This comment had been less jarring than some, though it carried heavy implications with it; inspiring her to freeze and look up over her soup spoon with wide eyes. As always, he stared back boldly, directly, in a way that stirred her blood; so she flinched and turned quickly to her vittles, not wanting to encourage any further attentions.
“Sir,” she said one day, dropping her rough utensil and rousing courage. “Can you make no definitive comment upon my status here? What say my relations? Will they not pay for my release?”
At hearing this, his face betrayed neither surprise nor puzzlement, only a smirk. Many men found her occasional brashness a challenge and swiftly backed away. But this man looked completely unfazed, as if pleased by it. Perhaps it was because she was his prisoner, an unarmed, friendless wretch in the middle of a northern wasteland, that he did not find her threatening. Either way, his lack of reaction was strange indeed. When she returned his stare, something in his eyes drew her, like a moth to flame. The sensation intensified in her chest, making her feel she was choking.
“In due time,” he said, giving no further detail.
She dropped her spoon in exasperation and he swiftly picked up her plate, carried it to another table and dropped it with an equal measure of exasperation. Then he stormed back, sat against the table in front of her, dangerously close, and looked hard into her eyes. Grasping her by the upper arm, he pulled her up into a stand before him. She tensed and flinched against his hold, but he didn’t seem to pay it any mind, pulling her closer. She averted her face to the side, angry at being forced to acknowledge him. But he leaned his head down and pulled her toward him until she was forced to look him in the eye, at which point she found herself hypnotized by his steely gaze. She fought it, looking away haughtily; but he only pulled and harried her even more, grasping her cheek, not letting her look away. Once he’d made it clear it was impossible to oppose him, he held her eyes for so long she felt melted by the heat of his determination. They stayed like that for several moments as her legs wobbled beneath her and a strange heat kindled within her.
“What think you,” he asked. “Of our northern climate, milady? And of it’s northern men?”
When she dropped her eyes shyly, he only pulled her closer, her soft, heaving chest pressing against his warm, hard one. So she shot her eyes up, lifting her chin and tensing her bottom lip in defiance, finding that her lips nearly touched his.
“I’ve little experience of them,” her voice shook with adrenaline, coming out shuddering and husky. “Save as murderers and thieves.”
Though her time spent here had led her to believe he didn’t mean her harm, he seemed a proud, irreverent man who did as he wished. He held her eyes a moment after she spoke, the fire fading to dullness as his smirk flattened to a straight line; and released her with a slight push. He turned his back, then spun around, grabbing her and pulling her back toward the bed. He threw her down and leaned over her. His chest heaved as he loomed, his face expressionless. He lifted a hand over her, then clenched his fist as if holding back a movement.
“Say what you will, wench,” he said bitterly, leaning in closer as he spoke, “But it’s this murderer as keeps you fed and alive.”
He turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door, leaving her alone and panting on the bedspread.
~
At the end of a wet and particularly harrying day, Ascelin entered his Lord Rypon’s rooms. The old man was sat before a blazing fire as usual, hunched and lifeless as a corpse, shivering despite the oppressive warmth of the room. Though he tried to temper the noise of his entry, his footsteps cut through the silence, startling the old man awake, his head flinching upward at the sound. Lord Rypon moaned and turned, his lip trembling and his manner momentarily kind as if he’d forgotten to be cruel for a mere second upon waking. Such fleeting expressions had kept Ascelin hoping for his uncle’s affections in his earlier, naive years.
“Ah,” he croaked bitterly, “Come again. What news do you bring of victory?”
As Ascelin made to speak, the old man interjected another question.
“Not come to beg for that young tit’s life again, are ye?”
Ascelin was a wall, hardened against his uncle’s treatment long ago. In a steady voice, he answered the first question put to him.
“Wyndill’s men are driven back into the eastern wood. Our men advanced on them at Aedelstan Creek, two were lost.”
The old lord’s face held firm to resentment as he turned back to the fire. He was never pleased with his nephew, though the young man had served him well, there was no denying. He could never truly care for this upstart who’d been sent to him from a far away land, from relations greater than he, with lands, titles and airs beyond his own. As a young boy, his nephew had exceeded his own sons in study as well as sport; and shown an aptitude to excel that exceeded even his own, and he hated the creature for it. Whatever power he had to lower the boy, he would use until his breath ceased; though he sensed instinctually such influence could only hold the young man back for so long. For there was something about the cursed upstart, he was something more than his fellows. There was greatness there, brilliance and strength that would find a way to prosper. His own crooked line of fathers had at least the breeding to sense such things, even if such greatness didn’t dwell within their watery blood. But he flinched in disgust before the sight of it, like a christian before a pagan altar. It burnt his eyes like the noon sun, for in it he saw something that couldn’t help but excel him, that already had; and would continue to do so unless he was ruthless enough to stamp it out entirely and shed it’s blood. But there was something even more, something else that pushed his feelings past resentment into hatred of the boy - an unnatural, devilish quality in the young man’s eyes - intelligence - a penetrating sight written deep within his eyes. The kind that could see his own weakness, that could read him like a book; and he hated the presence of it. He could not best such a man, so he settled for harrying him.
Ascelin stood straight and still, waiting for the old man to speak. He knew well Lord Rypon’s sadistic custom of making the household wait, even for the smallest of instructions.
“And what of my sons?” the old man growled.
“They-”
But before Ascelin could reply, the two men in question pounded into the room. They strode directly to their father’s side, receiving smiles, greetings and weak pats from the aging lord. Ascelin looked on while his cousins turned smug, satisfied looks his way. For Ascelin had never been the recipient of such appreciation from Lord Rypon, even though he did more for the estate in one week than either of them had performed in their lives. His cousins were reckless, spoiled and indifferent to the responsibilities tied to their inheritance; even to their father’s interests. Their thoughtless actions had many a time endangered his father’s men and estate. Yet he doted on them, oblivious to their faults.
“Father, look what I brought thee,” sneered Rouland, the younger of the two.
He carried a brace of rabbits that’d been caught by a young boy earlier this afternoon, an eleven-year-old lad named Rauf. Rouland dropped them rudely into his father’s lap for inspection.
“Very fine,” Rypon croaked dryly, as if speaking to a young boy. “Very fine indeed.”
Geoffrey, the elder, watched Ascelin’s face like a snake, triumphant and malicious as he leaned smugly against his father’s chair back. Since their childhood together, his cousins had been keenly aware of the advantage they held over him; never failing to revel in it. Their father’s attentions were little to them personally, save a privilege to gloat over. While Ascelin had been forced to work thanklessly and make himself useful, they were praised generously, despite egregious faults. While he’d known suffering and recognized it in those all about him - the servants and tenants of his lord uncle’s lands - his cousins flitted hedonistically through life, taking what they wanted, usurping credit for deeds they’d never done, caring for no one and nothing; leaving the consequenc
es of their self-seeking to be endured by others. They cared not even their father, not even for each other. They were like warring planets, circling the sun in contest for the most auspicious angle from which to absorb it’s brightness. Their eyes were light-blue pinholes, the birthright of their Saxon mother, framed by flaxen hair and high, thin cheekbones.
Lord Rypon halted his attentions to his sons, turned to Ascelin, and his indulgent expression hardened to a glare.
“What intelligence have you,” he barked, his tone remonstrative. “Of Wyndill’s next strike? How are my sons to continue protecting these lands?”
“Wyndill’s forces are still strong, my lord,” Ascelin answered in an even voice. “There are reports that Wyndill has ordered new armaments from a fine smith in York, fifty in number, to gird his men.”
The pale skin of the old man’s face stretched and contorted indignantly.
“And how shall I fight off these newly girded men with their armaments from York when I am bent with the task of feeding so many who be not my own sons?”
Ascelin lifted his chin, ever prepared for a blow from his uncle, his eyes betraying nothing but a tiny flicker. Geoffrey slithered around his father’s chair and lowered himself to his father’s sitting level. When it came to sniffing out another’s discomfort, he was a hound.
“Come father, let us sell the Gurza girl,” he said, watching Ascelin’s face. “She shall fetch us a hefty price, spoilt or no.”
Ascelin tensed at these words, his eyes widening ever so slightly. Everyone in the lodge knew he had a special interest in the girl. His attempts to protect her were plain enough for all to see. Old Lord Rypon listened, pausing as if needing the time to comprehend what his son had suggested. Truly, his mental powers were weakening.
“Aye,” Rypon said, spittle escaping purple lips. “What care I for some upstart young woman running unchecked across my lands? A woman begs to be captured making such foolish actions.”
“Precisely, father,” Geoffrey encouraged vindictively as he watched Ascelin for a reaction.
“Why do you tarry,” Rypon exclaimed. “Send a note to these good-for-nothing kin of hers. Let them pay handsomely for her return. They are lucky I keep her for them, with food from my own table!”
“Aye,” Geoffrey nodded, “And they shall pay dear, whether they receive a girl or a corpse!”
He and his brother laughed heartily at this as Ascelin’s fists clenched behind his back.
“But who shall deliver such a note,” Geoffrey asked with mock confusion. “Surely, such a man would never find home with his head still intact.”
“Let the boy go,” said Rouland, waving a hand dismissively from where he sat upon a ragged chaise, petting the dead rabbits in his lap.
Lord Rypon turned to Ascelin.
“Aye,” he replied, baring his teeth, the whites of his eyes yellow with age. “Let the upstart take it.”
~
Ascelin was outfitted with a messenger’s bag and commanded to ride hard, so as to hasten the arrival of the ransom spoils. He knew it to be a dangerous job, and that any man arriving to parlay on such terms would be turned over to local militia or swiftly murdered. It was a good thing then that he’d no intention of doing his uncle’s bidding. In fact, he saw this as the perfect opportunity protect his own interests. He’d no intention of seeing the letter to it’s destination.
Instead, he rode slowly into the rocky hills, his horse trotting along paths he knew to be free of Lord Wyndill’s men. He moved slowly, anxious only for the girl’s safety while he was away. Several men had attempted late night visitations to her chamber, which he’d had to fend off with strong encouragement. Worst of all, his malicious cousin Geoffrey seemed too aware of his proclivity for the girl. His cousin was the kind of creature to take enjoyment in harming something simply for it’s importance to another, so as to watch that other suffer. Ascelin feared what might happen without being there to guard her, but he’d no choice. If he stayed behind, she’d surely be taken away.
He stopped by a small stream, the forest about him green and damp as rain pattered down on leaves and birds chirped their song. His boots scraped the moss from the rocks as he sat down on the wet bank, settling himself up as comfortably as possible. He retrieved the messenger pouch from his pack and pulled out the letter drafted for the girl’s relations. Looking over it, he scrutinized each word, imagining the reactions of her relations when they read it. He didn’t relish bringing suffering to any. Though the letter may bring some small relief to them, proving she was alive after being so long missing, something in him felt paralyzed - he could not act on their behalf, only his own. He ripped the letter to tiny pieces until even the fragments were unrecognizable, and sent them trickling down the stream.
He didn’t know why, but his draw to the young woman was uncontrollable. When he looked at her, the world felt larger, like a different landscape entirely; it seemed to open up, silencing the noise all around him. He knew his actions were selfish, but he didn’t care. He could not countenance her departure. He would not. He was so possessed by this gnawing feeling that he could not consider anything else, not even the discomfort she must experience in his uncle’s house. He would make it as bearable for her as possible, as long as she might stay, for she must.
Wyndill’s men were many and well armed, while his uncle’s lot were an undisciplined rabble. The days of Rypon’s house were numbered, any fool could see it. He would wait, for surely, it wouldn’t be long. And when the time came, he would leave, taking the girl with him. For now, he would stay by the stream, as long as was needed to convince his uncle that he’d made the journey. Returning in several days, he would say they were to expect word by messenger; and plan a course of action from there, hoping luck would be on his side. Until then, he would lean back against a tree trunk, listen to the stream, and try not to go mad with the thought of her.
~
Muffled conversations scratched just outside her door, making sleep impossible. Her room was dark as always. Night had fallen and she was alone, sitting up in bed, straining for the peaceful sounds of the countryside in hopes of drowning out the men’s noise and the accompanying anxiety it brought to her thoughts. Their presence agitated her, threatening altercation or injury. She never knew what to expect from this thieving lot. She tried to comfort herself with the idea that they’d merely been tasked with watching her door, and meant no harm.
She wasn’t sure why they’d need to watch her so closely. The door was locked, and made of solid oak. There was no way she could escape. Besides, she’d made no attempts to, knowing full well that her chances of survival were even less outside these walls. She was surrounded by a forested wilderness full of armed men. She’d no supplies. She’d hardly a garment to cover her back.
She huffed and knocked her head back against the wooden bed, wishing the men would shut up so she might take some hollow comfort in silence. But just then, the thick lock turned. Expecting the dark-haired man to appear with a tray, she brightened a little. But it was someone else. Not one of the servants, for this person wore a linen tunic with silk trim, shined boots, and strutted into the room like a peacock. With a chill, she recognized one of the flaxen-haired, finely-dressed gentlemen whom she’d last seen on the day her father’s death. He carried no tray, only a smirk that revealed itself in sharply-cut lines by the light that flooded in through the doorway. An icy fist gripped her heart as he strutted to her bedside in a leisurely manner, as if bored and in search of distraction. He’d the air of a man more desirous of womanly attention than of giving it. His expression was mostly blank as he stared down at her, except for a slight strain about the outside of the mouth and eyes, that seemed to express an emptiness, a hatred stretched thin.
Suddenly, he lurched at her, arms outstretched. She wasn’t fast enough to get away, despite an attempt to dive off the other side of the bed. The man grabbed her by the hair, pulling hard, yanking her back toward his side of the bed and tearing a scream from her lu
ngs. He grasped her by the throat and began to choke, for so long that she nearly fainted. But he let go, leaving her dizzy and nearly unconscious, taking the opportunity to punch her in the bowels, over and over again as she lay crouched and breathless on the bed. She moaned with what little breath she had, trying to fend him off with weak arms; but he was much too strong.
He dragged her off the bed with a flourish, and she hit the ground with a painful thump. And that’s when he started kicking her. He kicked so feverishly that his hair flew back and forth, so rapidly that the pain of impact was almost constant, as small, child-like squeals escaped him. She couldn’t help it any longer, she moaned in pain. A commotion sounded from below, catching the man’s attention, and thankfully, he stopped his assault.
She whimpered as he flew from the room, slamming and locking the door behind him. She lay there on the filthy floor for some time, watching a mouse scurry out of it’s hole and along the floorboards in search of food. She shivered against the hard wooden planks, gasping to regulate the pain in her abdomen, holding her breath in long strides, realizing that with any movement came pain. She lost consciousness then, to the sound of scurrying mice feet scratching against the plank beneath her ear.
~
When Ascelin came trotting back into the yard ten days after his departure, he was greeted by a strange sense of agitated merriment. The men were riled, hollering and yipping as if on the hunt. He turned the corner past the stables and saw a small number of them gathered at the center of the yard. An object was tied to a post there, around which the men jeered and spat. It looked tiny, rumpled and caked with mud as it lay slumped against the pole, hung by it’s hands.
When he realized it was the Gurza girl, in a moment of sickening comprehension brought on by the sound of her whimper, a fiery haze engulfed his mind. He could not think anymore, only succumb to a rising wave of a horrific rage and self-reproach that possessed his every limb, limbs which could not decide upon comforting or injuring, tearing to pieces those about him or himself. But amidst some fog of action, he found himself at her side, reaching out to her mangled form, the men about him silent and fearful. He grasped her hands to untie them, and she flinched, emitting a delayed screech of panic, resisting as lamely as she could. Witnessing her feeble, pathetic attempts to fight made him even more angry, for they showcased her extreme vulnerability to such men as those about him. From her movements, she appeared to be in extreme pain, twisting and compensating in ways to minimize it’s force. She was soaking wet and covered in filth, who knew how long she’d been out in the elements.
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