Out of the Dark

by JoAnn Smith Ainsworth

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Out of the Dark

  Copyright © 2008 by JoAnn Smith Ainsworth

  ISBN: 1-59998-941-7

  Edited by Bethany Morgan

  Cover by Anne Cain

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2008

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Out of the Dark

  JoAnn Smith Ainsworth

  Dedication

  To my son, Dennis.

  Thanks to my friend, Virginia McQuiston Peach, who read the first draft aloud to me, to the many friends who read early drafts and gave me encouragement, and to the members of the Willits Creative Writing Class—especially Evelyn Swift and its teacher, Carole Dawson, for their line edits.

  Special thanks to my fabulous critique partners—Kathy Farrell and Desirae L. King—and to Lynne Laird, retired instructor, California School for the Blind.

  Chapter One

  November 1120 A.D., Britain

  Royal Residence, Tower of London

  “If evil took up residence in walls,” Lady Lynnet muttered to herself, “these cellars would be the perfect place for it.”

  She wrinkled her nose as she ran sensitive fingertips along the corridor’s massive stones. Forty years of royal habitation left behind vile smells.

  Stone corridors pressed threateningly in on her despite being wide enough to allow armored knights to pass with ease. They reminded her that this Norman castle, bordering on the befouled River Thames, was built inside a fortress housing its own armories and garrisoned soldiers.

  Lynnet was having difficulty finding her way back to the chambers assigned to her by King Henry. The dim, grayed shadows that were her constant companions since illness took most of her sight at eight years old failed to provide shapes to guide her. In these lower passageways, torches were few and far between, making variations of light and dark nearly nonexistent and disorienting to her.

  “I’m lost.”

  The realization made the small hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.

  “Anyone here?” she shouted, her voice cracking from distress.

  The thickness of the walls absorbed the sound. No footsteps echoed through the corridors, no voices of soldiers returning from guard duty or servants hauling foodstuffs to storerooms. The unusual silence was worrisome.

  “God’s truth, they must be in the Great Hall for midday meal.”

  No one would be worried and looking for her. Evelyn, her companion and personal servant, thought she was with her parents. Her parents thought she’d returned to her own chamber after their argument about her suitors—or lack thereof. It could be hours before these subterranean passageways again filled with people returning from their meal. Hours she’d be alone, in the silence, in the dark. With the rats. She shivered.

  “I’ll find my own way.”

  Her fingers searched beneath the supple wool draping her neckline and froze when they encountered nothing.

  “My good luck charm! It’s gone!”

  Bequeathed to her by her paternal grandmother, the crystal pendant quickly had become her talisman against evil. While wearing it, the guiding spirit of her beloved grandmamma seemed near, keeping her from harm. She felt inside her clothing, hoping the necklace lodged there. Nothing.

  Lynnet tried to swallow, but her dry mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Fear rose. Inborn stubbornness, daily driving her towards independence, melted away. Without her protective talisman, she was exposed, vulnerable.

  Realizing she was spiraling into a frenzied state, Lynnet reprimanded herself and restrained her mounting anxiety. Until being forced to accept defeat, she’d do her determined best to find her own way.

  “Before I lost my sight, I played in these corridors. I don’t need my crystal.”

  Lynnet tried to remember how far she’d traveled along the passageways, just how many turns she’d taken down the winding stairwell before becoming stranded on the wrong floor. Angry at her parents, she’d distractedly rushed along, foolishly not counting doorways or steps. Realization that she was lost dawned on her only after chilled cellar air forced her to tighten her woolen cloak around her shoulders.

  Spots of brightness from burning torches, evenly spaced along the left corridor wall, emerged out of the surrounding gloom. The lighted torches were well above her head so she could not take one with her. She was shorter and more slender than most women, a disadvantage in a section of the castle meant for towering knights and their servants.

  “If nothing else, I’ll sit under a torch until a servant comes to replace it,” she said with a wry smile.

  Trailing fingers along the rough-edged stone wall, she walked cautiously, her mind searching outwards, trying to recognize where she was.

  When she located an open doorway, she sniffed and allowed the atmosphere of the room to come to her. She definitely smelled potatoes.

  “The last thing I need is to get trapped in some storeroom.”

  Lynnet stepped warily across the wide-open space, one foot in front of the other, until her right hand touched the opposite frame of the doorway. She continued to work her way along the passageway, disappointment plaguing her when she found no stairwells. Coming upon two closed doors, she took the time to open them and listen to make sure no one was working in there.

  At a cross corridor, out of long-standing habit, she turned in her favorite direction—right. After a few steps, she stopped to listen. In the distance, she heard muffled voices.

  “God’s mercy.”

  Relief passed through her, making her aware her knees had been trembling. She had not realized how fearful she’d become until her anxiety fled.

  Lynnet hurried towards the voices, remembering to trail her fingertips along the chiseled corridor wall. When close enough to distinguish the words spoken, she reined herself abruptly to a standstill. The shiver that traveled along her spine had nothing to do with the cellar’s cold air.

  “Destroy the vile Saxon hellspawn,” said a man with a slight northern accent. “Crush them once and for all.”

  “…chaos…kingdom…” a second man said in a whiny, nasal voice.

  “…king’s brother…malleable…murder.”

  The cultured voice of the third man belied the evil in the words spoken.

  Alarmed, Lynnet turned around and headed back the way she had come. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears and pressure built in her forehead.

  Near these Normans is no place for an Anglo-Saxon.

  Her soft-soled slippers barely made a sound as she sped along the now familiar corridor. Its coarse stone assaulted her fingertips. She rounded the corner, praying she’d done nothing to bring herself to the notice of these evildoers who spoke secretively of murder and chaos.

  Scraping sounds warned Lynnet that men wearing armor were rising to their feet.

  They could be soldiers or even knights. For certain, they’re not the kitchen help.

  Lynnet crossed to the dark side of the corridor so torchlight wouldn’t reflect off her flaxen hair.
<
br />   I’m grateful Evelyn dressed me in dark colors today.

  Muffled voices bid each other farewell. Was she far enough away they couldn’t see her? She pulled her cloak up over her light-colored hair to shroud her pale face and hide her exposed hands. Panicked, she forced herself to walk faster. She hoped the corridor was nearly as dark to them as it appeared to her.

  She hurried past the two closed doors, worrying that the upcoming, open doorway might slow her down.

  How much farther to the stairs?

  Approaching footsteps confirmed at least two of the men were striding down her corridor.

  Breathing in ragged gasps, Lynnet risked all. She ran towards a black spot she hoped was the open door, the opening now a haven instead of an obstacle.

  “What’s that?”

  “Where?”

  “Near the end of the hall.”

  Gall rose in Lynnet’s throat, leaving a bitter taste. She touched the doorframe and entered the musty storeroom. Exploring with her hands, Lynnet struggled to find a hiding place. She choked back a shriek when a furry animal brushed by her outstretched hand and scurried away.

  “You saw that cat.”

  “What I saw was too big for a cat.”

  The whiny voice sounded peeved.

  “I think you’re fencing at shadows,” the cultured voice said. “Get a grip on yourself.”

  Stumbling, Lynnet knocked over what smelled like a basket of potatoes.

  “Fencing at shadows, am I?”

  The men started running towards the storeroom.

  Lynnet’s hand touched an empty crate. She crouched down, lifted the wooden crate and quietly dropped it over herself. Feeling around, she made certain its rim was solid to the floor and no piece of clothing escaped to reveal her hiding place. Boots pounded on the cellar pavement and armor jangled as the men approached.

  “Shine your torch in here.” The voice belonged to the man who had talked about murder.

  Torchlight seeped between crate slats, but not enough to outline the men who hunted her.

  “No one’s here.”

  “He has to be. No one fled down the corridor.”

  “Perhaps there’s a trap door.”

  Lynnet heard footsteps coming from the opposite direction in the corridor.

  Oh, no. Not more of them.

  “What’s that?” the petulant voice hissed.

  “Someone’s coming. We can’t be seen together. Put out that torch.”

  Lynnet listened to the two men hurry out the door. As their footsteps receded, the latest heavy footsteps came inevitably closer.

  Torchlight again probed her hiding place. The pounding increased in her ears as she heard an angry, bass voice say, “Hell’s bells.”

  His blood boiled. Supplies stored under the very feet of the king were disappearing and he, Basil of Ipswich, Sheriff of London, may have just missed the culprits.

  He’d heard voices as he descended the wide, stone steps to the cellars, but thought nothing of it since castle servants and soldiers traversed these dark hallways. It was only when the light from his torch revealed the jumbled pile of potatoes that he realized the voices he heard could have been the pilferers. He stepped back outside the storeroom to look both ways. There was no sign of them in the torch-lit hallway.

  “Blackhearted curs.”

  Basil had ridden to the Tower to assess the magnitude of the investigation laid upon his shoulders that morning by King Henry. He needed to know just what was stored in these cellars, how much had gone missing and how it was secured.

  Unlocked storerooms better be the exception and not the rule.

  A tedious inventory could’ve been avoided if he’d caught the miscreants. He much preferred dragging thieves off to jail to counting baskets of potatoes. Still, winter food supplies were important to the Crown. He’d do his best to see that no more went missing.

  The sheriff stepped back inside and looked around. He knew this neglected clutter was not caused by a retainer or a soldier. A castle servant would have re-packed the potatoes or risked his livelihood. A soldier would have summoned a servant to clear it, just as Basil would soon do. The upturned crate and spilled potatoes bespoke a hasty retreat. The thieves were unable to take the pilfered booty with them.

  The dishonor to the crown enraged Basil.

  The monks who educated him taught him to act honorably and to be of service to others. King Henry’s policies made life easier for citizens than those of the last king. To steal was unconscionable. To steal from this openhearted king deserved death. It was within Basil’s power to see justice done. He would not shirk his duty.

  He stuck his rush light into a wall sconce and took a quick look around the large storeroom. Its thick walls were lined with stacked wooden cartons and bulging bags of flours.

  Basil reached down to upright a crate.

  “What?”

  A woman. Hidden under the storage crate!

  She was a tiny thing, slender, with huge blue eyes in an oval face. His body responded to her beauty.

  Strands of silken hair escaped a loosely woven, black netting to stick out awkwardly around her face. Bits of packing straw and dirt clung to the netting and to her dark clothing. Her lips hardened into a grim line.

  She can’t be one of the thieves, can she?

  Outraged that he allowed her beauty to distract him from the king’s business, he grasped her arm above the elbow, surprised at how fine-boned it was.

  I could easily snap it in two.

  He shook her to loosen her tongue.

  “Why are you hiding?”

  As she rose to her feet, he could see that her attire was that of a lady. Basil eased up on the pressure.

  “Answer me.”

  She struggled, causing him little discomfort, even after kicking his shin with her soft-leather slipper.

  “Unprincipled ruffian. My parents have influence with the king. They’ll have your head if you harm me.”

  Basil pointed to the Seal of Office on a wide, blue ribbon around his neck.

  “I’m the king’s sheriff. I uphold the law, not break it.” He gestured towards the spilled potatoes. “Are you stealing these?”

  Twisting her arm out of his grasp, she drew herself up to her full height, barely reaching his armpit.

  “Lackwitted underling, I’m lost. I came too far down the stairs and ended up in the cellars instead of at the Great Hall.”

  As she took a deep breath, her dark wool kirtle stretched enticingly over a rounded bosom. Basil allowed his eyes to linger there as he interrogated her.

  “The stairwell is only a short distance.”

  “I’m blind. I couldn’t find it.”

  “Blind?”

  His brain became a jumble. Those bewitching blue eyes couldn’t see? He shook his head, trying to clear it and re-focus on his duty.

  “Who were those men?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I hid.”

  A change passed briefly over her face as she denied knowing the men. It was impossible to tell if she was lying or if the change was caused by the flickering of the rush light.

  “Were they stealing potatoes?”

  She shook her head.

  “They wore armor. They don’t need to steal food.”

  So it wasn’t thieves who left hurriedly. He hadn’t let down his king.

  “Why didn’t you ask them for help?”

  “I didn’t trust them, and I don’t trust you. They’re Norman.”

  Her sharp tongue sent acid rushing into his stomach. Early on, his mother instilled pride in his Norman ancestry. She also taught Anglo-Saxon inferiority. Blind or not, this woman touched a sore spot. He stiffened his spine.

  “I’m the king’s sheriff.”

  “Sheriffs can be bought. Even the highest in the land cannot be trusted.”

  Anger surged through Basil. His fingers curled into a fist.

  “Do you malign the king?”

  “Not the king, but those around
him.”

  Was this the typical whining of a conquered Saxon or did she bear a legitimate gripe? Whatever it was, he was in no mood to stand around arguing. His duty was to catch thieves.

  Basil’s inherent need to protect those weaker than himself rose to the surface.

  “I’ll take you to a safe place.”

  Lynnet dusted herself off and set her clothes aright to recapture her dignity while she decided whether to trust this man.

  His towering, muscled body cast a huge, black outline against the feeble light of the torch. Power and domination emanated from this sheriff, and it frightened her. His was the northern accent of the third conspirator. They could know each other. Even be related.

  Besides, he was the kind of man she should shy away from, the savage warrior she remembered from jousts before losing her sight. She should’ve put up more of a fight when he first uncovered her, but she’d quickly lost the heart for it.

  “Give me your father’s name and the chamber you occupy.”

  Shivers traveled up her spine from the timbre of his voice. Lynnet heard the words as if from afar. Her usually superb hearing filtered through a thickening fog. Her clever mind, which grasped new teachings with ease, acted befuddled.

  The clang of metal weaponry made it easy for her to follow his movements. The aroma of leather and horse clung to him. He provoked unsettled sensations in her groin.

  “I assume this belongs to you.”

  He had reached into his clothing and was placing a chain and pendant into her hand. Its metal was warm from his body.

  “I found this on the stairs.”

  Her hand closed around the familiar crystal. She slipped the warmed chain around her neck and sighed as the pendant nestled between her breasts. She was again protected by Grandmamma’s amulet.

  “Woman, what chamber do you occupy?” He repeated his demand, sounding annoyed.

  Sensations, however pleasant, must be denied or she might sacrifice her life for her curiosity. The earlier, overheard words placed her in jeopardy. The sheriff sounded like one of the three men.

  I must get myself back to my family, and quickly.