by Robyn Carr
“Papa ... Papa, I almost told you. When you sent me to mass after my introduction to Lord Forbes ... and again, when Minerva died. Would you ... would you have ...”
“Ah, Anne,” he sighed. “Even knowing something of what you felt, I am not sure I would have tried to help you.”
“Will you try to help me now?”
“You have but one road to travel, lass. But I will do what I can to save Dylan’s life.”
“But Papa--”
“Someday you will understand. Someday.”
***
It was an odd twist of events that Anne stood in the tower on blistering afternoons to watch, this time, for Brennan. Sir Wayland had not lived long enough to be a good waste for rope in the cask room. Somehow Lord Gifford had managed to convince his sons to do nothing dishonorable to his body. Anne thought she saw disappointment glittering in her mother’s eyes.
For two days Dylan had been tied below them. She could feel his presence flowing upward. She knew his health to be good, for Ferris had tricked them into washing and feeding him. “Had I known you were simply going to starve him to death, as he lay in his own filth, we could have as easily tied him to a tree and let him rot,” he had said.
“Your father is right,” Marcella said. “Keep him well. Perhaps we will do better by having him.”
And so her plan began. There was only one other deFrayne son yet alive. Sir Cameron had managed to ride away from the battle. Marcella resumed her letter writing. She carefully considered every detail, from time for travel to the effects of battle on Sir Cameron, the only deFrayne to escape. She discussed the details with her sons. Anne wished she could hide in her room and remain invisible, yet she feared to miss any mention of Dylan and his proposed fate. She lingered on the fringes of her family’s conversations while they plotted; she watched longingly as the door to the cask room was opened and food was taken past the lounging guard to feed Dylan.
“The letter will be addressed to Madam deFrayne,” Marcella said, refusing to title Dylan’s mother. “We will call for a ransom to be paid for Dylan’s safe return, accepted only from Sir Cameron. That should do.”
“I doubt you will receive much. Lord deFrayne is dead and all their money gone to battle. If attainder is not placed on them now, it will be soon--the moment Edward is crowned.”
“All the better,” Marcella said. “Let her trade family lands for her son. We will have to hurry, for Edward will shortly take his crown and the attainder will be his. If we take possession first, there will be no attainder on their possessions, for they will already belong to us.”
“And you will then let him go?” Ferris asked.
Marcella laughed. “Let him go? Nay, my lord husband, but we will have them both. The only living deFraynes other than Daphne. Neither son has sired an heir and I think perhaps Daphne is finally too old.” She lifted a thin blond eyebrow as she regarded her husband. When she smiled her cheeks puffed out. “What do you think, my lord?”
“I do not understand why you wish to slay these youths. They could be our own sons, and I doubt Lady Daphne would do the same.”
“Do not defend her to me,” Marcella snapped. “When the deFraynes are all dead, our family can live in peace.” She calmed her voice, but it seemed to take effort. Anne suspected that peace was the least of what Marcella wanted. And since Giffords had not been assaulted by deFraynes for so many years, she could not understand this lust for deFrayne blood. She knew the old tale that deFraynes had killed Marcella’s father, but that had been so many years ago. “And do not delude yourself, my lord. The deFraynes would have sent our sons’ heads by now.”
“I would not rest easy in their chains,” Quentin said.
“Nor I,” said Bart. “Madam is correct. They should be executed. But I am for trying to get Heathwick in the bargain. Let us offer to ransom them before we kill them.”
Marcella smiled at her second son. He had no estate – she could count on his support.
“I am for sparing their bodies, whole,” Trenton said, looking shyly between his older brothers. He gulped as if the sight of the battlefield was still fresh in his mind. “Too much is too much.”
“What matter? So long as they are finished. Edward will thank us.”
“I doubt that, madam,” Ferris said. “As a matter of fact, Edward forbade such as criminal action. He instructed that only the lords be executed. And I remind you all--Lord Forbes did not approve of this, and may yet put a stop to it.”
“Do you think we have common soldiers?” she chided him.
Anne glanced toward the cookrooms. The cask room was just around the corner. The maid returned from the cell with an empty tray. The guard did not look up. The maid walked into the common hall and handed the key to Marcella. She attached it to her belt as she continued. “If Lord deFrayne fell in battle, it is first to Cameron, then to this lastborn son that the demesne will pass. These are noble heirs--for Lancaster.”
“Sir Cameron will not be tricked.”
“Oh? I think you are wrong.”
Anne glanced at her mother’s belt of keys, shears, prayer beads, pouch of medicines and herbs. She wondered how she might get that key. But even so, there were now guards posted though the night at every entrance to the keep, as if the one by the cask room door was not enough.
“We will give Sir Cameron plenty of time. Almost a fortnight should do nicely. If he does not come with the ransom for his brother by the twentieth day of February, the youngest deFrayne will die. By hanging. And then dispatched ... slowly ... to his mother.”
Anne gulped. To be hanged and then cut into pieces.
“Who is it you wish to hurt by this action, madam?” Ferris asked. Anne had heard her mother and father argue before, but the tone of Lord Gifford’s voice was never more fierce. “Surely it is not the deFrayne men. If they are already dead, your gruesome acts will cause them no pain. Do you feel that Lady deFrayne has not yet suffered enough? Her husband and eldest son are both dead. One would think you desired to meet Lady deFrayne in battle. Perhaps this has nothing to do with the rest of us. Perhaps this is a personal battle.”
Marcella glared at her husband. “Do you beg me to spare the deFrayne men, milord, or do you plead for their mother?”
“Madam, does your cruelty know no bounds?” Ferris asked, shocked. “I have seen heads roll on the turf of a battlefield, a sight that I am somewhat accustomed to, and still it sickens me. Young heads,” he said, rising to his feet and grasping a handful of Trenton’s hair, jerking his head straight. “Boys, about to become men, die. Is there not enough blood to satisfy you? Is it not enough just to kill them?” He released his son’s hair. “And though I doubt Lord Forbes has any love for deFraynes, you risk his anger by this thing you want to do. You had better think again.”
Marcella seemed unimpressed. “ ‘Tis often done, as Lord Forbes knows. Execution is not a pretty sight. I could not see my children thus, but the enemy? His blood is foul. Therefore, it spills.”
Ferris looked at her long and hard. “Send your letters, then, but without me. I will have none of this. I will go where all the men of this house should be, all the men who are so eager to be jewels in Edward’s crown. I will find Edward’s army and you can be sure that I will not return in time to see you perform this terrible, terrible deed. If I return at all.”
“Do you abandon your sons, my lord, in their moment of triumph?” she asked.
“Humph, what need have they for a father? They have you--clearly you are their lord and master!”
That said, Ferris turned on his heel and stormed out of the hall, out into the cold air. Anne longed to go with him, to talk to him and seek his advice.
“Madam, my lord makes sense,” Trenton said. He seemed to shiver slightly, as if he imagined himself held in the deFrayne cask room. “There need be no unnecessary brutality. It should be enough to return their bodies. I would expect as much.”
“Then if it suits you all, we shall only hang them.”
>
Trenton shifted uncomfortably. “I have no objection to the ransom you plan – Bart has need of an estate. But my father speaks true – killing both deFraynes could anger Lord Forbes. He was opposed to our taking prisoners out of Edward’s camp. And if I do not die myself back to Edward’s army, my fortune is dust. My inheritance does not compare to Quentin’s or even Bart’s. I should go with Father.”
“You worry needlessly. Lord Forbes will see you fixed,” she said, glancing at Anne. Anne hung her head quickly. She could not meet her mother’s eyes.
“Not if he is angry,” Trenton said. “Not even for Anne.”
She looked at her brother. She would have smiled at him, but did not dare.
“Trenton met his match on the field, madam. We went searching for him and found him leaning his head over the stream.”
Bart chuckled. “He will overcome it, given time. Watching the deFraynes die will hearten his appetite for blood. If ... he is to do a man’s work. But if he wishes to make his fortune singing poems ...”
Trenton’s jaw muscle worked tensely, and he frowned at his brother. “If you would like to hear me admit that what I saw disgusted me, Sir Bart, I have no objection. You may even ridicule me if it makes you feel stronger and braver. Aye, most of your courage comes from taking advantage of those weaker than you. Surely you will stand bravely while a tied man is hanged, but would you meet him on the field? I did not see you in the fighting--”
Bart bolted to his feet as if he would take on his younger brother, but Quentin was quicker. His thick arm crossed in front of Bart’s chest. “This is useless,” he grumbled. “Sit down. No more of this, or I’ll take care of you both.” He waited patiently while Bart returned to his seat. “Madam, I know you have waited long to see captured deFraynes at your disposal. Were my father killed by them, I would feel likewise. But we must consider Father’s concerns. We dare not upset our new alliance with the earl.”
“If you are my sons,” Marcella said sternly, “you will stay until this is done. Then you may join Edward.”
Quentin, Bart, and Trenton looked between each other, checking eyes. Anne edged toward the stair. She saw her brothers’ passion for deFrayne blood waning, she hoped they would go with her father. But finally Quentin spoke up. “We will stay with you, madam, and see it through. I am for the capture of Sir Cameron, if possible, but I will not support theft or indecent execution. If it must be done, it will be done civilly. A quick death and proper burial.”
“I thought I raised men.”
“You did, madam. Men. Not dogs.”
Anne slipped away. Small mercies had come to mean a lot. That they would not cut him to pieces almost caused her to drop to her knees and give thanks. She fetched her cloak and went out of the keep by the back stairs and wandered about Raedelle in search of her father. She did not find him the whole of the day, nor did she see him in the hall for the evening meal. She tossed and turned through the night, wondering how to have a word with him before he left.
Then came a light tapping at her door. She had no idea the hour, the sky was black and the castle was not astir. She ran to her chamber door and quickly threw it open, as if Dylan might be standing there. Ferris wore his chain mail and carried his shield. He held a finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet.
“I will go for Lord Forbes. Perhaps he will come, if I explain what my wife would do.”
“Be careful, Papa. I will pray.”
“Two things, Anne. First, wisdom and caution while young Dylan is prisoner here.” She nodded, eyes wide. “Do not attempt to free him. You will be caught--both of you. His death will only come faster. You will not be spared much misery. I fear death would seem welcome.” She nodded in agreement. She knew better than that. Even if there was a way to get him out of the hall, she could not fathom a method of passing through the gate. “Second,” Ferris went on, “no matter what, no matter if Dylan is freed or killed, Brennan Forbes is your hope. Your only hope. Do you know it?” Again she nodded. “The earl loves you deeply, praise God. Do not in a foolish moment forget what that means.” She shook her head. He reached out a hand and touched her dark hair.
“I love you, Papa. God’s speed. Be safe.”
She listened to the shuffling and clinking sound as Ferris descended the stair and left the hall. She lay still in her bed for another hour as the sun began to rise, and then she rose to dress, wondering how to face the day. There was more hope now than there had been. Brennan might come and stop their execution, even if he was likely only to transfer Dylan’s captivity to Edward’s camp. Still, Dylan was safer with Satan than in this keep.
She began to dress, pulling on a new working apron over a dark blue kirtle. She went to the small coffer on her table and opened it to retrieve the ring Brennan had given her. She stared in some confusion at what she saw. A long, heavy iron key rested atop a pouch. She lifted the key and the pouch gingerly, as if they would bite her. Her first thought as she touched these articles was that someone had stolen them from Marcella and placed them in her coffer while she slept, or earlier, when she roamed Raedelle in search of her father. But on closer inspection she could see the pouch was sewn of a different fabric from the one her mother carried. She moved backward, dropping down onto the bed, looking at the pouch in one hand and the key in the other. She faintly remembered. It was Minerva’s. And then she knew.
The castle was asleep, the hour still before midnight. With a long nightdress covered by a smock, a thick shawl that almost reached the floor, and a small bed cap on her head, Anne ventured into the common room carrying a candle. She could see the guard before the cask room door, sitting on the rushes, leaning against the door. She nodded toward him. She ventured on into the common room and filled a chalice to the rim with dark red wine. She walked back toward the stair, carrying the brew. She paused at the foot of the stair, pensively, as if a thought had interrupted her progress. She turned and looked at the guard. Their eyes met briefly. She knew this one, and she smiled as she walked toward him.
“Good eventide, Delbert. I’ve come for a cup of cool wine. I know you cannot leave your post for any reason. May I get you one?”
He sat up straighter. “I ... ah, thank you, my lady. That is very kind.”
“Here then,” she said, handing him the chalice. “I’ll simply get another.” He started to take the cup to his lips. “Are you not allowed a stool or chair?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I thought it best to place my back against the door, lest it move while I’m looking the other way.”
She laughed lightly, teasingly, and the guard blushed. He was quite young and still a little shy with women, at least noblewomen. “I thought he was tied?” she asked.
He grunted and stood to a towering height, thin and long-limbed. “He is tied, my lady, but I have been warned ...”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “He is said to be very dangerous.” She turned, placed her candle on the rushes, and went into the common room in search of a chair with arms. She dragged the heavy oaken chair toward him, cutting a path through the bushes. “You might as well be comfortable. I’ve seen him, this prisoner. There is no possible way that he can overpower you, he is not nearly as large and strong as you are.”
The guard looked at the chair and frowned. “Sir Quentin might find my comfort amiss.”
“Then I suggest you return the chair to the common hall before Sir Quentin rises.” She lifted a brow. “You do plan to stay awake through the night, do you not?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Then be comfortable. You can place the chair here, prop your feet on that keg, and never take your eyes from the cask room door.” The instructions she fed him with her guiltless gaze and sweet smile had the heavy oaken chair away from the door and the sentry’s back to the common room. She hoped for the best. If it did not work tonight, perhaps tomorrow night. There was always a different guard. “Good eventide, Delbert.”
She went back to the common room, drew herself a new chal
ice of wine--this one void of Minerva’s herbs--and went up the stairs. She stood at the top, breathing deeply to calm her frayed nerves. She waited a long moment, put a foot on the stair, and then retreated to wait still longer. She couldn’t be certain how much time should be allowed for the herbs to take effect. If he did not drink the wine, there would be no deep sleep for the guard. She tried to think of an excuse she could give if she was seen in the common room a second time.
Finally, she bolstered herself, descended, and sighed audibly when she saw his limp form in the chair, his sleeping head tilted to one side. He still held the empty chalice in both hands, clasped over his stomach. Carefully placing her hand on his shoulder, she gently shook him. He slept. She took what might be her only chance.
Six steps led down into the damp, windowless cask room. Here they stored kegs of winter ale, wine, and a few bags of grain. This area had been dug under the stairwell many years before and was not intended as a hold for captives, but it served well. There were very few places in the small hold where one could stand to one’s full height.
Dylan’s head was upright, his eyes slightly glazed. His hands were bound at the wrists and held over his head by a rope attached to a beam above him. Very little protection from the cold had been accorded him, there was a pelt of furs beneath him, but no jacket or cloak. Tears stung her eyes. She placed the candle and the chalice of wine on the ground, not even covered by rushes here, and gently knelt beside him. Her cool hand trembled slightly as she caressed his cheek and his vision seemed to clear.
“Another dream,” he mused. “They become ever more real.”
She raised up on her knees and loosened the ropes at his wrists, freeing his hands. “Not this time, my darling. This is not a dream.”
He rubbed his chafed wrists and stared at her in wonder. “How have you come here?”