He waved the guards forward.
Blinding pain arrowed through Gallien’s head as he was struck from behind. He slumped to the stone floor, anguished that he would never have the chance to make amends to his wife.
Fiend
Sweat trickled off the end of Gallien’s nose. He stuck out his tongue, but the meager drops did nothing to assuage his raging thirst. Pain spread its tentacles through his arms and shoulders and his head throbbed. Giant hands squeezed the air out of his lungs. His heart lurched. He had been stretched on a rack.
But his ankles were not bound. Taking a deep breath, he reached with his feet. The pain eased as he took some of his weight onto his toes, which barely touched a cold stone floor. He was not on a rack, but had been strung up like a hunk of meat for dressing.
He peeled open his eyes and glanced down. He had been stripped to the waist and his boots removed. Livid bruises darkened his torso and belly. He took a deep breath. A sharp stab of pain hinted at a cracked rib or two. He had a vague memory of being tossed over the back of a horse like a sack of grain. Slowly, he raised his head. His wrists were tied to a rafter.
Wherever he was, it was hotter than Hades. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. He was in a cellar. The source of heat was a smoky fire in a circular stone grate. Over it stood an enormous blackened cauldron perched on a square metal frame. Steam rose from the vessel. He had seen something similar in the laundry at Ellesmere.
Fear writhed in his bowels. The cauldron did not bode well for whatever de Villiers had in mind. Would the madman sever a limb? Would it be an eye for an eye? Had his father spoken to Henry? Was help on the way? But where was he?
He doubted he was still in Tamworth. De Villiers had obviously finagled his way into the castle with the warrant while Marmion was absent, but would never dare torture Gallien there.
He looked up at the beam, flexing his fingers. The rough wood scraped the insides of his wrists and the rope dug into his skin, aggravating the welts left by the manacles. His prison did not look like a castle dungeon, but rather the cellar of a smaller building, mayhap a manor house.
De Villiers had perhaps brought him bound and gagged to his own estate. If that was the case, he was not far from home.
Home.
He took deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He had the courage to face whatever pain his enemy would inflict, but the prospect of never seeing Peri and his children again was unbearable.
The loud creak of rusted hinges alerted him to the presence of another, though he could see nothing through the billowing steam. He tensed, waiting.
De Villiers loomed out of the mist, his mouth twisted into an evil sneer. “Ah! Milord de Montbryce. I trust everything is to your satisfaction here in my humble home.”
Gallien remained silent. That De Villiers had brought him to his own estate was ominous. Obviously, the fiend believed Gallien would never leave alive to tell the tale. He had not come armed, which eased Gallien’s fears a little. Perhaps he would keep his limbs for the moment, but nothing would deter his tormentor from his intent.
Stroking his beard, De Villiers strutted around him slowly. “Not too tight, I hope. The ropes?”
Gallien looked up at the beam. Shards of agony spiralled into his biceps, but he said nothing. He closed his eyes, conjuring a vision of his Welsh grandfather who had died when Gallien was five years old. His mother had passed on to her children much of the Celtic lore Rhodri fervently believed. Pride in his Welsh blood surged through him as he called on the war god Belatucadros to destroy his enemy. He gritted his teeth, preparing his body and mind for the torture de Villiers would sooner or later inflict.
The door creaked open again. Gallien vaguely recognized one of the men who had served as his gaolers in Tamworth, a mercenary who would do anyone’s bidding for payment. Beefy fingers clenched on a knout.
This was to be part of his humiliation—a scourging, the punishment meted out to serfs and servants.
“You’ll forgive me if I leave your torment to another better able to administer it.” De Villiers thrust his stump under Gallien’s nose. “You see, I am ill equipped to put enough force behind the strokes. However, I will indulge myself by staying to watch.”
He sauntered over to stand closer to the steaming cauldron, beckoning, then pointing to the seething liquid. Gallien was determined not to let his eyes follow. His belly lurched again, but he kept his gaze fixed on his tormentor.
Nose to nose with Gallien, the mercenary grinned. Gallien held his breath, forcing down the bile rising in his throat at the odor from the man’s few remaining teeth, black with decay.
The mercenary slowly stroked each lash of the knout between his thumb and forefinger, gripping the handle tightly in his other fist. It was plain he relished his task. He flicked the knout against Gallien’s thigh, then walked behind him.
De Villiers nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on his prisoner’s face. Gallien flexed his toes against the cold stone and braced his body for the sting of the lash.
He would not count the strokes. There was no point. He doubted if de Villiers had yet decided how many would be administered. The torture would cease either when he was dead or when de Villiers called a halt.
As the lash peeled the skin from his back, he yelled the Montbryce war cry, as his grandfather had done at Hastings. Fide et Virtute. Faith and Valor. He conjured an image of his wife, her face, her smile, her breasts, her sweet, warm, welcoming sheath. He wanted Peri to be his last memory.
“Hold.”
It had been only five strokes, six at most. The plan was evidently to kill him slowly. He twisted, trying to keep some of his weight on his toes, but his calves cramped with the effort.
The silent minutes dragged by. He smelled his own blood. Soon he would have to relieve himself. He hoped he was dead before his bowels emptied.
“Resume,” de Villiers commanded.
Gallien took a deep breath and lifted his toes from the floor. Better to suffocate than to die in his own filth.
Grave Danger
Tandine de Villiers covered her head with her arms in a futile attempt to ward off her husband’s blows. It was a mystery where he had secreted his children but she was at least relieved to have drawn his anger away from them for the moment.
It was not the first time Devlin had struck her. A man was entitled to beat his wife if she transgressed, but Tandine had no notion of what she had done to displease him. He seemed to be in a permanent state of anger.
She had submitted to his rough handling in their bedchamber, doing things to him and allowing him to do things to her that made her gag.
She had tended his six children, and they had welcomed her attentions. It had quickly become evident Devlin considered his children a burden. They too feared him.
Life had been pleasant while Devlin was away on some mysterious errand for Geoffrey of Anjou, but now he was back. He was spending a lot of time in the undercroft, forbidding her and the children to venture into that part of the house. Armed men she did not recognize loitered around the grounds.
“My lord, please,” she sobbed. “Tell me what I have done to merit this treatment.”
Devlin raised his hand again, but then grasped her arm and forced her to sit at the small table. He thrust a quill into her trembling hand. “Write what I tell you.”
She dipped the point in the encaustum, wiping off the excess on the lip of the well. Holding the quill poised over the parchment, she prayed the ink would not blot with the trembling of her hand.
“To milady Peridotte de Montbryce—”
Tandine gaped at him.
He raised his hand again. “Write!”
Hastily she scrawled the words, then looked up at him, her throat dry as a desert.
“My dearest friend—”
He paused, waiting for her to finish.
“I bid you come with all possible haste to de Villiers Hall. I have news of your husband. In the interests of his welfare and that of your children
, tell no one.”
Tandine’s heart thudded in her ears. What did Devlin know of Gallien de Montbryce and his children? Why did he want Peri de Montbryce to come to their home? Dread rose in her throat. What was going on in the undercroft?
“Sign it, ‘In friendship, Tandine de Villiers.’”
She obeyed, put down the quill, then sat with her hands in her lap, not daring to look at her husband. He made sure the ink was dry and rolled up the parchment. It was not until she heard the key turn in the lock and was sure she was alone that she fell to her knees weeping.
* * *
Baudoin and Étienne de Montbryce rode into the bailey of Tamworth Castle at dusk. It had been a long ride from Milton Keynes where messengers from Geoffrey of Anjou had intercepted them on their way to Westminster.
Geoffrey’s message had been welcome, if surprising. He apologized profusely for any misunderstanding regarding Gallien de Montbryce, laying the blame for the “arrest” squarely on the shoulders of some minion who had been “severely punished”. He assured them Gallien was a merely a guest of Tamworth Castle. They were handed a signed and sealed document confirming Gallien’s freedom.
On the road three days to Milton Keynes, they rode fast and furious to get to Tamworth in a day and a half. Baudoin was frustrated that they had been close to Tamworth days earlier. They and the Ellesmere men-at-arms were exhausted, as were their mounts.
Marmion’s steward hurried out to meet them, bowing appropriately when they explained who they were. Baudoin handed him the release. “I am here to see my son, Gallien de Montbryce, and to escort him home on the morrow.”
The steward broke the seal, unfurled the document, and perused it, his puzzlement evident. “But he is gone, milord Earl.”
Baudoin fisted his hands, anger robbing him of breath. “What treachery is this? Geoffrey of Anjou assured me he would be here.” A tentative hope flickered to life. “Has he already left for Ellesmere?”
The steward scratched his head, ushering his visitors into the keep. “I hardly know, milord. His gaolers were peculiar, brutish men who spoke little. I only allowed them entry when de Villiers produced the royal warrant.”
Étienne gasped, dread in his eyes. “De Villiers?”
Baudoin struggled to tame the wild creature tearing his heart apart. “Did my son leave with de Villiers?”
The steward looked nervously from one to the other. “Again, I have no answer. He was in a small chamber that has not been in use for some time. Early this morning a maidservant came to tell me it was unlocked and empty.”
Relief surged through Baudoin that Gallien had not been held in a cell, but now he was in the hands of his arch enemy, having apparently been spirited away during the night. He turned to Étienne. “I can’t recall the name of the place where de Villiers has his hall. It’s near Chasewater.”
Étienne hesitated, frowning. “Norton Canes.”
“How far from here, steward? De Villiers bears my son ill will.”
The man stroked his beard. “Two hours, at a gallop. The route is flat, but it is already dark.”
Baudoin clenched his jaw. “And our mounts are spent.”
“I can spare fresh horses for the two of you, milord, and a half a dozen of the castellan’s men. I’ve a lad from that area who can guide you. Your men will have to follow on the morrow.”
Baudoin slapped the steward on the back. “Good man. A bite to eat while we wait?”
“Indeed, milord. I will show you to the hall and summon victuals from the kitchens.”
As they followed his lead, Baudoin confided in his son. “I don’t like the idea of riding into de Villiers’ lair without Ellesmere men, but my instinct tells me we must not wait.”
“I agree, papa. I fear Gallien is in grave danger.”
* * *
Alys tiptoed into her mistress’s chamber. Peri’s eyes were closed, but sleep had eluded her since Gallien’s arrest. She had risen before dawn. After visiting her children in the nursery, she had returned listless to her chamber once they were sated and sleepy. It broke her heart to think of Rodrick and Grace growing up without their father. She assumed Geoffrey would have received her letter by now. Had he heard her plea and released Gallien?
Alys tapped her shoulder. “Are you awake, my lamb?”
Peri squeezed her eyes tight shut, recognizing the grief in Alys’s voice. The elderly maidservant was the only link to her childhood, and the gruff old woman was heartsick over what had befallen her mistress. She was sure Alys too suspected she was again with child. “Non, I’m awake,” she whispered. “What is it?”
“A courier,” Alys replied.
Peri sat up quickly—too quickly, as vertigo ensued. “News of Gallien?”
Alys shook her head sadly. “Non, from your friend, Tandine.”
Peri’s hopes sank. She accepted the missive, but put it aside. “I will read it later.”
“The courier awaits a reply. Said I was to put the letter directly in your hands, and no one else’s.”
What was so important that Tandine would send a courier? Peri’s heart lurched for her friend. Perhaps one of her stepchildren was ill and Tandine was begging the countess’s help.
She broke the seal and scanned the message—then read it again. A deafening pulse beat a tattoo in her ears.
Alys fidgeted and took her mistress’s hand. “Not more bad news?”
Peri shuffled off the bed, a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts swirling in her head. “Tandine has word of Gallien. I must go to her. Where is the courier?”
“In the bailey, but you cannot leave the castle without telling anyone.”
“Tandine warns of danger to my children if I share the contents of the letter. De Villiers Hall is not far. I can be there before nightfall. Is the escort armed?”
“Oui, milady, but—”
“Go quickly to the stables. Have my horse saddled. Tell the courier I will be there directly.”
Cauldron
Darkness crept into the courtyard of de Villiers Hall as a stable boy helped Peri dismount from her horse. Never a good horsewoman, she was exhausted after the long ride, but hope for Gallien had kept her going. The escort had barely spoken a word, increasing her trepidation.
She stamped her numbed feet on the cobblestones. Anxious to meet with Tandine, she was disappointed and nervous to see Devlin de Villiers emerge from the house.
“Welcome, milady de Montbryce,” he oozed.
What was it about him that set her teeth on edge? She pitied her friend, married to such a strange man.
“Tandine?” she asked, aware that her escort had disappeared.
He beckoned her towards the house. “I will take you to her.”
She expected to follow him inside, but he lit a torch and walked away from the door. Puzzled, she followed him along the front of the house. He carried on, only occasionally looking over his shoulder to grin at her. At the back of the house he stopped at the top of a ramp that seemed to lead down to an undercroft.
She swayed, reluctant to follow him any further as he set off down the ramp. “I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Is Tandine in the cellar?”
She shivered as he beckoned with his mutilated arm. “Come, milady.”
The way he said milady sent a bolt of dread up her spine, but she could not remain alone outside in the dark. Surely he meant her no harm. She was merely distraught over Gallien’s whereabouts. Perhaps Tandine was being cautious. But why?
He led her to a wooden door. “Mind your head, milady,” he warned, shoving the wooden door with his shoulder when it scraped on the stone floor.
The knot of fear in Peri’s belly tightened. Why had Tandine arranged a secret meeting in the undercroft?
The door shuddered open. She bent to follow through the low opening, then straightened slowly, gasping as his torch lit the gloom of a cellar.
Apprehension skittered up and down her thighs as he pushed the stubborn door closed. She put a hand to her breast.
Something was wrong. She looked back at de Villiers. He sneered and made a mock bow. “Welcome indeed, milady.”
She turned away, her heart beating wildly, covering her nose against the fetid odor of damp and decay. Cold sweat broke out on her body as de Villiers lifted his torch higher, illuminating a blackened cauldron, the crackling fire beneath it burning hot in a stone grate. Clouds of steam rose from its sputtering contents, filling the air with wet heat.
Memories of her first day at Westminster flooded back. Perhaps this was a kitchen of some sort. The pot was large enough to drown a small horse. Her knees trembled. There was to be no meeting with Tandine. She had been lured here under false pretenses.
She looked back at de Villiers. Leering at her, he moved closer to the cauldron, pointing his torch beyond it. She narrowed her eyes, peering into the swirling steam. Bile rose in her throat when she made out the figure of a man, his hands tied to a beam high above his head. Stripped to the waist, his grime streaked body gleamed with sweat. His feet were bare, his toes hardly touching the stone floor. She had seen deer strung up the same way, blood draining from their carcasses.
Fear thudded in her breast. She cast about for something to hold on to, afraid she might swoon. Was the wretch dead? Who was he? Her gaze travelled up the long legs, over the bruised belly, to the well-muscled chest—
A shriek died in her throat as the steam cleared. The man’s head lolled forward like a broken marionette. His face was hidden, but there was no mistaking the silver hair.
“Gallien” she screamed as terror engulfed her. She tried to run to him, but de Villiers pinned her against the wet wall, his stump pressed against her breasts.
She struggled, the cold rough stone biting into her back. “Not so fast,” he taunted.
A hoarse voice uttered her name. “Peri?”
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