Sharon Lanergan

by The Prisoner

  “Brian…” Telford stood up.

  “I have accepted my madness, if it is what it is. What I do not accept is being treated like some delicate bloom. Why don’t you all tell me what you really think? Talk to me.”

  “You want to know what we are thinking? I’ll tell you.”

  Brian turned at the sound of his son’s voice. Trevor stood at the foot of the stairs leading from the upper floors.

  For a moment, time suspended for Brian. Instead of Trevor standing by the stairs he saw himself at that age.

  He hadn’t seen his son since his recovery and did not realize how much Trevor looked like him.

  Brian stood and faced his son.

  Trevor descended on him with fire in his eyes.

  “They may be afraid to upset you, Father,” Trevor said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “But I care naught.”

  “Trevor, nay,” Constance cried out, rising from the bench and grabbing Trevor’s arm. “Now is not the time for this.”

  “When is the time, Constance?” Trevor snarled. “When will we all stop worrying about poor Brian? The truth is, he deserved what he got. Loutrant should have killed him when he had the chance.”

  Constance raised her small hand and slapped Trevor hard across his cheek. The lone sound echoed in the dining hall. Trevor reached up and touched the red welt, his eyes turning unusually bright.

  “How dare you say such things about your father,” Constance said. “How can you be so cruel?”

  The trouble was, Brian thought, Trevor was right. He did deserve what happened.

  Trevor backed away. “Stay away from me.” His blue eyes scanned them all, scathing, scornful. “All of you. I don’t need any of you to coddle me the way you do my father.”

  Then his son turned on his heel and fled the room. Brian fought the urge to follow after him. His son did not want to speak to him now. Nay, that wasn’t entirely true. Trevor had much to say. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.

  Brian glanced down at his trencher of mostly uneaten food. He had no appetite for it. But he did want a drink. His goblet had been filled with water. No doubt Constance’s idea.

  “Brian.” Constance touched his arm gently, gaining his attention. He saw her pity and shrank from it. He wanted no one’s pity. Or remorse. The little good it would do him.

  He turned his gaze from hers and instead glanced at his brothers, who all sat at the table looking oddly useless and uncomfortable.

  “What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?” Brian demanded.

  Stephen stared at Brian’s goblet with ill-disguised dismay.

  “We, ah,” Telford said, “all thought it best if you perhaps did not have anything to drink tonight.”

  Inexplicable rage consumed Brian. How dare they make his choices? Who did they think they were? He clenched his fists.

  “Indeed? I was not aware I was still a prisoner,” he said softly, lethally.

  Telford flinched. “Brian, ‘tis not that.”

  He felt Constance touch his arm once more and he turned on her, like a dog biting at a flea.

  “Do not touch me!”

  Her gem-colored eyes widened, and for a moment he saw the terror there, nearly hidden, then her gaze shuttered, and her hand dropped from his arm. Her already pale cheeks lost another shade of color. He was a monster. But he could not change. Or would not.

  Brian tore his gaze from her and looked back at his brothers in disgust.

  “Stop trying to save me. I don’t want it or need it. I didn’t want to be rescued before and I sure as hell don’t want to be rescued now. I’m not who you think I am. I haven’t been for a long time and I never will be again.”

  Wine. He needed it. Now. He spun away from them and went in search of a servant who would provide him with what he really wanted. Numbness.

  ****

  Constance sank down on the bench.

  She wanted to weep, but never would. Not in front of these men. Her family, really.

  To weep would show a weakness she didn’t want them to know she possessed. They would be sorry for her and would think they had done something to hurt her.

  But Lord, she was weary and disheartened. How long could she pretend?

  “Constance,” Telford broke the heavy silence befalling those at the dining table. “Do not trouble yourself over Brian.”

  Constance wanted to smile but the effort was just too much. Instead, she toyed with the hunk of bread in front of her.

  “That wasn’t quite what we hoped for.” Stephen stared at the space Brian had just vacated.

  “We can’t help him in a single day or a single month,” Lucien said. “It’s going to take some time. He was locked up for many years.”

  But he’s not even trying, Constance wanted to scream. She couldn’t bring herself to admit she was beginning to think Brian really was a lost cause. She hated herself for the dark thoughts entering her head, and she very nearly hated Brian for his utter lack of caring.

  Telford rubbed his beard, considering. “I had thought we should handle the situation on our own, but now I am rethinking that idea.”

  Constance glanced up from her scrutiny of the bread. “Meaning?”

  “Mayhap I should write to Nick,” Telford said. “Before he and Marion left to go to their new estate, Nick was the only one who could really talk to Brian.”

  Stephen nodded. “Aye, true. But with Marion expecting, will Nick want to travel here?”

  “It is worth a try, surely.” Telford took a sip from the goblet in front of him.

  Constance couldn’t imagine what Nicholas could say to Brian different than any of them. But his brothers believed pearls of wisdom would drop from their older brother’s lips. She didn’t want to dampen their suddenly brighter spirits.

  ****

  Brian pulled aside the fur blocking the light and peered out the window of his room to the courtyard below.

  In the distance he could see some of the Fitzroy soldiers training. How long had it been since he’d held a sword? In his weakened state, could he even manage it?

  The pounding in his head that had that awakened him earlier in the day was now a mere dull ache. No one had been by to pester him since the incident at the meal the night before.

  For how long would his reprieve from their interference last?

  How likely would it be he could sneak past any of them and go outdoors without their noticing? He frowned. Not likely at all.

  Brian watched the trainers, decked in their mail and armor, for a moment more, then he turned and walked to his wardrobe. He thought he remembered seeing some of his own armor from years before.

  A while later, he stepped outside the castle.

  Success. At least so far.

  No one had stopped him inside. No one had run up to him addressing him as “my lord” or “Brian”.

  It irritated Brian that the mail and armor hung on him a bit. Once, he’d filled it out nicely.

  The helmet hiding his face also shielded his gaze somewhat from the bright sun. He took a deep breath and stepped further into the yard.

  Brian headed for the training field. It was time to get something back Loutrant had taken from him.

  Chapter Six

  Summer, Loutrant Castle, six months earlier

  Constance stepped into the prisoner’s cell once more, holding a trencher of disgusting food, which she’d been ordered to feed him.

  She wavered on her feet just a bit. She was still sore and even a little dizzy from last night’s rough handling at the hands of Loutrant.

  The cell door slammed behind her and Constance was once more alone with the pathetic man who inhabited the tiny room.

  She squinted, searching. Not in his usual corner, but this time in the opposite one.

  Constance moved toward him.

  “Good day to you, sir,” she called softly. He appeared almost to be asleep but she doubted he was. He never had been when she came.

  He slowly raised his
head and merely stared, saying nothing.

  Constance knelt in front of him, and for a moment she held his gaze.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” she breathed out before she had time to think. But it was true. They were a deep, dark blue, very nearly black. Midnight. Strange she hadn’t noticed their beauty before.

  She’d startled him. He blinked and just continued to stare, perhaps a bit more apprehensively than before.

  Constance set the trencher down. “How do you feel today, sir?”

  “Same as yesterday,” came his hoarse reply.

  Constance frowned. Yesterday he had complained of being unusually warm and his color was quite pale. Today he looked worse yet. His skin was an odd pasty white and around his extraordinary eyes were ugly red circles.

  She reached over and felt his forehead. He shrank back.

  “I will not hurt you, sir,” she assured him softly. His flesh scorched. Likely feverish. “But I do think you are ill.”

  He nodded and lifted up his torn shirt to show her festering sore on his abdomen around his ribcage.

  Constance gasped. “How did you get that?”

  “I am sure you can imagine,” he replied.

  Loutrant, of course. Was there no end to the fiend’s cruelty?

  “But surely even he would not let you suffer so,” Constance protested, thinking even as she said it Finius would probably derive great pleasure out of this man’s suffering.

  The man laughed, a hollow laugh filled with despair.

  Her heart wept. She had to do something to help him.

  “Tomorrow, when I bring your meal, I will bring something to cleanse your wound,” Constance promised.

  “He will not let you.”

  “I will sneak it past Owen somehow.” She only wished she could somehow get herbs to ease the pain and clear up the infection.

  “You are very kind,” the man said after a moment. “But I would not want you to face his wrath for me.”

  “It will be all right.” Constance touched his cheek. “How did he do this?”

  He smiled sardonically. “He kicked me.”

  “This from a kick?” she asked, surprised.

  The man shook his head. “You don’t want to know, Constance.”

  She frowned. Lord, this man was stubborn. He would share naught of himself or so he had not so far, but she would learn his secrets.

  He glanced at the trencher and grimaced.

  “I am sorry,” Constance said. Despite the many evils she endured from Loutrant, she ate quite well.

  He leaned his head back against the wall and shook his head. “No matter. I must eat it. But later. Right now I want you to tell me about your life. How you came to be here.”

  Constance studied her soiled fingers. Soiled with dirt and sweat from him. He wanted to know about her.

  “I came from a loving family. One I took for granted.”

  Constance looked up at his sharp intake, concerned.

  He shook his head. “I am fine. Just a twinge. It appears, little one, you and I have more in common than I believed.”

  “Oh?”

  “I, too, took my family for granted.”

  Constance continued to stare, willing him to say more about himself, but he lapsed back into silence. Waiting for her to continue.

  “My father was a great warrior. And the best of friends with a powerful baron near here. The baron, Hugh Fitzroy, fought by my father’s side in many battles, and when Hugh settled at his castle, my father and mother went there too. I was born there and the Fitzroys were as good to me as they were to their own sons.”

  Constance paused for a moment, letting the warmth of her memories wash over her. They were a comfort to her even if they brought with them sorrow.

  “Pray continue,” the man urged. He seemed intently interested in what she had to say.

  “It was my father’s wish I marry one of Hugh’s sons.” Constance laughed a little. “Somehow the natural choice was Nicholas. I adored Nick, of course. He’s handsome, strong, kind, and responsible. Who wouldn’t adore him?”

  “It does not sound like you love him.”

  Was she so transparent? Constance shook her head. A romantic nature had been her downfall.

  “I think Nick is wonderful, but nay, I did not feel that kind of love. I tried to.” Constance felt the burn of her blush. “I even allowed him to make love to me. I thought I’d feel something more.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Nay,” Constance whispered. “It was nice, but only nice.”

  The prisoner nodded, and she thought she saw real understanding in his gaze. As though, mayhap, he’d experienced something similar.

  “But I did intend to marry Nick,” Constance continued. “Shortly before our wedding was to take place, my father died. I couldn’t bring myself to think of marriage. Even though he made Nick vow to take care of me with his dying breath.”

  Constance heard the sound of footsteps coming down the narrow hall toward the man’s cell. Owen returning to fetch her. She didn’t have much time.

  “And then, a minstrel appeared at Fitzroy Castle,” Constance said in rush, trying to get her story out. “He sang of love and virtue and honor. All the things I dreamt of. He appeared as a blond angel, and I fell in love with him.”

  The key rattled in the cell door. Owen flung the heavy wooden door wide.

  “Come on, wench. Your time is up,” Owen snarled from the doorway.

  Constance glanced over her shoulder at the guard, then quickly glanced back at the prisoner.

  “I will return tomorrow with whatever I can bring you,” she vowed.

  “Be careful,” he warned. “He is more dangerous than you even know.”

  ****

  Autumn, England—By the Sea

  He waited for Robert to return to his cottage. The old man left in the morning and it was nearly dark now.

  Since then he’d done a great deal of thinking. He knew who he was now. His name was Finius Loutrant.

  And with that certain knowledge of his identity came something else. Rage. And a burning all-powerful hatred for his enemy. Brian Fitzroy.

  Loutrant recalled it all now. Fitzroy tricked him into falling from the tower window. All thought he fell to his death, but somehow he survived and was found by Robert.

  The only reason he was spared from death, Loutrant decided, was so he could exact his revenge on Brian Fitzroy.

  Loutrant went to the cottage door and opened it for the fifth time. Where was the old fool? He had questions.

  A light breeze came off the sea and the mist had crept in, nearly enshrouding the tiny dwelling. Loutrant could barely see in front of him.

  What could a slow-witted old man be doing for all this time?

  Loutrant re-entered the cottage and slammed the door shut. He walked to the small fire he’d kept going all day and warmed his hands.

  Soon he would get his ultimate revenge on Brian Fitzroy.

  Loutrant turned toward the door when he heard the approach of footsteps. At last.

  Robert came into the tiny cottage, carrying a heavy sack and some wood for the fire.

  “Good evening, my lord,” he called out cheerfully.

  “Where have you been?” Loutrant asked.

  “Gathering herbs to help in your recovery,” Robert said. “And food. We must eat.”

  “I am recovered. And ready to leave.” Loutrant eyed the bundle Robert placed on the small wooden table with disinterest.

  “Leave?” The old man frowned. “Where would you go?”

  An excellent question, and one Loutrant had been thinking about all day. Since they all thought him dead, they would not be seeking him out as a fugitive. But he was not certain how far he had drifted from his castle.

  “Know you of a castle by the sea where a baron named Loutrant lives?” he asked Robert.

  Robert glanced up from inspecting the contents of his sack.

  “You do know of him,” Loutrant said.
/>   Robert licked his lips nervously and nodded. “Aye, my lord, Baron Loutrant is dead, though.”

  “Indeed? And how do you know of his death?”

  Robert shook his head and closed up his bundle. “I do not know the details, sir. I only know it is said the king had him tried for treason but before the sentence could be carried out, the baron died.”

  Loutrant barely suppressed his sneer. The king. He had a mind to seek his revenge on that insipid fool, too, but only when his true enemy had been dealt with.

  “And what of Loutrant’s castle?” he asked.

  “Oh.” Robert walked over to the hearth and used a stick to poke the fire back to roaring life. “It has been given to a man named Nicholas Fitzroy and his wife, Marion.”

  Chapter Seven

  “No!”

  Constance sat up, awakened out of a deep sleep. A nightmare, actually.

  She dragged in a breath, and with a shaky hand reached over and lit the single candle on her bedside table. For several heartbeats she studied the shadows in her room, looking for any signs of her tormentor.

  Nothing.

  Constance pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin there, rocking back and forth. The dream. It seemed so real.

  It started out well enough. She’d been sitting in the dining hall, sharing a bench with Brian, eating with the whole Fitzroy family; even Nick and Marion were there. They’d been laughing and having a wonderful time. Then she went upstairs to her chamber afterward to retire for the evening and the dream changed abruptly.

  Waiting for her behind the door was Finius Loutrant. He’d toyed with her, laughed at her terror and then pointed to the figure of a man lying on the floor by her bed. He was covered by black velvet. In the dream, Constance had approached him, lifted the velvet, and …

  She shuddered, blocking the rest of the dream from her mind.

  She jumped and cried out at the slight scratching at the door.

  “Constance.”

  She scrambled out of bed, grabbed a wrap and hurried to the door. She opened it and peered out. “Brian?”

  He was there in the hall. Still fully dressed in a dark blue jerkin and breeches. She pulled him inside, then closed the door.