My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  Her fingertips brushed over the browned knot in the panel to her right. There. A slight depression. A hint of lighter-colored wood at the panel’s edges. Bending closer, she pushed her finger down into the knot.

  The panel shifted. With a sharp tug, the floorboard came free. From the darkness below, the faint odor of Torr’s drink floated up to her.

  Leaning back on her heels, she sucked in a fortifying breath. Then, before her mind conjured images of what creatures or dark mysteries might lurk in the hiding place, she reached down inside. Her fingers bumped against leather flasks. She removed them, one by one. Ten, she counted, crowded together by her right knee. Some full. Some empty.

  Plunging her hand in again, her fingers closed on a narrow object. She drew it into the dim light. A leather sheathed dagger. Sliding the blade from its sheath, Faye caught her breath, for she recognized the knife.

  Elayne’s dagger. She had kept it with her always, until illness robbed her of the ability to even lift her hand. Torr had obviously kept the weapon to honor her memory. An unusual choice, considering Elayne’s love of jewels and fashionable trinkets.

  When Faye reached in again, her skin swept against something smooth and cool. Jerking her hand back, she fought a startled shriek. Whatever she had found, she must look at it, for Torr considered it important enough to keep secret.

  She carefully raised the object into the light: a small, leather bound book.

  Setting it in her left palm, she raised it to her eye level. A dark stain spattered across the book’s cover. A mark caused by spilled ale. Or … blood.

  Her unease drove deeper, furrowing like a crack in a sheet of melting ice. She opened the leather cover. On the first page she found a neatly scribed name: Royce Meslarches.

  “Oh, God!” she whispered, flipping to the next page, and the next. Notes, sketches, even a few lines of a chanson de geste were scribbled on the pages.

  She had found Brant’s brother’s journal.

  The one Brant had told her was lost on crusade after Royce died.

  A horrible shudder snaked through her as she shut the book. Brant believed the tome, containing Royce’s notes on the Arthurian treasure, had been lost in the eastern desert. How had Torr come to possess the journal? Why had he kept it hidden away, rather than telling Brant?

  Questions she could not answer. Yet, she could not ignore such a loathsome betrayal. A lie that seemed as vile as Brant’s confession of murder.

  A lie that, somehow, must be linked to Angeline’s abduction.

  Fear shivered through Faye. If she told Brant about the journal, Torr might find out. He would never forgive her for rummaging through his possessions.

  However, Brant deserved to know about the journal.

  He is a murderer, the rational voice inside her shrilled. He deceived you, and you owe him naught. But another, more passionate cry, insisted: He showed you pleasure, with no demands in return. His desire for you was honest. If you do not tell him about the journal, it will forever weigh upon your conscience. Tell him now, before ’tis too late.

  Aye, she must tell him.

  Faye started to return the knife to the cavity. Then, on second thought, she tucked it inside her shoe. The weapon felt strange pressed against the side of her foot, but also provided reassurance, for she had a means to defend herself if necessary.

  Working with haste, Faye returned the flasks as she had found them. She fitted the wooden boards back into place, moved the rug, and pushed to her feet. Clasping the journal in her right hand, she slipped it under the broad hem of her sleeve, concealing it from view. She turned on her heel and hurried toward the closed doors.

  The panels opened with the faintest creak. Faye stepped into the torch lit corridor. The two sentries outside turned to glance at her.

  “I must return to my chamber for a moment,” she said.

  One guard raised an eyebrow. He looked about to question her intentions, but she met his stare very directly, a deliberate reminder he had no right to question a woman of superior birth.

  He nodded. “Milady.”

  She swept past him. Her footfalls on the stones sounded faintly like voices whispering of what she was about to do. Her hand clenched even tighter on the journal, for by the saints, she would not turn back now.

  Torr would most likely have sent Brant to the dungeon. She must get down to the prisoner cells without the guards or Torr stopping her.

  Somehow …

  The journal’s cover felt slick against her wrist. She prayed it would not slip from her grasp at the wrong moment and betray her.

  Reaching the wooden landing that overlooked the great hall, she made her way down the steps and hurried across the hall. Gathered around one of the far trestle tables, a group of maidservants chattered while they scrubbed the tabletop.

  “A murderer,” one said, aghast.

  “A knave, ta ’ave deceived ’is lordship,” another said, with a disgusted snort. “’E deserves ta be ’anged.”

  Keeping her head down, Faye headed for the forebuilding. Just as she approached the stairwell, she became aware of a scuffling noise close by, followed by muttered cursing. Turning, she dared to take a glance, and almost walked headlong into the busty maidservant who had called to Brant in the bailey.

  The woman lurched to a halt. Eyes wide, perspiration glistening on her brow, she choked out, “Milady!” before dipping into a curtsey.

  “Sorry.” Faye grasped for the journal tilting toward the rush-strewn floor.

  A soggy, honey-colored animal darted under her gown, almost knocking her off balance. She stumbled back. Tail between his legs, Val bolted under the nearest trestle table. He sat on his haunches, eyes huge, looking lost.

  The woman clucked her tongue. “’E’s missin’ ’is master. ’E went frantic in the kitchens when ’is master was led through. ’Ad a merry chase, we did, trying ta catch this li’l wretch. ’E knocked over a bucket o’ well water and near spilled the pottage.” Tears glinted in the woman’s eyes before she hiked her gown up and crouched to peer under the table. “They would not let ’im take ’is lil’ dog. Punishment, they said, fer a murderer sent ta Caldstowe’s tower.”

  “Tower?” Faye repeated, unable to conceal her dismay.

  The woman nodded. “Best place fer a murderer, ’is lordship said.”

  The maidservants across the hall tittered, and then moved on to another table, their conversation softening to a murmur. Several stole glances at Faye. They were gossiping about her liaison with Brant. By now, the entire castle probably knew.

  Faye’s fingers tightened on the journal until pain lanced through her wrist bones. Refusing to be distracted from her quest to visit Brant, she thought of the austere tower. ’Twas rumored that in the years following William the Conqueror’s reign, it had secured the most valuable prisoners. Some had died there.

  “Oh, God,” Faye whispered.

  Still squatted on the floor, the woman thrust her hand toward Val. “Come to Deane.” She wiggled her fingers, suggesting she had a juicy morsel. “Come ’ere, ye silly mongrel. Ye cannot stay ’ere with ’is lordship’s ’ounds.”

  Val whined before scooting further under the table.

  “Let me try.” Faye crouched too, careful to keep the journal hidden under her sleeve. The odors of musty rushes and rotting food scraps wafted on a draft, making her eyes sting, but she did not take her gaze from the little dog. “Here, Val. You remember me, do you not?”

  The mongrel whimpered. His tail moved in the barest wag.

  “Val,” she said gently, stretching out her hand. “I will care for you now. You will be my dog, until you can be with your master again.”

  Val licked his lips. His tail thumped harder. The uncertainty in the animal’s expression—despair so similar to what she had seen in Brant’s gaze—brought a lump to her throat. “I promise.”

  The dog hesitated. Then, his belly to the rushes, he scooted across the floor toward her.

  She scratched his fuz
zy head. “Good Val.”

  Pressed against the side of her leg, he whined.

  Deane’s mouth crumpled. “Imagine, not lettin’ ’im be with ’is master. ’Tis as cruel as sayin’ the man’s a murderer.”

  Rubbing Val’s ear, Faye glanced up at her. “Brant admitted to killing his brother.”

  “I do not believe it. ’E’s a good man.” Deane shook her head. “’E paid me in silver ta leave that wretched Spittin’ ’En Tavern, ta start a new life. What man ’ad do that fer a strumpet like me?”

  Faye drew a startled breath. “I remember now. He told me he had paid a woman to come to Caldstowe and spy for him.”

  Deane nodded. “’Is only request was fer me ta listen fer news on ’is lordship’s li’l girl. I was glad ta do it. Gladder still when I ’ad some news fer ’im.”

  Faye’s hand, sweeping through Val’s fur, stilled. “That is why you wanted to speak to him earlier.”

  Deane grinned, revealing her crooked teeth. “I hoped fer a lusty kiss, but ’e would not give me one. ’E’s a man enchanted.”

  “Enchanted?” Faye said, unable to tamp down a wave of anguish.

  “By another who ’as captured ’is ’eart.” Pushing up from the floor, Deane stood, wiping her hands on her apron. “I ’ad best be back ta work. Take care of ’is master’s dog, now, milady.” She curtsied, then strolled away.

  Adjusting her hold on the journal, Faye stood. Across the hall, several of the maidservants stared at her before dropping their gazes to the table they were washing.

  Bending down to give Val a pat on the back, Faye murmured, “Come on. You and I are going to the tower.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “No one is to visit Meslarches, milady,” the older guard said yet again, his face set in a forbidding scowl. “’Is lordship’s orders.”

  Faye bit back an unladylike oath. Waving away the torch smoke drifting into her eyes, she glared at the two sentries barring the door to the tower’s lone chamber, built at the top of a steep stairwell. The men stood on either side of the rough-hewn, iron-barred wooden panel that looked strong enough to withstand an army. From the scorch marks burned into the door, at some point, it probably had.

  At her feet, Val growled. The sound carried in the small area outside the chamber. The men glanced at the little dog with guarded wariness, but did not move.

  Refusing to let her determination slip, Faye tipped her chin higher.

  She had to find a way in there.

  “’Tis clear you do not understand the complexity of my task.” Keeping her tone cool, as the men would expect of a lady who had just discovered her lover’s treachery, she said, “I shall try to explain it again. Lord Lorvais sent me. He is aware that the criminal has … feelings for me. I am to visit Meslarches and win his confidence, so he will reveal to me all the details about the murder.”

  The guards looked at each other. “Lord Lorvais did not mention this plan to us.”

  “Hardly surprising. A man of his authority is very busy. He is attending to an important matter right now, after giving strict orders he did not wish to be disturbed.” She glanced at her nails, then smiled at the two men. “If you do not believe me, go ask him yourself.”

  More suspicious glances.

  Throwing up her hands, allowing desperation to bleed into her tone, she said, “Why would I lie to you? Why else would I have come here? I do not wish to see that … that lying, murderous bastard ever again.” She sniffled, then dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Lord Lorvais got nowhere with his interrogation. If I can be of duty to my lord, then”—she shuddered—“I must.”

  “There, now, do not weep.” The older guard shrugged his shoulders as though to relieve an uncomfortable burden. He reached for the key hanging on a peg rammed into the mortar between two stones. “I will let ye in. Knock three times on the door when ye wish ta come out. All right?”

  “Thank you.”

  The keys jangled, the sound shrill in the area’s narrow confines. Metal rasped against metal, a click, and then the panel groaned inward. Faye stepped inside, Val at her heels.

  She hardly heard the guard’s parting words to her, or the door boom shut. As her gaze fell upon Brant, a dull, agonizing ache washed through her.

  He sat on the rough wooden floor, his legs drawn up, arms crossed over his knees. His bowed head rested upon his forearms. Against the fabric of his tunic, his dark hair spilled wild and untamed, and she wondered, when he raised his head, if in his eyes she would see a similar wildness.

  Chains trailed from his wrists and ankles to bolts in the wall. Grooves in the floorboards revealed how far he could reach before the chains held him firm. Not very far. A relief, to a certain point, for if she stayed beyond the gouged line, he could not touch her.

  Yet, to see him fettered like some kind of beast …

  He is a murderer, Faye. Never forget that.

  Even Val seemed reluctant to approach him. The little dog sat at her feet, his little body quivering while he stared at Brant.

  With unsteady fingers, she pushed hair back behind her ear. The fabric of her gown whispered, and then … more silence. He did not seem to realize she and Val were there, or he did not care to acknowledge them. Rubbing her arms against the breeze blowing in through the crooked shutters blocking the one, small window, she took another step forward. The room held no furniture—not even a pallet to sleep on—only bare, stone walls. By nightfall, ’twould be near freezing.

  Val’s clawed footfalls echoed. Whining, he scooted over to Brant. He pushed his little nose against Brant’s leg.

  Slowly, with what seemed painful effort, Brant lifted his head. “Val.” The chains clanked as he reached down and scratched the little dog’s head. Val squirmed and licked his hand.

  Faye smothered a moan. As touching as ’twas to see him comfort Val, she should not pity Brant. He was a ruthless criminal. Even as she had succumbed to his sensual spell, believing him to have the soul of an honorable warrior, he had kept his horrific crime a secret from her.

  The sharp bite of betrayal tightened her jaw. She would tell him about the journal, and then she would leave, never to see him again.

  Brant seemed to be aware of her silent condemnation, for as his fingers gently plowed through Val’s fur, his mouth tightened. Still, he did not look at her.

  “Brant.”

  “You should not be here.”

  How thin his voice sounded. A ghostly echo of the mesmerizing, arrogant man she had known—and taken to her bed.

  “I had to see you.”

  “To be sure I am properly imprisoned?” His bitter laugh ricocheted off the cold walls. “Torr made certain of that.”

  She shifted her hold on the journal. Anticipation quickened her pulse, as well as wariness. How would Brant react when she told him of the journal? Would he become enraged?

  If he could kill his own brother, might he harm her?

  Nay. He would not hurt her.

  Brant’s gaze met hers. Red rimmed, his eyes glittered with anguish. For a moment, as he looked at her, his expression softened. Then he glanced away. “I know I have no right to ask. Yet, since he cannot ask himself, I must do so for him. Please … see that Val finds a home, milady.”

  Milady, he had called her. Not Faye. His way of enforcing emotional distance between them. Steeling the foolish disappointment from her tone, she said, “Do not worry. I will care for Val.”

  “Thank you.”

  Val whimpered. With a last pat, Brant lifted his hand away. “Go, Faye.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Go. Now!”

  His roared command stung like a slap. She did not whirl around and stride to the door, however, for she knew why he spoke with such force. He was turning her away—to protect her. To prevent her from being hurt any further by his actions.

  An odd act of conscience for a man guilty of cold-blooded murder.

  With a low groan, Brant dragged his fingers through his hair. Her throat ached as sh
e stared down at his tousled head, bent once more, hopelessness undermining the proud set of his shoulders. What she would give to know what had happened between him and Royce on crusade that led to the killing.

  Despite the caution and anguish warring inside her, she walked closer. Iron links rattled. He lurched to standing, faster than she thought possible for a chained man. Turned to her in profile, he strode the few yards his bonds permitted.

  She halted, close enough to touch his rigid back.

  He was trembling.

  “Brant, look at me,” she said, hating the plea in her voice.

  His chained hands balled into fists. “I should never have let myself care for you. I should not have lain with you. For that I am sorry.”

  She forced down the impulse to say how wondrous her time with him had been.

  Faye, my treasure.

  The sense of moments slipping away, the knowledge that Torr would soon return to his solar and find her gone, spurred to her to forge ahead. “There is something I must show you.”

  “God’s blood, Faye.” He swung around, dark hair tangling over his wet eyes. “Go. Please!”

  He shook like a man struggling to hold back a tremendous emotional wave—one that could very well swamp him and demolish his last shreds of reason. Seeing the journal might shatter his self-control.

  Yet, she could not—must not—let her risk be in vain.

  Faye freed the journal from her tunic sleeve. She held the tome out to him.

  Beneath the tangled shadow of his hair, his gaze narrowed. “What is it?”

  “Open it and see.”

  He stood motionless. She sensed him studying the journal. Knew the precise moment shock jolted through him.

  The chains clanked. Reaching out, he took the journal.

  Cradling it in his left palm, he ran his hand over the soiled cover. His disbelieving touch lingered over the dark stain. He blinked hard, then drew the journal open.

  “Mother of God.” His head snapped up. Fury and confusion gleamed in his eyes. “How did you get Royce’s journal? Where—”