If Love Dares Enough

by Anna Markland

  Antoine put a forefinger to his lips. “We should go silently, so our voices won’t echo into the house. It will probably twist and turn many times to compensate for the height of the cliff. What a feat to carve this into the rock, even with the natural fissure.”

  Hugh nodded and they set off up the slope. The passageway did indeed wend this way and that, sometimes barely wide enough to pass. Here and there, two or three rough steps had been hewn into the rock. The walls were wet and the going underfoot slimy. The air, undisturbed for many years, reeked of stale seawater and decay. Though they climbed mostly uphill, the incline wasn’t so steep that coming down the other way would be impossible—slippery, and in places treacherous, but possible.

  As they drew nearer to the manor, the odours changed to normal household ones, and abruptly they found themselves at the end of the tunnel. Hugh ran his fingers over the wall, trying to find a doorway or portal of some kind while Antoine held the torches. Suddenly they heard scratching and whining and then, “Woof.”

  “Merde!” Antoine whispered. “That dog Boden loves you so much, he’ll give us away. We must go.”

  Hastily they retraced their steps, slipping and sliding their way down the narrow passageway. By the time they reached the cave they were as exhilarated as two small boys who have just perpetrated a successful prank.

  “I think I’ll have bruises on my bruises after that,” Hugh laughed.

  “Reminds me of the time we raided the apple orchards, just after the harvest. Did you ever see serfs so angry?” Antoine cracked.

  “Never mind serfs, I thought Papa was actually going to whip us. It was only thanks to Ram’s quick talking that we escaped punishment.”

  They extinguished the torches and left them in the passageway, but took the tinderbox with them. The tide had carried the rowboat into the mouth of the cave, forcing them to take off their boots and wade. They clambered aboard and the oarsmen rowed them back to Kingston Gorse. Hugh could tell his brother was thinking as hard as he was to devise a plan to use the passageway to free the Meltons.

  ***

  Devona had spent ten frustrating minutes in the bolt hole behind the larder, trying to find the means to open the passageway that her grandfather had described to her. He’d been a small boy the last time he was in the passageway and couldn’t be explicit in his instructions. She’d taken Boden with her for courage. So far the dog had obeyed her command for silence and was watching her intently. Suddenly the mastiff cocked its head and lifted its ears. A moment later it was scratching the stone wall and whining. The hairs rose on the nape of Devona’s neck as she tried to quieten the excited dog.

  What does he smell?

  A current of air laden with the stench of stagnant seawater wafted into the confined space where she hid, and Boden barked.

  Is that someone whispering?

  A prickly sensation swept over her at the thought that Hugh was just on the other side of the wall. So near and yet so far away. She placed her palm on the wall, her heart beating wildly.

  “Hugh?” she whispered.

  The dog barked again and she thought she heard the faint sound of running steps and—laughter? Her elation turned to icy fear as she suddenly heard the footfall outside the larder that she recognized instantly—Torod! He’d stopped and was listening too. Boden turned his enormous brown eyes to her and she didn’t doubt the dog knew who was there. She placed a trembling forefinger on her lips. The mastiff made no sound.

  After a few minutes she heard the toad’s steps grow fainter as he walked away mumbling, “Always said evil spirits lurk in this cursed house. Now the ghosts are laughing! And what a foul stench!”

  ***

  “I can’t find the lever, grandfather,” Devona sobbed. “Tell me again.”

  The old man scratched his head. “Perhaps it isn’t a lever at first—perhaps a brick—or loose stone, then the lever. It was a long time ago and I was but a boy watching my grandfather. He was a tall man and I remember him reaching up. Or perhaps he just looked tall to me then.”

  “Don’t worry.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll try again. I’ll find it. Is there word from Hugh yet? Renouf will be returning in a day or two.”

  “A man I judge to be his steward arrived but an hour since and is with Torod now. I expect he’ll seek me out when he’s done. But we must be careful.”

  As he spoke, a stranger strode into the stable. “Sir Gerwint?” he enquired.

  Gerwint nodded.

  “I’m Barat Cormant.” He turned to Devona and bowed. “Milady, I have but a few moments to tell you I shall be here the rest of the day, working with Torod. The man has no head for figures and cannot read, so I can toy with him to my heart’s content, unlike Sir Renouf who has done a masterful job of hiding corruption.

  By the end of the afternoon I should have an idea of how much money he’s spirited out of the manor. I’m not sure why he would want to hide what he’s taken. If he’s the legitimate master of this manor, he’d have the right to do with it as he wishes, within the law. I’ve escaped Torod for a moment on the pretence of getting a forgotten item from my saddlebags, but will return later with details of milord Hugh’s plan.”

  Barat went to where his saddlebags lay on the low wall of the stall, removed a sheaf of documents and left with a nod.

  Gerwint and Devona stood dumbfounded, unsure what to do next.

  “What do you think Renouf has done with our coin, Devona?” Gerwint asked.

  Devona gritted her teeth. “I think he takes it to Normandie. It’s a mystery what he does with it there.” She squared her shoulders. “Now, while Torod is occupied, I’ll try again to find the lever, and this time I’ll leave Boden with you.”

  Gerwint hooked his fingers into the dog’s collar and nodded. “I’ll set about preparing torches.”

  ***

  Certain no one was observing her, Devona pressed the wall sconce to reveal the hidden space behind the larder, stepped through quickly and closed the panel behind her. The necessity of working in the dark—she dare not light a torch—meant she had to feel for a loose stone. This time she concentrated on the upper part of the wall.

  On the verge of giving up, her arms and shoulders aching, she suddenly felt a faint breeze on her fingers emanating from one of the stones just above her head. She clawed at the rough edges with her fingertips, trying desperately to pry the stone loose. After what seemed like an eternity, it came away from the wall with a scraping sound and she strained to place it as soundlessly as she could on the ground beside her. Standing on tiptoe, she reached into the hole and her hand closed on a long metallic object. Something scurried across her fingers and she squealed as she snatched her hand away. Her heart was pounding like a drum and waves of fear washed over her. She wondered if she would have the strength to pull the lever after so many years of disuse. If only it wasn’t so high.

  Reaching up again, she grasped the lever with both hands, praying whatever had run across her fingers was long gone. She pulled with all her might, but it wouldn’t budge. She slumped to the floor with exhaustion, close to tears.

  I can’t give up now.

  She struggled to her feet and reached up again, took a deep breath and pulled. The metal groaned as it gave way and sweat beaded on her upper lip. She stood stock still, listening intently for Torod’s footsteps. “Pray God he heard nothing.”

  Then she felt and smelled the stale air rush into the space. An opening had appeared to her right. It was barely wide enough to squeeze through and even Aediva would have to stoop to enter. Gathering up her skirts and bending low, Devona edged gingerly through the opening and looked down the passageway. It was dark, but she could tell that after a few yards it curved out of sight. Despite the stench of stale air, she sensed Hugh had been there and her heart lifted. For the first time she felt hope rise in her breast.

  She stepped back into the hidey-hole behind the larder, reached up and pushed the lever back, then heaved the stone into place carefully. She l
istened for any sounds before exiting the hiding place and hastened off to tell her grandfather the good news.

  She found Sir Gerwint in a state of high excitement which seemed to have spread to the dogs. He’d just learned the details of the plan from Barat Cormant. In his hand he held a small sack. Barat had given him precise instructions as to its use. When Devona came into the stables he could see she was as excited as he.

  “Grandfather?”

  “You first. You look pleased. Did you find the lever?”

  “Yes!” she replied excitedly. “It reveals a very small opening into a passageway. Hugh was there, I know he was.”

  Gerwint frowned. “Have a care, Devona. Hugh de Montbryce may intend to rescue us, but he’s still a powerful Norman. Such men don’t give their hearts to Saxon women.”

  He could tell by the discouraged look on his granddaughter’s face that she had indeed fallen in love with the handsome Norman.

  Devona looked at the ground. “I’m not in love with him. I’m a married woman. Though my husband is a monster, I can’t commit the sin of adultery.”

  Gerwint wept inwardly for the pain Devona suffered at Renouf’s hands, and for his own helplessness to do anything to save her from it. Now they were depending on a Norman nobleman for rescue, a man Devona had obviously lost her heart to. The relationship could only end in heartbreak, as long as Renouf lived—

  He held up the bag. “Barat has given me a means to render Renouf’s men-at-arms harmless during our escape. It’s set for the morrow.”

  He saw Devona’s surprise. “On the morrow,” he repeated, “We’re to mix this herb with their potage for the midday meal. It will make them sleep. We’ll then make haste to open the passageway. I’ll help get your mother down to the cave, where Montbryce will be waiting. The tide will be full and the rowboat will take us to a longboat moored further out. It will transport us to Normandie.”

  “To Normandie?” Devona whispered. “You would consent to go to Normandie?”

  Gerwint had been afraid his perceptive granddaughter would find the flaw in the plan. He wrestled with his dilemma. He had no intention of going to Normandie, but if he told her she might refuse to leave. He sat down on a bale of straw and motioned her to sit beside him, taking her hand.

  “Devona, you’re too intelligent for your own good. You’ve perceived correctly that it would be impossible for me to go to Normandie. What would I do there—an old Saxon warrior? I intend to remain in England. I’d rather die in my own country. I’ll go to the South Downs. A man can hide in forests and wild secret places aplenty. There are other Saxons living in hiding there. I’ll join them and keep an eye on Renouf.”

  Devona clutched his hand. “But I can’t go without you,” she sobbed.

  Gerwint put his arm around her shoulders. “You must. For my sake. I’ll feel much happier knowing you’re out of Renouf’s clutches. And what about your sisters? Do you want them to become Torod’s playthings? Or Renouf’s?”

  She sniffled. “No, of course not. Oh grandfather. I love you. And I’ll miss you and Melton so much.”

  “I love you child. There’s no other way. Lord Hugh will take care of you. All of you.”

  They clung together for a long while in silence, listening to the excited panting of the dogs at their feet.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lady Wilona Melton saw and understood much more than anyone thought. Upon first learning of her husband’s death at Stamford Bridge, she’d lost the will to speak, afraid if she attempted to do so she might begin to weep and never stop. The longer her self-imposed muteness went on, the harder it became to renounce it, to reassure her family she wasn’t mad, as they no doubt thought. It was easier to be taken care of, to not have to think, especially when the monster Renouf came along. If she thought overlong on what he did to her daughter she would indeed go mad.

  It was cowardly. Did her father-by-marriage suspect she wasn’t mad? Long ago, when Renouf first arrived, Sir Gerwint had given her a dagger and whispered, “For your protection, Wilona. Just in case.”

  Now, slumped in her usual place against the kitchen wall, she heard the edge in Devona’s voice, saw the anxious glances exchanged between Aediva and her grandfather, and watched Bemia surreptitiously pour something from a sack into the cauldron of potage being prepared for Renouf’s men-at-arms. She wondered if perhaps the time might be at hand for her to use the weapon she’d kept concealed under her skirts for so long. Brigantia, lying beside her, was tense.

  It didn’t take long. One by one, the drugged mercenaries succumbed to sleep. The only part of the plan not going well was that Torod hadn’t appeared for the midday meal.

  Devona ran to the stables. “Where can he be?” she asked her grandfather.

  Gerwint had been on the point of coming to the house, having retrieved his long-hidden sword from the rafters of the stables. “I don’t know, but we have to proceed. This is our only chance. I must get all of you down to the beach and make my escape to the Downs before these men awaken. Come, Aediva and Bemia are already behind the larder, lighting the torches. Boden is with them. I’ll assist you with your mother.”

  They entered the kitchen and were taken aback to see Lady Wilona on her feet, holding on to Brigantia for support.

  “Mother?”

  Lady Wilona looked at her daughter. “Let’s be gone from this place, Devona.”

  They were the first coherent words any of them had heard her utter for more than five long years. “You—you can speak!” Devona choked out.

  “Devona, we must hasten,” Gerwint said. “There will be time enough for—” He couldn’t continue, his heart broken by the sight of Devona clinging to her mother, sobbing.

  “I’m a coward, Devona,” her mother cried, “But I won’t allow my cowardice to interfere with your escape. Tell me the plan as we go.”

  They made their way to the hidey-hole. After so many years of inactivity, Lady Wilona had difficulty walking. Devona indicated the location of the secret stone to Sir Gerwint. He removed it and pulled the lever. The opening appeared. Holding one of the torches aloft, Sir Gerwint led his family through it and into the passageway. Aediva and Bemia followed directly behind him. Devona helped her mother. Boden and Brigantia brought up the rear.

  ***

  Sucking on a sweet grass plucked from the roadside, Torod wondered idly why there was no noise coming from the Hall. Usually, after their midday meal, the men were boisterous. True, on occasion some of them ate and drank too much and had to nap for a while, but still, it was uncommonly quiet. What could have happened in his absence to render them so mute? He’d only been gone for a short while, collecting rents from the tenant farmers. Now he was hungry and hoped there was food left.

  He stopped in his tracks when he entered the Hall. His jaw dropped and the grass fell to the floor.

  By the saints! Are they all drunk? At midday?

  Where were all the servants—and the Saxon madwoman—and the dogs? Come to think on it, the old man wasn’t in the stables, and—damnation—where was Lady Devona and the two brats? Fear snaked into the pit of his stomach. He ran from the Hall, taking the steps to the bedchambers two at a time, cursing each time he flung open a door.

  He was panting and sweat was blurring his vision by the time he regained the main floor. As he ran by the larder, he noticed the door was open. He recoiled at the stale smell emanating from there.

  “Merde!” he swore when he discovered the opening and the secret passage. There was no doubt in his mind Renouf’s wife and her family had made their escape down that passageway. If they succeeded he was a dead man. Renouf would skin him alive. Without hesitation he raced headlong into the darkness, sword drawn.

  It was Boden who first alerted the Meltons to pursuit. Wilona was trying to make haste down the passage, with Devona’s help, but her legs wouldn’t respond. Her joints were stiff and she cursed that she would be the cause of the failure of this escape attempt.

  “Leave me, Devona. Take
the girls and run. Leave me.”

  “No, mother. I won’t go without you.”

  “For Aediva’s sake—for Bemia—I implore you,” Wilona gasped, sinking again to her knees, clinging to the damp rock wall.

  Devona struggled to get her mother to her feet, and Gerwint came back to help her. Boden had turned to look in the direction of the house. His rigid tail wagged ferociously as he growled. Brigantia nuzzled Wilona, urging her to her feet.

  Just as Wilona managed to stand, a wild-eyed and breathless Torod burst upon them, sword flailing. Boden lunged at him and the sword caught the dog on its foreleg. The animal fell, whimpering. Torod grabbed Wilona by the hair and pulled her towards him. Devona struggled to hold on to her, but Torod raised his sword over her mother’s head and she reluctantly let go.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Gerwint had drawn his sword and was moving stealthily towards the toad.

  “I’ll slice off her head, old man,” Torod sneered.

  Suddenly the colour drained from the toad’s face, his mouth fell open and his disbelieving gaze dropped to the dagger Wilona had embedded in his belly. The sword fell from his hand as he pitched forward, his head striking the rock with a sickening thud, his chain mail scraping against the slippery pathway.

  “Wilona!” Gerwint exclaimed. “All these years!”

  “I knew I’d need it someday,” she sobbed.

  The echo of running footsteps alerted Devona to other intruders and the hairs stood up on her nape, but then she realized the sound was coming from the other direction. Shadows cast by the flames of oncoming torches danced on the ceiling.

  “Hugh!” Devona cried, collapsing to her knees at his feet. “Torod is dead—Boden—Boden’s hurt.”

  Hugh could scarcely take in the scene he encountered. He’d been waiting in the rowboat, becoming increasingly concerned and impatient. He’d decided to meet the Meltons as they descended.

  Now, here was Torod—dead by the looks of it—Sir Gerwint, sword drawn, standing with his foot atop the toad’s chest, a bloody dagger in his hand—Boden lying wounded and panting, a gash in his foreleg—a woman, who seemed to be Devona’s mother, standing unsteadily with a gleam of triumph in her green eyes—Bemia and Aediva holding on to each other in fright—and Devona, clinging to his legs, babbling incoherently, crying. He crouched to put his arms around her.