.
Shivering still, she squinted in the bright light of a flaming torch, held by Penley. Keys jangled while they were hung back on the wall peg, and she saw Holden, a short distance away.
Hugging herself, she walked out of the cell.
“Are you well?” Holden croaked.
What had happened to his voice? Had he shouted so much while reveling in the hall that he’d gone hoarse? Well, she hoped he was hoarse for days.
He moved into full brightness cast by the torch. What she’d thought were shadows on his cloak were singe marks and streaks of grime. His hair was matted, his face reddened as though scorched by the sun, and he reeked of smoke.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
He coughed, grimacing as though it hurt. “Fire.”
Did he mean a bonfire, lit as part of the Lord of Misrule celebrations? The kind of fire around which men gathered to sing bawdy songs and drink themselves witless?
Holden had been carousing, while she’d been locked in the darkness and cold.
The torment inside her stirred a wave of dizziness. With a groan, she pressed her hand to her forehead.
“Mary,” Holden said hoarsely. “Are you all right?”
Of course not! I am cold, hungry, worn out, and altogether fed up with you. But, she’d not say that aloud. “I am fine,” she said, even as Penley shifted the angle of the torch.
“Your lips are blue, milady.” The sympathy in the ginger-haired squire’s tone made her want to burst into tears.
Stay strong, at least until you are out of the dungeon.
Mary clenched her hands. ’Twas unlikely that when she left the prison, she’d be able to avoid her father. The thought of facing him made her even more lightheaded, but once he’d berated her, she’d slip away to a quiet spot for a good cry. “If you will excuse me—”