The Cast Of A Stone

by Avril Borthiry

  “Keep still, wench.” His growl was hot against her ear.

  Emma ignored the command and kicked violently at the undergrowth, hoping to attract the attention of those who slumbered in the cottage. She knew, though, her efforts would likely be in vain. The serenade of the night-time forest often included the conflicts of wild animals; wolf against deer, fox against rabbit. Discord among the trees would not be considered unusual.

  She was no match for her captor, who never tired or loosened his hold. By the time he'd dragged her as far as the river, her fight had weakened to little more than a feeble struggle. He threw her, face down, across the back of a waiting horse and climbed into the saddle behind her. Freed from his gagging fingers, she pulled in a deep breath.

  “You bastard.” Her words rattled over raw vocal chords and she reached up to rake her nails across his face. He grabbed her wrist and pushed her arm up behind her, forcing a cry of pain from her lips.

  “Shut your mouth,” he snarled, spurring his horse into a canter. The sudden jolt had her sliding from the saddle until the man wrapped an arm around her, his hand coming to rest on her breast. He grunted and squeezed so hard it brought tears to her eyes. In response, Emma sank her teeth into his inner thigh.

  “You little bitch!” He yanked on her hair and pulled his horse to a halt. With a curse, he lifted her to sit astride in front of him. “Stop your squirming or I swear I'll beat you unconscious. I'm sorely tempted already.”

  Emma shuddered against the hard wall of his chest. “Why are you doing this?”

  The man laughed. “Because my lord wants you, and I'm paid to give him what he wants. I'll be well rewarded for this night's work.”

  “Your...lord?” Emma's terrified mind absorbed the man's words. So... this is not Argante?

  “Aye. You'll meet him soon enough. Now, be still, or I'll make good on my threat.”

  Bile burned the back of her throat. “I'm so sorry, Cùra,” she whispered into the night. “So sorry.”

  Her terror grew when her captor rode past the trail leading to Lowland Chase.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, bewildered.

  His response numbed her mind. “A place where Mathanach won't find you.”

  The night showed no sign of ending as they rode out of the forest. Ahead of them, its dark silhouette plastered against the starlit sky, lay the ominous outline of Black Combe. Emma shuddered when she realized where they were going.

  “The Bastard's Keep!” With trembling fingers, she pulled at the iron grip of her captor's arm. “Nay, please. Don't take me there. 'Tis the devil's lair.”

  The large grey tower loomed out of the darkness and the man chuckled. “Aye, it is. And you're his honoured guest.”

  “I beg of you, don't do this,” she cried. “Demons lurk within that place. I shall die in there.”

  “That you might, if you don't behave.” He reined in his horse, dragged Emma from the saddle and cut off her screams with his hand. “Christ, but you're a noisy wench. Be silent!”

  Long abandoned, the desolate tower had stood for over a century. The locals avoided it, believing it to be haunted. Some of the outer walls had crumbled over time, but the interior was undamaged and the dungeons were sound. It was there he took her, pushing her into one of the underground cells, closing the solid oak door and banging the iron bolt into place.

  Even her screams could find no release from that terrible place. Trapped within the thick walls, they echoed back at her like a horde of demented spirits. Total darkness wrapped around her, thick and suffocating, and her cries dwindled to desperate whimpers. She reached into the blackness and touched cold, damp stone. With a sob, she crumpled to the ground, curled into a trembling ball, and whispered a distraught prayer.

  Emma's terrified mind had no concept of the passing hours. She didn't know how much time had passed before a noise filtered through her nightmare. She heard muffled words, the scrape of metal against metal, and the squeak of a hinge. Her closed lids sensed light, flicked open, and squinted into the blinding flame of a candle.

  “Watch her, my lord. She's a fighter.” The voice of her captor wandered into the cell from the doorway. Then a different voice hissed off the damp walls and Emma's heart clenched. How could one speak so softly yet sound so evil?

  “I'd be disappointed if she were not. You've excelled yourself, Iain.”

  Argante.

  “Stand up,” he said, “for I would see your face.”

  Emma struggled to rise, her limbs protesting against stiffness and cold. A hand grabbed her arm and pulled her upright. She cried out in fear and pain.

  Argante thrust a candle flame close to her face. “Iain, bring me more light.”

  Emma blinked at the flame, unable to see details beyond its glare. She rubbed her eyes and stumbled back against the wall as dizziness washed over her. Another candle seemed to float through the darkness, held in a shadowy hand. It settled on a ledge and stayed there. The shadow that had carried it dissolved back into the dark.

  “God's balls, look at her. Surely there can be no doubt.” Argante's breath rippled across the flame. “Tell me your name, child.”

  “Em...Emma,” she muttered, her teeth chattering with cold.

  “And your mother's name?”

  “My m-mother?”

  “Aye. Give me her name.”

  “Al-Alicia.”

  “Jesus.” Argante's breath brushed across her face. “Then Alexander Mathanach is your father?”

  “N-nay. He's my guardian. My father is dead.”

  “His name?”

  Emma shook her head, her mind choked by fear and confusion. Argante dug his nails into her arm and she yelped.

  “Tell me your father's name,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

  “Edward,” she whimpered. “His name was Edward Fitzhugh.”

  “Fitzhugh? Christ almighty. Alicia had Fitzhugh's bastard?” Uttering a low growl, he released her arm. “Wait outside, Iain, but don't bolt the damn door. 'Tis blacker than the belly of hell down here.”

  He stroked his knuckles down her cheek.

  “So, you're Fitzhugh's bastard. What a surprise. And what a little beauty you are, Emma. Just like your mother.” He fingered her throat before cupping his hand around her breast. Emma whimpered and thrust his arm away. Fitzhugh's bastard? What did he mean? Why was he asking about her parents?

  “Stop touching me,” she cried. “'Tis you the bastard, not I.”

  “Is that so?” He turned to place the candle on the small ledge and stepped close to her, placing his feet on either side of hers. “So, tell me, sweetheart, how did your mother die?”

  At last she saw Argante's face by candlelight. It surprised her to see how fine featured he was, his firm jaw darkened by the premature growth of a beard. The flame reflected in his unblinking eyes and picked out the silver threads running through his long black hair. She gasped when he leaned into her, pinning her tightly against the wall.

  “Answer me. Tell me how she died.” Emma cringed at the smell of stale wine and garlic on his breath.

  “She...she died from an infection a few days after birthing me. Please don't hurt me.”

  “And your father? What took his mortal soul from this earth?”

  His arousal pressed like an iron rod into her belly and the image of the young, lifeless Arab girl flashed into Emma's mind. In silence she cried out for Alex and for Stephen and prayed to God for mercy. Out loud, she pleaded with her captor.

  “Please, my lord. I beg of you.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “My father died in combat before I was born.”

  Argante laughed. “Is that what Mathanach told you?” He eased his weight off her, reached down and untied his braies. “Did he tell you why he became your guardian?”

  “Because my parents were...were his friends.” Her teeth chattered with fear and cold. “Alex prom...promised my mother he would take care of me. Please don't do this to me.”
/>   “He promised her, did he? How noble of him, considering. I've always wanted to bring that Scottish whoreson to his knees. He has something I want, and I have something he wants. You're a fine prize, Emma.”

  “Nay!” Emma dug her nails into Argante's shoulders as he forced her legs apart with his knee. His foul breath brushed across her face. With a steel grip, he captured her hands with one of his and pinned them over her head. The other snaked around her bottom and lifted her against him. His cruel thrust sent a shard of pain deep into her belly. Her scream echoed off the walls as something tore within her.

  Argante froze, his entire body stiffening against hers. “God's blood. You're yet untouched. A virgin.” His hand closed around her throat. “Mathanach lied. You lied. There was no sick husband. Who, then, lies in the grave by the woods?”

  Emma closed her eyes against a wave of nausea.

  “Answer me, wench. Is it de Montfort?” His grip tightened on her windpipe. “Is it? Tell me. Tell me the bastard died.”

  “Aye.” Emma's head throbbed with pain and she gasped for air. “'Tis the knight who rests there. He was past saving when we found him.”

  Argante's body relaxed and the snarl on his lips widened. “Then it is indeed my night for pleasure.”

  Something in Emma's mind closed as Argante tore her innocence away, yet she could not shut out the guttural sounds of his depravity echoing off the stark walls.

  “Christ, Emma.” He tensed and shuddered against her, his vile heat filling her belly. “You're beyond sweet.”

  “And you're a demon,” she whispered. “Alex will kill you for this.”

  Argante breathed hard in her ear. “As he killed your parents?”

  With a strangled cry, she pushed against him. “'Tis truly evil you are, that you could spit out such lies.”

  “Lies?” Argante lifted his head and gazed at her, dragging a fingernail along her jaw. “'Tis you who have been fed lies, sweetheart. Allow me to set you straight and tell you the truth of it. Your mother was married to Mathanach, not Fitzhugh, but while your precious guardian was away in the Holy Land, it seems Fitzhugh got busy rutting with her. Mathanach heard rumours of the affair and came home early, only to find them together in his chamber. That's when he flew into an unholy rage and ran them both through with his blade. The story was the flavour at court for quite some time.”

  He chuckled.

  “But I never knew she'd dropped his bastard. What a delicious, dirty little secret you are. She obviously hid you somehow. Mathanach must have found out and adopted you to soothe his conscience. It certainly explains why he raised you in these god-forsaken hills. He was probably ashamed to admit the truth of who, or what, you really are. In any case, he's lied to you, Emma. You're Fitzhugh's bastard, your mother was a whore, and Mathanach killed them both.”

  He left her there, shivering with cold and shock, pain lancing her frozen limbs. The smell of him polluted her skin like rancid sweat, but the violation, as vile as it was, had gone way beyond the physical.

  Argante had defiled more than her innocence. He had befouled everything she valued.

  His allegations against Alexander could not be true. Dear God, they could not be true. Yet there had been something resolute in his voice. Truth, vicious and raw, had edged every word.

  Stephen. He would not want her now, shamed as she was. Who would?

  Despair, unlike any Emma could have imagined, flowed through every vein. She curled herself into a ball, wrapped her arms around her legs, and buried her face in her bloodied shift.

  But there was no escaping the nightmare. Argante's words echoed in her tormented mind, over and over again, tearing her soul to shreds.

  “...he's lied to you, Emma. You're Fitzhugh's bastard, your mother was a whore, and Mathanach killed them both.”

  * * *

  The cockerel lifted his scarlet-combed head and announced the arrival of a new day. His bold, raucous call hurtled through the cool morning air and his harem of hens clucked an excited response. Moments later he repeated himself with equal vigour, as if to make certain everyone understood his message.

  Alex stirred at the sound, a dream taunting him at the moment of waking. For less than a heartbeat his mind beheld a terrible vision and a voice whispered an inconceivable truth in his ear. The sights and sounds sank into his subconscious as soon as he opened his eyes.

  Yet a shadow of the dream remained. It hung over him, ominous and dark, an unwelcome twinge of fear nudging his gut. The sensation confused him, for Alexander Mathanach feared only one thing, and he had no reason to fear it, did he? Emma slept soundly in her room, safe under his roof. Didn't she?

  He pushed the covers aside, got to his feet, and wandered over to the doorway. Stephen, well enough recovered, had insisted Alex reclaim the bedchamber, so the young knight now occupied the pallet in the kitchen. Alex peered out and squinted into the gloom. Stephen still slept, Emma's bedroom door was closed, and the locking bar on the front door sat firmly in its cradle. Nothing seemed out of place, yet a prickle crept over his scalp.

  He raked a hand through his hair, Emma's distress the previous night playing over in his mind. Perhaps her sorrow was the shadow hovering over him, he mused, for he had never before shown such anger toward her. Aye, perhaps that's all it was - a twinge of conscience on his part.

  He pulled a simple cotton tunic over his head, grabbed the empty water-pail and crept over to the door.

  “Alexander.” Stephen sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Do you need help?”

  “Nay, I can manage.” Unable to shake his unease, Alex glanced toward Emma's room. “Have you heard anything this morning?”

  “Not a sound.” Stephen frowned and followed his gaze. “You look worried. Is everything alright?”

  A cold hand of dread pressed itself against Alex's spine. Nay, everything is not alright. He set the bucket down and stepped over to Emma's door.

  “I'm not sure. There's something...” He lifted the latch and pushed the door open. The bed lay empty and unmade, Emma's imprint still visible upon the linen covered feathers.

  “Dear God in Heaven.” A cold hand clenched his heart. “Let this be a nightmare and awaken me from it now.”

  Stephen stumbled to Alex's side. “What the hell? Where is she?”

  Alex stepped into the room, his limbs sluggish as if filled with icy water. Panic, hard and sickening, tightened his chest. His thoughts frantic, he glanced up at the opening in the ceiling. A truth taunted his brain and almost pushed him to his knees.

  “Oh, nay, Emma.” He pulled himself up the ladder. “You wouldn't be so foolish. Sweet Christ, please tell me you didn't do this.”

  A pungent smell of thatch hung in the air and a soft breeze toyed with the tiny linen curtain. The fabric fluttered against the small opening, tapping out a lonely tune on the wooden walls. Alex knelt, pulled the fabric aside, and gazed out at the silent forest. It occurred to him that the birds were not singing.

  A flock of crows rose into the air from the treetops, splintering the silence as they called to each other. They circled over the roof of the cottage like a black cloud, before settling back into their rookery.

  Heart pounding, he sat back on his heels. Emma had been taken. The certainty of it shook him to his core. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

  “Forgive me, Alicia,” he whispered. “I've failed her.”

  Stephen spoke with conviction. “She's likely out there hunting rabbits and has lost track of time. I'm going to look for her.”

  Alex turned to him, envying the hope that still lingered in the young man's eyes. “You'd be wasting your time. Argante already has her. Out of the way, lad. I must leave.”

  Stephen climbed down the ladder, his face draining of colour. “But how can you be so sure?”

  Alex gestured to Emma's bow standing by the door. “She's not hunting rabbits.”

  “Then we must find her.” Stephen's voice trembled. “Before it's too late.”

>   “It's already too late.” Alex pulled on his boots, swallowing against the nausea in his belly. “And you're staying here.”

  “I think not.” Stephen wriggled into his tunic. “You can't ask me to do that. What do you mean, it's too late? It can't be too late.”

  Alex picked up his sword and buckled it around him.

  “I've only one horse, Stephen.”

  “Then he must carry both of us.”

  Alex shook his head. “Bart has been with me a quarter century. His spirit is strong, but his heart is not as it was. He cannot manage us both. Besides, it will slow us down.”

  “Then I'll follow on foot.” Stephen fastened his sword belt. “But I won't stay here. Emma is...Christ, Alex. She's very important to me.”

  Alex paused at the door, halted by the emotion in Stephen's voice. “Aye,” he said, “I know she is. Then hear me well, young knight, for it's essential you obey me. Stay out of sight. If I have need of you, you'll know it. They surely think you dead, so Argante will be expecting only me. 'Tis the stone he wants.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I do.”

  Stephen's eyes narrowed. “I suspected as much. But there are five of them besides Argante. You can't hope to defeat them all.”

  Alex smiled. He opened the door and fingered the hilt of his sword. “They'll all be dead before sunset this day. And you must take heed of my orders, or you'll be dead too.”

  Bart pranced in excitement as if sensing the urgency in his master's preparations. Stephen held the stallion steady as Alex swung into the saddle.

  “Remember what I told you, lad.”

  Stephen looked up at a crow circling overhead and nodded. “Alex?”

  “Aye.”

  “Will you find her alive?”

  The desperation in the young man's voice brought tears to Alex's eyes.

  “Aye, I'll find her alive. She's his weapon against me, so he won't kill her.”

  He gathered the reins and kicked Bart to a canter.

  But she'll never be as she was. I can only pray he hasn't killed her spirit.