Perils of Wrath

by Park, Elsie

  Roland didn’t know when Festus had married Honora, so he couldn’t precisely guess the child’s age.

  “The challenge is to make Audrina into a valuable bargaining piece, if you will, a suitable wife for someone in the near future,” Festus continued.

  Hmm, the girl might be fourteen years old, but possibly as young as twelve, if he was already thinking of giving her away as wife to someone. Though Festus had every right to do this with so young a child, most nobles waited until their daughters were a bit older.

  “No amount of money on my part can purchase a husband willing to deal with the obstinate attitude of that beast,” Festus continued. “Nor would her undesirable qualities make any kind of a decent trade. A man can look past a woman’s physical appearance as long as she brings in a good dowry, serves him faithfully, and produces an heir. But for her to speak her own mind and make demands upon her husband? Well, that’s too much for even the bravest to endure.”

  Roland didn’t agree with Festus’s opinion. His own mother, Lady Elsbeth Beaumont, possessed an intelligent and witty tongue. She made her thoughts and opinions known to his father, Calan, and Roland knew he welcomed his wife’s sharp mind and valuable insight. Calan listened to her with patience, and, in turn, she listened to him. They discussed matters and made decisions together. Roland knew their relationship, based upon love, wasn’t typical among nobles, but it was something that Roland admired. He sought the same mutual respect between himself and his wife—when he found one.

  But Lord Craven’s proposal to tame this girl offended him. He was a knight, by heaven, not a nursemaid!

  “Pray pardon, milord, but wouldn’t this task be better suited to ladies-in-waiting, a strict tutor, or even a stern nun?”

  Festus waved his hand in the air, dismissing the ideas. “She has a lady-in-waiting with her all the time, but I’ve added all those you mentioned to Audrina’s daily schedule, hoping one of them would cut the brat down sufficiently.” He shook his head. “All have failed to produce a satisfactory product. She’s defied every one of them, including the strict nuns in London who are sending her back as we speak.”

  Ah, so that’s why I haven’t seen her. And it appeared the girl’s mere existence was for Festus’s profit and ownership, as was usual. But again, Roland’s father had taught him the unique view that women were blessed creatures of the Almighty, worthy of the esteem that garnered. He knew this belief was looked down upon by most people, especially men of the nobility.

  “I’ve never seen such a stubborn, mule-headed wench,” Festus spat. “I’d deal with the whelp myself, pounding obedience into her with my own fists,” he looked murderous with his tight lips and clenched hands, “if it weren’t for the fact that I need her unscathed.”

  Lord Craven sat stiffly, glaring into space with anger etched into his countenance. Roland had heard of Festus’s violent ways, and this reaction supported those rumors.

  “What she needs,” Festus continued, “is something completely different from what I’ve already tried. And that’s where you come in, Sir Roland.” His mischievous smile made Roland shift nervously.

  Roland didn’t know what Lord Craven had in mind, but he suddenly didn’t want any part of it. As much as he hated the thought of leaving the girl to Festus’s other techniques, even if she was a naughty child, it was none of his concern. His reason for being in Guildon didn’t involve controlling a disobedient youngster. He lost his temper all too often with the normal activities in life. Adding a defiant child to the mix certainly wouldn’t end well for either of them. He would never hit a child for any reason, but Roland knew he’d end up red-faced and shouting at her. He was sometimes like that with his own siblings. “Milord, my temperament is not at all conducive to this assignment, I tend to get riled—”

  “That’s just what she needs,” Festus interrupted, silencing Roland’s protest. “A bit of riling would do her some good. And it’s your other qualities I’m looking to harness for this task. Because of the exclusive behavior I mentioned earlier, I trust you more with her virtue than my raucous, and often uncouth, knights. A female’s virtue makes her a more valuable trade. As such, my new tactic is to give her to your tutelage and training. She’ll be your squire, so to speak. You’ll train her as you would any lad seeking to be a knight.”

  The sure stance Roland had kept since entering the room was jolted at the unexpected order. He took a step back. “A squire? But . . . but she’s a lass, milord, it’s nigh unheard of.”

  “Oh, she won’t be made a true knight, of course. That would be absurd. The training will simply serve to assault her with the hard labor and challenges that apprentices endure before knighthood, not to mention giving her something to do other than shop, overeat, and annoy me. I’m convinced that the physical demands of squireship will shatter her rebellious spirit and bring her into compliant humility at last.”

  Presuming correctly that Roland’s silence meant hesitation, Festus added the allure of compensation. “I’ll pay you four times the amount you receive now, and you will be given an accommodating chamber opposite hers in the castle.”

  Roland’s ears perked up. Enhanced pay and trading his eight-by-eight-foot hovel for a larger, more comfortable abode inside the inner structure certainly intrigued him. He’d be in the main keep of the castle, closer to areas he’d been hoping to infiltrate since arriving.

  Festus sat silent, allowing the idea to mull around Roland’s head. This distinctive chore of training a female squire will certainly bring ridicule from the other knights, but the special position could get me closer to the answers I seek. Lying low hasn’t procured me anything valuable, so maybe this new position will.

  Roland stepped to the table, his mind made up. “Milord, I’ll do it, but do I have your leave to implement whatever tactics I see fit, no matter how, when, or where they take place?” He was thinking of all the places he could investigate under the pretense of training Lord Craven’s ward. He’d have the ultimate freedom to walk the halls without suspicion.

  Festus thought a moment. “You have my permission to do whatever you see fit. All I ask is that you present me with a wench intact in body, but broken in spirit.”

  Roland nodded his understanding. “When do I meet this wayward stepdaughter?”

  “This evening. A messenger rode ahead and told me last night she’d arrive in Guildon sometime today. Be warned, she’s probably haughtier now that she’s bested the nuns.”

  Roland swallowed, the movement difficult with his dry throat. Even the strictness of nuns couldn’t domesticate this lass. What have I just agreed to? Maybe this new post won’t aid me after all. Maybe it will only take up too much of my time and hinder my quest. Roland racked his brain for a viable excuse to back out, but he couldn’t think of anything that Lord Craven would accept. He cleared his throat. “Until this evening then.”

  Festus flashed an almost sinister smile as he nodded his approval.

  The doors opened to admit the head knight, Sir Doyle, a clean-shaven stocky man equaling Festus in height, wearing a look of importance. Roland had never spoken to the silver-haired knight, only seen him from a distance before now. This was Roland’s first time in close proximity to the man who was pretty much on equal status with the lord of the manor.

  “Ah, Sir Doyle, just in time,” Festus said to his advisor-knight. “I’ve just finished with Sir Roland. He’s accepted the position.”

  Sir Doyle approached the table, wiping what appeared to be blood from his hands with a linen cloth. Roland wondered if it was animal or human.

  Doyle retained his gaze on the bloody cloth in his hands but briefly lifted his eyes to glance at Roland as he passed by. Roland thought that would be the end of his acknowledgement, but then the man’s silver-gray eyes jerked back, enlarged. Doyle’s hands stilled in their wiping, and he squinted at Roland. The man’s face reflected a mixture of curiosity, surprise, and a li
ttle confusion as if trying to determine if he knew Roland from somewhere else. But that wasn’t possible. They’d never met outside of Guildon.

  Then, as if deciding otherwise, his expression suddenly turned to an approval of sorts. “Good,” Doyle said in response to Festus’s declaration, “we’re eager to see how your devices will affect the brat.” He sneered and stepped past Roland, coming to stand next to Festus.

  Festus took a rolled-up parchment sealed with his wax insignia and, giving it a strong shove, sent it sliding down the long table. Roland caught it with his hands at the edge. “Give that to the knight commander on duty. It permits your removal from normal responsibilities. Best of luck, Sir Roland. You’ll need it.” Festus chuckled, lifting a hand to dismiss him. “Sit, Doyle, we’ve much to discuss.”

  Festus’s head turned to his papers, but Sir Doyle eyed Roland again, the peculiar look returned before he reclaimed his face as he studied Roland. He didn’t know why, but Doyle’s intense stare unnerved him. His insides flipped, causing his skin to tingle. Roland’s tense posture managed a stiff bow to the man before he turned from the senior knight. Exiting through the doors, he felt Doyle’s gaze boring into his back.

  “How went the interrogation?” Roland heard Festus say to Sir Doyle before the guards closed the doors, shutting out the voices from inside the room.

  By heaven, was the blood on Doyle’s hands from an interrogation? Were the screams he’d heard from that? He didn’t know if his assumptions were correct, but even so, heaven help anyone who crossed that ruthless duo.

  Roland returned to the sleeping quarters feeling hesitant to meet this girl, yet anxious to pack his belongings and move into a more favorable habitat. He took a deep breath and then exhaled vehemently through his nose, the forced air sounding like wind rushing through a canyon. So much for lying low.

  “Audrina Gibbons, quit poking at your middle. It’s like you’re testing the tenderness of meat before purchase.” Gail Pritchard, Audri’s lady-in-waiting and loyal friend, shook her head before looking out the window of the carriage. The full wimple over Gail’s blonde hair didn’t completely conceal the scar on her left cheek that ended at her jaw. The opposite end of the long mark ran up under the wimple, unseen as it trailed all the way to her left temple.

  “Isn’t that what women are?” Twenty-two-year-old Audri scoffed, staring out of the other window. She looked over at Gail, the woman’s pretty face returning Audri’s dismal expression. “Just meat to be bought and sold by those who claim the power to do so?”

  The poignant look Gail sent to Audri made the lady-in-waiting seem older than her thirty-five years. “Not everyone is as harsh as your stepfather.”

  Audri turned her body toward Gail, who sat across and to the right of her. “No? You should know better than I the reality of that lie,” she said, tapping her own temple in the same location as Gail’s scar.

  Gail turned her head away and stared out the window again, her light brown eyes gloomy at the harsh reminder of the truth.

  Audri knew Gail put up with her disposition not because it was required of her as a servant, but because she understood the anguish Audri lived with. Years ago, Gail had survived marriage to a vicious man, barely escaping with her life after he attacked her face with a knife. Gail had dodged another attack that would have killed her, causing the man to trip over his own feet and land on his blade. This ended his miserable life and Gail’s nightmare at the same time. Audri didn’t know what she’d do without her handmaid. She was a true friend and a strong supporter of her defiance against Lord Festus Craven.

  Audri frowned again at her stomach as the carriage bounded down the rutted dirt road. Under the loose surcoat, her plump belly jiggled and vibrated like rice pudding in a bowl. Food—especially sweets—was the only thing that seemed to fill the lonely void in her life. At first, she’d thought to starve herself—much to Gail’s vehement protests—in order to irk her stepfather. A thin, sickly woman wasn’t considered a valuable alliance in marriage, as it limited the bearing of healthy sons. But early on, she found that going without food for five days, even with drinking water, was too difficult a challenge for her. She had come out of it feeling so weak and dizzy that she couldn’t think straight and was often lethargic and confused. And she was cold, always cold, as if her body hadn’t the strength to keep itself warm even if she wrapped herself in blankets. But it was really the pain, the gnawing, sharp aches in her stomach, that had truly outdone her. They were enough to make her ill on top of the weakness and cold, and she was bedridden for several days as Gail nursed her back to her previous health. In the end, it wasn’t worth the trouble, especially since she weighed over fourteen stone1 and it would take many weeks of feeling that way to achieve a thin build. She believed she’d probably die before that . . . and there were other ways of defying Festus. In the end, she gave up trying to give up food.

  But Audri came to realize that food ruled her instead of her ruling it; she felt a prisoner, having little power to override it.

  Gail turned from the window, her sympathetic eyes resting on Audri.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Gail. You know my motives for acting the way I do.”

  “Yes, but is rebelling against Craven worth your harsh reputation and unhappiness?”

  Audri had often asked herself the same question, especially on her most miserable days, but her stubborn pride forced her retort. “I will rebel against that violent boar and his puppet, Sir Doyle, until the day I die . . . or they die. Whichever comes first. My defiance is simply a means to a greater end, a device in a thick book of possible revolts against the monster who abuses my good mother.” She knew her mother felt ineffective against Festus’s strict discipline of Audri, but Audri, in turn, felt powerless to protect her mother from his cruelties. She vowed never to succumb to that bully or anyone like him.

  “I’m afraid your unruly attitude won’t just deter divisive men from courting you but any decent ones as well.”

  “Decent ones? Really, Gail? Show me a decent man in Guildon, just one, and I’ll gladly eat my words.”

  Gail opened her mouth but promptly shut it, her lips tight.

  “You see?” Audri held her forefinger out as she made her point. “Even you can’t think of a man in that cursed structure who doesn’t follow the appalling example of Lord Craven.” She spat his name, the taste of it bitter on her tongue. Yes, I’ll stand my ground no matter the circumstance.

  “Don’t you wish for marriage at all, Audrina, dear?” Gail said in quiet reserve, her brows turned outward to accompany her expression of soft concern.

  “Of course I do, Gail,” she returned with equal reverence, deeply pondering the subject. “I don’t hate the thought of marriage, but I don’t foresee a respectable one in this reality, only in my deepest imaginings. The thought of my mother’s situation becoming my own is enough to scare away most thoughts of matrimony. To be shackled to a man who beats me, who yells at me . . .” Audri shook her head, letting the sentence trail off as she looked down at her lap to hide the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “No, fine husbands are only found among the humble villagers who seem to understand how a healthy relationship should be between a man and a woman. But, for noblewomen like me, I’m afraid they’re simply objects of tall tales. I’m fully convinced of that.” So I’ll fight against the horrid men in my life until they all but give up and let me be.

  Gail said nothing as she turned her pensive expression to the tree-dotted hills passing by outside the carriage.

  Gail had begrudgingly taken Audri to the convent over three weeks ago. Upon reaching the nuns’ domain, the faithful woman strongly protested her separation from Audri, but the Guildon knight escorts physically held her back from following Audri into the abbey, later forcing Gail to return to Guildon without her charge.

  And Audri had sorely missed Gail, yearning for her friend’s devoted support while expe
riencing the onslaught of rapped knuckles, caned feet, incessant reprimands, standing for days at a time without relief of a chair or bed, solitary confinement, and a limited diet of bread and potage while in the nuns’ charge.

  But even without Gail, Audri had managed to defy another of Festus’s schemes for her reformation. The exasperated holy women sent her back to Guildon without so much as an explanation for Lord Craven—not that he needed one.

  Audri almost cried upon seeing Gail again, her handmaid’s own joy and relief evident as they embraced each other before leaving the abusive environment.

  A Guildon knight mounted on horseback passed by the window closest to Audri. He glanced inside, his eyes quickly sweeping over Audri to rest on Gail. “Are you comfortable Lady Pritchard?” the man asked.

  Audri’s eyes narrowed, knowing the uncouth knight wasn’t really worried over her handmaid’s wellbeing. Sure enough, his next comment exposed his true thoughts. “I could accommodate you, should you need a man to keep you warm.” He smiled and waggled his eyebrows at the attractive servant.

  “Be gone, you fool!” Gail hissed at the knight. “Your duties are to escort, not consort.”

  The knight shrugged. “You can’t blame me for trying.” Then he eyed Audri. “I knew I’d get nowhere with this harpy,” he sneered. “What you need is to be thrown in the dungeon with an iron muzzle.” He snorted a laugh before leaving the window and again taking the lead at the head of their small caravan of armed guards.

  Audri knew that knights were supposed to take their vows of piety and honor seriously—but not in Guildon. Festus set the example, and his men followed—all too willing to demonstrate their crudeness and mastery over others. And though Audri was deemed physically off limits as Lord Craven’s stepdaughter, he didn’t rebuke his men for passing tasteless remarks in her direction. She’d be lying if she said their comments didn’t hurt her, but she’d tolerated them so long that she could adequately show an impervious attitude on the outside.