The carriage pulled to a halt. Her heart nearly stopped as it did and she listened, with baited breath, awaiting her doom. She wasn’t tied, but she feared to show that she was awake, so she lay her head back down on the bench, trembling at the proximity of Abney’s body beneath her. She could smell blood and wet dirt.
The door swung open, slapping hard against the outside of the carriage. She hoped no one saw her flinch at it. They’d stopped in a courtyard, near some sort of outbuilding. A man pulled Abney out by his feet, and another grasped his upper body, carrying him away. The same was done for her father, her gut wrenching along with him as he was dragged through the yard. Mortal fear gripped her, for the men standing just outside seemed to be discussing her. She opened her eyes a tiny slit, just enough to see the dark-haired man from earlier standing outside the door.
“Get up, miss,” he said plainly. His voice was unique, not foreign, just unlike any she’d ever heard. Her eyes popped open at his words, and she pushed herself into a sitting position, trying to control her limbs’ trembling. Her whole person was a muffled mess, and she was shaking from the trauma and fear of it all. She tried not to look down at the long blood smears on the floor, nor on the bench opposite her. Instead, she looked into the face of the dark-haired man who was staring directly into hers, his blue eyes harsh, but brightened by curiosity. She looked away spitefully. These cruel, brutish men had murdered her father, and were likely about to do the same to her. She would not afford them even the smallest sign of amity.
She stepped unsteadily out into the mud, cold, shaken and terrified. A lightning clap flashed across the sky as she saw the men who’d previously been on horseback, now making jibes to each other as they strolled toward an old lodge. Her anger riled at the sight of their nonchalance, and the rain began to pour down violently again, so heavy on the head it was painful. The dark-haired man pulled her by the elbow, dragging her beneath an awning. She looked at him with murder in her eyes, but it didn’t shake his curious stare. So she turned away in disgust once more.
“Bring her into the house,” cried one of the blonde men in a mocking tone. “And give her to father as a prize.”
The rest of the men dispersed.
At least there won’t be a great audience at my death, she thought.
The dark-haired man continued his stare, but Maryone defiantly kept her eyes to the ground. So, he grasped her by the elbow and pulled her across the mud-laden yard, up the stone steps and into the old lodge.
Inside the lodge was ancient, shabby and full of furniture so haggard they were better called relics - objects strangely precious to their owners, symbolizing a world beyond their reach or understanding. Everything was covered in dust, in every corner a collection of draping cobwebs. She was dripping wet, and her dress caked with mud. She dared not consider what else might be smudged on her dress, flinching at the memory of the stench of blood. She was pulled through a dark, drafty entryway, through several adjacent rooms and into a dark old hall where an ancient-looking man hunched before a great, blazing fireplace. He turned just enough to take her in, his eyes surrounded by puffy, red skin that looked both pale and inflamed. The whites of his eyes were pink and his irises glossy, jittering in their sockets as he studied her.
“What do you bring me, boy?” he spoke in a low, croaking voice; it’s sound the remains of another time.
She would soon learn he was the lord of the manor, Lord Rypon. His was an ancient line, that’d reigned over these lands for many generations. His legacy was his two sons, the spoiled, light-haired pigs she’d encountered earlier; and the darker-haired man who’d brought her here, his orphaned nephew.
When the old Lord called his nephew a boy, she looked up, cock-eyed, to see how the man would react. To her surprise, he remained completely emotionless, neither riled nor embarrassed by the old man’s treatment. His countenance seemed to transcend the treatment of those around him. Though he hadn’t much austerity or priestliness about him, she sensed that within his tall, powerful frame lived a mercenary intelligence. As she studied him, it shone sharply out in his gaze. His face reminded her of a hunting animal, one that lay calmly, waiting, hypnotizing prey with it’s eyes, thinking only of strategy and in complete control of it’s faculties.
He pushed Maryone toward Lord Rypon. She stumbled forward, resentful of the treatment.
“She is all that’s left of her party,” he said, his strange voice resounding through her.
The old man sneered in disinterest, scoffing as he turned back to the blazing fire. With a shaking hand, he picked fragments of venison from his teeth, the skin of his hands splotched and thin.
“And why does she live still?” he snapped harshly.
The dark-haired man swallowed and shifted his feet, his posture still straight.
“We had words with her departed father,” he answered. Maryone felt weak at the word departed. “She has wealthy family further to the north. She may be useful.”
The old man ripped a grape from the vine with his teeth.
“Oh, my sons thought as much?” He said indignantly. “Or perhaps you did?”
The dark-haired man said nothing, only averted his eyes, their lids dropping as if to veil their determined pride without extinguishing it. The old man deliberated for a moment, his faculties weakened but mercilessly stubborn. He took his time, exerting his dominance over the young man transparently by the simple annoyance of making him wait.
“Take her to the tower, then,” he said sarcastically, putting emphasis on each word.
“The tower is occupied, Lord,” the younger man said plainly, his voice flat. “She could be housed in the room next to mine,” he said dispassionately. “It is unoccupied and boasts a strong lock. Besides,” he said, shaking her about to showcase her weakness, “She’s little threat to us.”
The old man nodded incredulously and waved them away with his hand. The younger sought nothing more. He grasped her by the elbow and turned, pulling her away without ceremony. It seemed he relied on his own counsel, and had only sought out the old man’s approval for the sake of diplomacy; as if the old man was nothing but a decaying, spiteful obstruction. She stumbled over matted, thread-bare rugs as he pulled her; past suits of armor and other neglected furnishings. In the main hall, a large stone stairway shot upwards, where he pulled her up without ceremony; his attitude direct and heedless of her comfort. On the next level, she was yanked down a dark hallway, with neither paint nor decoration marking it’s walls.
With her wrist in a vice grip, he stopped before a door near the end and unlocked it with a large metal key. He pushed it open, revealing a dark and dreary room beyond, the pale light highlighting sparse, shabby furnishings. He pulled her inside and pushed her roughly down upon the bed, where she landed with a thump on the solid, hay-filled mattress. There, he stood over her, surveying her as she stared up nervously at his silhouetted form. The longer he stared, the more anxious she became; terrified of what he might do. But after a few moments, he merely turned and left the room without a word. His sure, confident steps passed through the door, then closed and locked it; extinguishing all light from the room.
After sitting for several moments in wet, trembling shock, she hit the bedspread with her fist, feeling finally able to express some anger. The desire for revenge burned within her like a murderous flame, heaving in her chest. But soon the rage abated, burning up her spirit and replacing itself with exhausted confusion. For she saw too clearly the powerlessness of her position. How could she face off against these men? They were armed, great in number, and trained in the ways of the sword. And they held her on their own lands - a vast waste of wilderness, as far as she knew. She was just one young woman, isolated, and no one knew she was here. She’d little advantage - none, really.
Her spirits dipped into a deep, dark valley at the thought of all this. What would her fate be? The question cast a shade over her heart. There was nothing else she could do now, she must take rest to clear her mind and renew he
r vigor. But most of all, though she hardly admitted it to herself, she wished to escape the memory of her father’s face for a few wakeless moments. Though she feared what new terror she might find upon waking, for the last time she’d awoken, she’d found her world had fallen apart.
CHAPTER 32
She awoke in the dark, without flame or warmth to comfort her. She could barely see her hand before her - only dim, blueish moonlight reflecting off of ghostly dressers and tatty drapery in the dingy room. She shuddered there on the bed, her damp clothing having cooled during her rest into itching, chilling annoyances that assaulted her skin. Her stomach rumbled and pained her most bitterly - she hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours. As she noted these sensations, the sound of men carousing drifted up from the main floor; the babble of their merriment a grating mockery of her discomfort and fear.
She got up wearily, her limbs stiff and aching as she tiptoed across the creaking floor; hopeful that none would take heed of the noise. The lodge was situated on the edge of a cliff, over which her windows offered an impressive prospect. Beyond the vaulted windows, moonlight hit the tops of trees and a glistening stream snaked it’s way though a dark forest. The half moon had a ring around it, offering the only light in sight - inside and out - as if she truly was lost in the wilderness. She sat for some time at the window sill, thinking of her father; the shivering cold she suffered there a sort of penance for his pain. Though she knew he was dead and could no longer feel, some part of her felt he must be cold and exposed somewhere in the dark; and she couldn’t bear to abandon him to that darkness, but could only stay there with him. She could not take care of him properly or make sure he was alright, so she would attempt to meet him in the only way she could. She balked, thinking of where he might be laid to rest at this very moment, in some irreverent way, by one who’d never known or loved him; barren and naked in the darkness. She swallowed hard, realizing she may join him soon, and none would be the wiser.
Pounding footsteps ascended the stairs, imbalanced and drunken, then moved up the hallway until they stopped at her door. She held her breath as the latch was unlocked, and a figure appeared in silhouette. It was the dark-haired man, holding a plate of food in one hand and a candle in the other. His brow looked especially stern by it’s light, but his face as emotionless as before. Once he spotted her at the window, his hawk eyes never left her face. He stomped into the room, threw the plate down on a small table and stopped, watching her. A slight waver in his steps told her he’d been in his cups. She wasn’t sure if this made her more or less afraid of him, for all men seemed to handle their ale differently. Her father was made boorish by drink, forgetting himself and all manners, speaking bitter and hateful things; things she’d sensed had always been in his mind, and merely been helped out by the lubrication of his senses. But other men became kind and more jovial with drink, as if their good nature had been accentuated.
The dark-haired man watched her in the pale light, his eyes predatory. He didn’t appear to be a pure Englishman, though he was as pale as one; there was a touch of the mediterranean in his features, or perhaps the Black Sea. She flinched as he stepped toward her, his heavy footfalls booming in the silence.
“Eat,” he said, pointing at the food.
Sheepishly, she stood up from the sharp-edged window sill and inched toward the table, ever cautious of his large form. She sat down watchfully, keenly aware of the door’s open, unlocked state. He saw her glance in it’s direction, but the cock-sure turn of his lip told her he wasn’t worried over her prospects at escaping. The table before her was constructed of rough wooden planks that were faded and gray. The man dropped his candlestick next to her plate and sat down across from her, pulling his chair in beneath him in a sharp, ironic movement; even his physical strength communicated intelligence. He watched as she speared potatoes with the two-pronged fork, chewing on the overcooked vegetable beneath his jarring, intense gaze.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She stopped mid-chew and fearfully turned her eyes up to his. There was something in his voice that seemed to ask more than the common details of name and place of birth. He’d spoken to her father before his death and knew that she had relations nearby, so it was safe to assume he was already acquainted with such details. Why then would he ask such a question? As she held his gaze, she marked something in his eyes, something she couldn’t place; something that put her on edge. She allowed herself to be hypnotized by it for a moment before answering.
“Maryone Gurza,” she said. “Of the house of-”
“I know,” he interrupted gruffly, shifting in his seat. “But why...” He cleared his throat and studied her with his clear eyes. “Why does it seem that some strange wind blew ye here?”
She didn’t reply, for she realized she no longer understood his question. She risked ignoring it and ate the food before her, quietly chewing as he watched. She tried not to show her discomfort, and to exude an air of nonchalance. But he grasped her wrist suddenly, forcing her to drop the rough cutlery. She gasped, and looked up. She was getting quite tired of this, all the provocation and battering of her senses. She’d nearly reached the end of her patience. She looked away calmly, determined to ignore the vexation and let it pass. But he relished her annoyance too much. He twisted her arm away further, eliciting another angry look. He watched her like a novelty, amused by his power to upset her. She grew extremely vexed with this, her eyes narrowing as she stared him down. A staring match ensued between them for several minutes while he held her wrist in a vice grip, her heart thumping with anger.
“Finished with your vittles?” he asked mockingly.
She said nothing, not wishing to succumb. But she mustn’t be foolish, this may be the only food she received for days. So, she dropped her eyes and pulled her wrist away, gobbling a few more bites with an indignant expression. She dropped the fork onto the dinged plate when all was gone, and returned his direct look by way of a signal that she was finished; at which point he grasped her by the wrist once more and yanked her up from the table, pulled her to the middle of the room and began to yank at her clothes. She struggled and yelped, but he was too strong for her. While she fought, he removed her damp outer layer. Then he stopped and pointed to a side table where folded clothing sat in a pile.
“Change,” he ordered.
She stood frozen, trembling like a terrified animal. When she did nothing, he pulled her roughly over to the bed and pushed her down upon it. She hit the coverlet with a thump, falling flat on her back as he leaned over her. He swayed a bit as he looked down at her, expressionless. She sensed a heat and energy from his form that almost warmed her.
“My lord uncle wishes to kill you,” he said plainly.
Her blood ran cold at the prospect of joining her father in the darkness, and she felt a sudden lump in her throat. It seemed a cruel thing to say to someone in her position, as if meant to torture. But as she watched his swaying form, she sensed his frankness didn’t spring from cruelty; only heedlessness and ale. In fact, she sensed reluctantly that there was a sincerity behind his words that did not wish to jab, only to speak honest truth. The kind of heedlessness bred in men raised in such rough conditions, without gentility of any kind to teach them tact.
“Aye?” Was all she could muster from her dry throat.
He nodded his head several times, his muscles loose with drink. Then he paused for a moment, leaned down over her and pulled in close, grasping her jaw with a calloused hand. She squeaked at the gesture, grabbing at his wrist to try and free herself. But her efforts were fruitless beneath his iron strength. He didn’t react to her struggles, allowing her to grab and pull at his wrist, for her attempts were as effective as the weak patting of an infant’s digits. Studying her face within his grasp, he turned it from side to side. Then he released her, a strange, satisfied smirk written in the line of his mouth.
He staggered out of the room then, closed the door and turned it’s heavy lock. His footsteps faded down the hall and
she was left once more to silence and darkness. After a moment, she risked the noise of getting up to change into the dry clothes that’d been left for her. They were somewhat fine, though outmoded; likely the garments of one of their previous female victims. They consisted of a closely-cut, white smock and garnet kirtle with a square neck made of cambric. She outfitted herself, finding the garments a surprisingly good fit, and lay back down on the bed; feeling luxuriously grateful to be dry. She didn’t wish to think about the situation she was in, nor the prospects of a lonely, unmarked grave; so she closed her eyes and sought solace in sleep.
~
Each day carried with it a profound fear of death. She never knew from one moment to the next if she might be dragged down into the courtyard and sacrificed like an animal in front of mocking onlookers. The hatred of the old man scratched at the edge of her thoughts. She tried to keep herself from dwelling on such it, but there was little to distract her thoughts; and each time the lock turned, she wondered if it were her death knell ringing. Many days passed like this, dark and solitary with occasional interjections of a servant or the dark-haired man toting food. She always thought it strange when he came, for a man in his position had no need to; there were plenty of servants to do such things. Whenever he was in her vicinity, his eyes barely left her face. And when she ate a meal, he sat across from her, staring in silence, or looming over her, leaning against the wall. His words were few and often trivial, comprised mostly of gruff orders. Only occasionally would he interject comments so ominous and jarring in nature that she halted whatever she was doing to recover from the blow.
“This house is at war,” he said one day out of nowhere, “With the house of Wyndill to the north. It is likely the action that our men see in defense of these lands that keeps my lord uncle distracted from your presence here.”
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