“Bring the man to me now, and do not speak to him of my son. Do you understand?” She stared coldly at both men, eyes flitting back and forth. “Has anyone mentioned Risen to him?”
The messengers glanced at each other before one answered, “No, my Lady.”
“Good. See that you don’t. And neither do I wish the captive harmed in any fashion. Simply bring him to me.” She dismissed them, gesturing toward the exit for them to leave straightaway.
“Yes, my Lady.” The second messenger dropped his eyes. “As you wish.” He was wisely unprepared to argue with her, bowed his head and exited, followed by the other.
“Moulin,” she commanded, “prepare my solar. I wish to receive my adversary there. Flank me with guards, and I want you there as well.”
“My Lady, this man is our enemy,” he argued.
“Do not question me!” she hissed. It was one of the few times Nicolette had ever raised her voice to him, and her eyes flashed in a very peculiar way. “Go!”
“As you wish.” He bowed, leaving Nicolette alone in the foyer.
Gathering her gowns, she moved from the massive hall to her solar and prepared to receive the prisoner. Sitting calmly and motionless, she simply waited. Finally, all were assembled just as she commanded. Moulin stood to her right, and soldiers flanked either side of her as the prisoner was ushered in to meet his most unusual captor.
The warrior was old, at least in his fifth decade, and battle hardened it would appear. He moved as one fatigued not only with war but with life. That was not the least of it. His face was scarred from burns, and his eyes were devoid of regret. This is what Nicolette noticed first off, that the man was without fear, and it gave her caution.
The prisoner was half carried for it appeared one leg was broken, and a trail of blood was left on the floor as he was hauled in. Even so, he gave little indication of the pain he must have been enduring. Instead, he was almost sanguine.
Crippled though he was, the man found his good leg and stood, balanced before her, eyes flashing in defiance even as death greeted him in the form of a woman. He next seemed confused, looked about as though expecting Ravan at any moment. But as all men were apt to do, his attentions went swiftly to the strange beauty sitting before him.
A lesser leader than Nicolette might have cringed for the awful expression and manner of the prisoner that was dragged before her, but she only leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowed, her chin resting in one delicate hand as she asked straightaway, “Why do you hate him? Why do you wish to kill Ravan?”
All present, and especially the prisoner, were surprised—surprised that she already knew so much of the purpose of his crusade, for he’d not spoken of his intent at all since his capture. None could know his true ambition. But she did.
He snarled, “I seek the one named Ravan because he is a murderer—a killer of children.”
Nicolette paused, long and patient, to consider his words before replying. “My husband has killed but never a child and none that were undeserving. I ask you again, why do you wish my husband dead?”
The man lifted his chin, his eyes nearly shrouded by his thick brow, his face streaked with sweat and grime from the awful battle. Peering from beneath his countenance, he sneered at the woman who addressed him. “So you are the butcher’s whore…”
Moulin stepped forward, halberd raised, but with a swift lift of her hand, Nicolette commanded he not move, all the while keeping her cold gaze on the prisoner.
The man glanced briefly at Moulin before he continued. “He is a murderer; he killed my son, and then because of it, his mother took her life. I have lost both of them because of this man.” He took a patient, exhausted breath before adding, “I am Tor, father of Modred, and I will not cease my war against the one called Ravan until either he or I am dead.”
“You should be careful what you wish for,” Nicolette murmured with perfect calm as she sat back in her chair and studied the man.
“Your husband tore from me my only living son.” For the first time, emotion played across the face of the captive. “He will die by my hand; for only this I live, or I will die trying.”
“Your son died pursuing my husband for vengeance upon the death of your knight…your brother, was he not? Is this not so?”
The warrior hesitated, obviously surprised.
“Is this not true?” She pressed him. “Ravan was fleeing with a handless maiden when you gave chase—you, your son, and another. There were three who survived the first encounter in the inn, and none of you suspected he could smite you further.”
She stepped from the chair and appraised him from the top of the few steps, hands folded in front of her. “You were taken completely by surprise when he killed your son from some distance with a single arrow. Is this not so?” Nicolette recounted the events as though she’d been there, as though she’d seen it only yesterday.
Tor simply stared, and she probed further. “If you’d been successful, you would have pursued and killed him first, is this not true?”
His eyes flashed with comprehension. Nicolette knew exactly what had transpired, and she knew he could not deny it. He spat, “My son is dead…his mother also. It is all I care to remember, and all the reason I need to kill Ravan!”
“You will not kill him, not in this lifetime. But I must know of your intent for Risen, or you will die poorly,” she advised, her voice deadly calm.
Again, surprise from everyone present.
The man hesitated, turned his head sideways as though he might hear her better. “Risen? I know not of whom you speak. This man is unknown to me.”
Nicolette slowly descended the steps to stand directly before her captive. The man struggled to stay on his feet and towered over her, but Nicolette was fearless, inching so near that she could smell the stench of battle on him.
Her eyes narrowed, and her lip curled as she spoke. “My son. If your soldiers find my son before his father does, what will be his fate?”
This prompted a look of shocked surprise from Tor. “A son? Ravan has a son?”
“You didn’t know,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Tor sneered before his mouth widened into a sickening grin. “A son,” the man repeated, and exploded into laughter, the sound oddly out of place coming from one as wretched as him. It didn’t last, however. He coughed, faltered, and struggled again to keep his balance, hobbling with his weight on the one leg. “And he is missing?”
Just as quickly the mirth was gone. His face fell to a mask of black hatred, and he spoke viciously to her. “If my soldier’s find your son, he will be destroyed,” he hissed. “Do you hear me? Slaughtered!” He pulled feebly against his captors as though he would reach her. “His heart will be pulled from his chest and cooked for my supper!” The man tried to launch himself at her, but the guards held him fast as he snarled, “I will butcher him! Do you hear me? Butcher him!” He spat on her, the spittle marring the bodice of her gown.
Nicolette ignored it and stood her ground, mere inches from him. She whispered so that only those very close could hear her. “Your troops do not know of my son.” Again, it was not a question, and her eyes flashed with victory. “And they will never know of him from you, for you will never leave here.” She lifted her chin, monarch of her realm. “You are bested, forbidden forever to walk amongst the free. I, Nicolette, am your captor.”
“I will find a way,” he hissed. “I will kill him!”
“You will not,” she replied, but then paused. “However, I shall give you a choice.” She acted as though she would turn, leave him to his fate, but stopped. “You will not have the one called Ravan, for your army is defeated, and your cause is foiled. You will have no recompense whatsoever. Instead, you will live your days within my dungeon…” Nicolette focused very intently on him. “…or die now. It is mercy I offer you, and a warrior’s good death.” Then she warned him, “Do not vex me, or as quickly I will withdraw my offer, and you will rot.” Her expression was so dark, so perfectly controlled.
All within looked not at the wretched prisoner but at her.
This offer seemed to surprise him a great deal, and he took a long moment to gather himself, studying the strange woman thoroughly. At last, the man exhaled deeply. “A blade. You would allow me a blade?”
“I would.”
“And allow me a decent burial so that my wife and son might find me?”
“I would.”
“And with my weapons and steed’s bridle with me?”
“I would, under one condition.”
Tor nodded. “What is your condition?”
“Tell me—what will become of my son if he is found by your troops?”
Tor hesitated as though unsure she would keep her end of the bargain. “My troops,” the broken leader murmured and then smiled. “Perhaps I will have my revenge after all.” He said this as though to himself then studied her again before adding with a shrug, “They will kill him in the raze, or sell him.”
“Sell him?”
“Yes, sell him. It is profitable, and his hide will service whatever whim his owner desires.” The man said it with lewd relish, sneered as though thoroughly gratified by what all present must envision would be Risen’s fate. “The Ottoman Sultan has a slave army. Murad will pay nicely for the boy, especially if he is fit enough to fight and can ride. If he is not, he will be fit in other ways to be sure. Is he beautiful? Like his father?”
Nicolette asked bluntly, “Where?”
The man hedged. “I can’t say. The Balkans—Nis, Constantinople.
“Can you reach your men?”
“I will not.”
“I give you one chance.”
“I will not.” Tor’s expression contorted again with venomous hatred. “I will not aide you in finding Ravan’s son. Given my chance, I would run him through as quickly as I would take another breath.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I want nothing more than to kill your son, but since that is not likely, it is my sincerest wish that Risen be sold and live in perfect misery, his hide defiled for eternity until they can use him no more.” Then he said, loud enough for all to hear, “I am done with this barter.”
Nicolette considered him carefully then drew from her robes a blade and held it up for Tor to see.
Moulin stepped up. “My Lady, no! I cannot allow you to—”
She stopped him with only a glance then ordered the guards. “Release him.”
They looked back and forth between themselves, obviously perplexed by this strange turn of events.
“Release him. If he charges, kill him. But…he will not.”
Two soldiers moved up to stand beside their mistress, either side, lances crossed. Tor was released, his bonds withdrawn, and he stood feebly on his only good leg in front of Nicolette, his face exhausted, his soul drained. His expression was almost one of gratitude, of impending sweet release.
She stepped toward him and held the blade up, lying flat across her palms. “I promised,” she said quietly, “your freedom.”
Tor was motionless, his eyes flitting back and forth between the blade and Nicolette’s face. He swallowed and asked her, “How does Ravan gather for himself one such as you? How does such a thing happen?”
She only tilted her head in mild surprise and nearly smiled. “If you knew the man, you would ask, ‘How not?’”
For the first time in many years, his eyes softened bitterly, “I am done and undone.”
“Yes,” she murmured and handed him the blade.
Tor received it with a swipe of his hand, and before her guards had even the first chance to intervene, he plunged the blade into his own chest. His eyes widened, and he staggered backward, away from Nicolette and caught by no one. Stumbling, he fell heavily onto one hip before hitting the ground hard, his head a dull thud on the stone floor. His breathing caught, and yet he kept his eyes only on her.
She stepped to the dying man and knelt, cradling his head on her knee and whispered, “I am sorry for your son and his mother. Go to them now.”
The man’s breath caught and he gurgled, blood running from the edge of his lips as he held her eyes. One last cough and he gasped, “Thank you…” and was gone.
Nicolette eased the dead man’s head to the floor and stood. All others present were shocked by the bizarre string of events.
She looked at Moulin, and requested of him, “Carry him to the South Cemetery. Bury him there, as he wished.”
“My Lady, he is our enemy,” a knight said, stepping forward and arguing softly.
She stopped him with only her gaze. “Yes, and he is now dead. We had an agreement. I will not dishonor him. Neither will you. Bury him.”
“Yes, my Lady,” the knight bowed deeply, submitting to her wishes, and Tor was buried later that day in the town graveyard—a proper Norse burial.
Nicolette was not there.
* * *
Moira peeked from behind an arch into the solar hall where Nicolette sat alone and, evidently, lost in her thoughts. It surprised her when, as she was fairly hidden, her lady snapped about to spy the maiden peeking from behind the brocade curtain.
“Forgive me, I’m so sorry to have disturbed you,” Moira stammered and started to leave.
“Come here,” Nicolette commanded.
Glancing about as though her mistress might be talking to someone else, Moira hesitated.
“Moira, come here. I wish to speak to you.” She was not impatient, only insistent.
Edging from behind the heavy curtain, Moira held her stump hidden behind her good hand—a habit she’d adopted the day she lost the hand and one she never surrendered—and walked across the expanse of marble floor to stand in front of her lady, head bowed.
“Sit…here beside me.” Nicolette patted softly the cushion of the ornate velvet chaise upon which she sat. “I have some things I wish to say to you.”
Stepping gingerly up the three steps to the elevated platform, Moira paused. Nicolette patted the cushion again, and the maiden sat next to her but as far away as the small chaise would allow her to be.
Before Nicolette could say a word, Moira rushed to unburden her heart. “I’m so sorry, my Lady. You and Lord Ravan have been so generous, have taken me in, saved me when surely I would have died. I take full responsibility for Risen gone missing. I—”
“Nonsense,” Nicolette interrupted her.
“I-I…I beg your pardon?”
It was true. Moira believed herself entirely responsible for the disappearance of the boy and had even considered ending her own life because of it.
“That is complete nonsense, and you know it. You shall never again speak of it.” Nicolette waved the issue aside.
“But he…both of them were left in my care. I was supposed to keep him safe, to stay with them. I am the reason he is gone. I am the reason…” She averted her eyes, unable to finish her thought or bear the scrutiny of the mother of the missing child.
“Risen is very clever. We both know that,” Nicolette explained. “He is also impulsive when he gets a notion in his head. He is perhaps like his father in that way.” She gestured gently with her hand…a gesture, Moira thought, not unlike how Niveus sometimes did.
This almost prompted a small smile from her, and she was completely surprised when Nicolette reached out to take the stump of her arm in both hands. It very much shocked her, for few would be so comfortable as to do such a thing. She went to pull it away, but Nicolette held firmly.
“Moira, my son waited until a favorable moment to send you away so that he could make his escape. Of that I have no doubt. I wish you no longer to harbor guilt about this.”
“But, I know him; I should have known that he would do such a thing,” she argued feebly. “And Niveus, I should never have left her at such a time. What if she…what if she’d…” She dropped her head and wept softly.
Nicolette reached to touch her face, to direct her chin so that she could see into her only eye, and exhaled slowly. “We all presume to know those we love, don’t we? But all of us ha
ve those chambers of our heart that we keep secret—all of us. Moira, this is true. You know it to be.” She released her and gestured to the expanse of the foyer. “I cannot presume to know all of another’s secrets, even those of my husband or my son, than I could presume to know every star in the sky.”
Moira believed that Nicolette may very well know every star in the sky.
Nicolette brought her attentions back to the maiden. “My son orchestrated his flight, and Niveus is capable beyond what most would believe. You must burden yourself no further.”
“But, my Lady, you know things that most people don’t. I mean to say…” She looked away, obviously embarrassed by what she was implying.
“Yes, that may be true. But everyone can, at times, fall short of good intuition.”
“You, my Lady? No, I would never think that of you.” She shook her head fiercely.
“I did not know until too late that my son had feelings, that he loves Sylvie. I knew they were friends but could not see that he would leave to try to save her. That is a severe oversight for a mother, wouldn’t you say? Especially for one like me?”
Moira’s brow creased as she thought about what Nicolette was saying. “Will Lord Ravan find him? Can he save him? Is there hope?” She clasped her hand over her stump and leaned toward Nicolette, willing it to be so.
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “I cannot seem to determine that—the outcome of his fate.” Nicolette uncharacteristically bit her lip as she said this, seemed to withdraw into her own thoughts somewhat, but then just as easily refocused on the girl. “And so I need your help. I wish to affect his fate, their fate.”
This surprised Moira a great deal. She leaned toward Nicolette and spoke quietly, obviously drawn into the intrigue of the conversation. “Affect his fate? Certainly! Anything! But you wish my help? I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “What could I do that would possibly be of any help to you?”
Moira, perhaps more than any other save Ravan, knew the strange gifts that Nicolette possessed. It was true that many in the realm shared secret conversations about the raven-haired mistress of their dynasty, that she was a witch. Talk such as this was intriguing but lighthearted for all in the domain sincerely respected her. Even so, she was exceedingly unapproachable, and few truly knew her.
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