by GinaRJ
“Where is she?” He fiercely demanded. He reached up, taking hold of the man and pulling him from his horse. “Where is she?” He shook him hard.
He exhaled a heavy breath. “They…they have taken her,” he dreaded to reply.
Marcus clutched the man’s shirt with two tightly clenched fists, pulling him up so that their faces were a mere few inches apart. “What?!” He demanded thru his teeth. “What are you saying?”
“To the abandoned fort two or so miles from here. They….they took me as well, but then freed me, and sent me back with this message.” It trembled in his hand.
Marcus snatched the message and began to read: Deliver Lord Trent and we shall deliver his bride. The message also trembled in his hands…not from fear but the firmness of his hands as his arms stiffened, every muscle in them. He read it again, his chest rising and falling as it all sank in, and then as the idea of her being captive to any man dawned harshly upon him.
“Dammit!” He muttered, and then again, louder and louder and louder, “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
“They ask I return with a response.”
“Where is Lionel?” He asked in reference to the guard he’d placed in charge over her with this man. His anger was only provoked as he recalled placing not one, but two men over her…and they’d both failed.
“I do not know.”
“Did he flee?”
“He rode away. I do not know where.”
His chest continued to rise and fall. He cast his eyes toward the carriage remembering Tilly. He wiped the back of one hand across his sweaty forehead. “The handmaiden is still alive but injured. Rylan is not but five or so hours away. Take her out and get her there. Get her help.”
“But they said if I do not return they—“
“I don’t care what they say,” he angrily yelled. “I will handle it. I…I will handle it.”
Marty just barely shook his head. “If they wish him to return he should do that very thing.”
“I said I will handle it. This-this fool did not save her to begin with. I will not entrust her into his hands a second time.” He peered at the man. “Take the handmaiden into Rylan. Chances are she may live.”
Marty was shaking his head, and then began to tremble. and before Marcus knew what had happened, he was galloping away and toward the Great City to deliver what could be the message of death, the one that when followed would surely take his friend’s life.
******
The fort was occupied by dozens of men, each donning uniforms of brown and of black. Nothing he could tie together with anything or anyone. Nothing extravagant or flawless. These men, although arrayed as an army, were neither neat nor clean, nor was their clothing without stains and holes.
He’d observed them a very long time with the message in his hand. Also a white handkerchief which he raised into the air while nearing…a notion of peace although his teeth grinded together and his inner man raged with thoughts of death. Death to these men.
He wanted to kill them all.
How had he not prepared for this? How had he become at all at ease? But he recalled no such relaxation. He had been leery all along, and now longed for only one thing…to see Rachel’s livelihood. Where was she? Who was with her? What had they done to her? What would they do?
“I have come in the stead of the other,” he called out to a man who came forward to greet him. “After he had passed this message on to me, he became frightened and fled.”
The man eyed him up and down, his face drawn with displeasure; and scarred here and there, he noted, having come close enough to see. “Fled,” he repeated, as if not believing him.
“He will suffer his consequences. Another is headed toward the Great City as we speak, on his way to deliver the message; in exchange for the lady, Jacob must give up himself.”
He did not take his eyes off him as he considered his words. “Will he come?”
“You know he will,” Marcus said. “Whoever you are, you must’ve known it to begin with.”
“What is your name?” He asked, squinting out at him. Marcus got the impression he was seeking someone specifically.
“Marty,” he said, stealing the name for the time being.
“Marty,” he repeated, and then cast his gaze toward the area behind him. “Is there such a man as Marcus Wren amongst you?”
“You may find his corpse amongst the dead of both yours and ours.”
This seemed to please the man. “Bring it to me,” he said.
“The body of our dead will not be handed over to you, but of the living. When Jacob sees that his wife is alive and well he will trade himself for her. When he sees she is alive and well,” he repeated. “I wish to see so myself.”
“When he presents himself you shall see.”
“For your sake I hope she has not been harmed. She must present herself well. Otherwise, if she claims to have been mishandled in any way, he will not give himself over to you. And she will make it known one way or another whether she has or has not been harmed.”
He merely thought on his words.
“Also know this,” Marcus found himself continuing, “The lady is with child and has had complications. She needs care. The maiden travelled along to tend to this condition. One of your men killed her. Jacob would only give himself up if she is well, utmost the child which is all he truly cares about. And she will tell him if the child has departed from her because of this, and risk her own harm, and he will not give himself up to you. That, I promise.”
His brows came together. “With child,” he repeated.
“Under these conditions the child will not live. Not if she does not receive the proper care. I know what this care is…and can guarantee to Jacob that she is well, so that he will hand himself over in her stead.”
“You would not do so.”
“I would!” he loudly insisted, and then quieted his voice. “I will. No matter what becomes of me, her condition is all that matters, and her life.”
“Why does her life mean so much to you and not that of the man whom you work for?”
He paused before saying, “because I love this woman. Her life means more to me than that of Jacob Trent’s. And the child is truthfully mine. I wish to spare her and the child. Whatever becomes of Jacob Trent…that is not my concern. I will tend to her and her condition. Otherwise, I will go to him myself and say that she is dead, and you will not get him to come except with an army to defeat you and your men.”
“And suppose I keep you and kill you. Suppose I kill you now.”
He raised an arm quickly. The man’s eyes followed it. “That,” Marcus began, “Is a message to those watching who have survived this attach that my death has just been mentioned. One more raise of the hand will let them know that the child is dead, and the news will be delivered to Jacob and he will come not alone as you wish, but with an army. Now, tell me, what is your answer?”
The man stared at him a long while before guiding his horse toward the left. “Stay put,” he simply told him before trotting his way back toward and disappearing behind the walls of the fort. Five or so minutes later, he returned, this time with two other men.
“Get off your horse,” he demanded.
“Beforehand, I will have you to know that my livelihood will also be required. This, I promise you.”
The man peered at him, and he dismounted. “Remove your armor,” he commanded.
Marcus did so although inwardly despising with all his might having to follow the orders of an enemy. He shed his armor and his weapons, raising his hands. His arms were instantly taken and held behind him and he was ushered away. Now, this fort had been there and abandoned for centuries, but he hadn’t a clue the extent of its layout up until now. For not only was it an aboveground structure, but below ground as well. He was led down some old steps. It was cold and damp, this passageway, the room he was taken across, the same shape as the aboveground portion. The belowground was a replica of it. He kept this all in mind, but most
of all the fact that he was so close to seeing Rachel’s livelihood. Nothing else had ever been so important to him as that one thing at this very moment.
******
She was lying on a cot in a small, musky room, and had cried herself to sleep. The sound of a key in the lock and then of the door popping and creaking opened aroused her. She opened her eyes, seeing a very blurry image of one of her captors and—no, it could not be.
She blinked puffy eyes and with a palm began pushing herself up. No, she was not mistaken. It was Marcus. He was alive. He was there. The door slammed shut behind him after he was shoved inside. She stood, very weak and exhausted and frazzled. He went to her and embraced her. “Marcus,” she whispered in his ear, and almost fell. He held her up, a hand pressed to the back of her head, another her back to keep her from falling. “Rachel,” he whispered back to her. “Are you well? Have they harmed you?”
“Marcus,” she simply whispered, and then pulled away. He put his hands to either side of her face, and as if from some magnetic force, pressed his lips to hers. He embraced her again. “Have they harmed you?” He asked again, this time an unusual catch in his breath, as if dreading the worst.
She shook her head. “No, they—“
“—have they asked if you are with child?” He asked quietly close to her ear knowing they were likely being heard.
“No,” she whispered back to him.
“As we communicate, you must speak as if you are with child, and you must not refer to me by anything other than Marty. Can you remember to do this?”
She nodded her head quickly. “Yes.”
He breathed with relief, simply glad to be there with her, to be holding her alive and well. “Be calm,” he advised her. “In your heart know that you will live. I promise it.”
They pulled away from one another again. Tears streamed down her cheeks, just a few. With his thumbs he wiped them away, and without a thought, he pulled her face to his and kissed her lips. “Rachel,” he said, and then again kissed her. “Rachel, Rachel, my dear Rachel. Have they harmed you?”
“No.” Her eyes searched his, and once again, their lips pressed together and they embraced. “I am so glad you are here,” she said. “I was frightened. Why is this happening? What are they doing? Who are these men?”
“Think on these things another time. For now, be at peace. All will be well. You must believe so.”
“You were correct to warn me. Yet I…I did not listen.”
“Do not think about it now, or even ever.”
“And I scolded you. Now I see. I was such a fool not to trust you, even knowing how much Jacob entrusts you with even his very life.”
He squeezed her upper arms. “Try to be calm,” he whispered, hating to see her in such a shape, and racking his mind, wondering how long these men would allow him to be there with her, deciding he could not leave her. He could not. He would fight his way out if need be. He would not leave this very spot without her.
“Who has done this?” She asked. “And why?”
“It is an enemy of Jacob’s. They would release you in exchange for him, but we must not allow it. I must not,” he corrected. “I must not let Jacob trade himself for you. He will die, I know. Possibly in the cruelest way.”
“We may all die.”
“No,” he disagreed. “You mustn’t think that way. You must be strong.”
“How? What do I do?”
“What you have always done, milady,” he said, and with very sad eyes kissed her again. He pulled away and said, “Pray. You must pray.”
******
The news had reached Jacob, and his roar of anger echoed throughout all the palace.
How could this have happened? How could this be and why?
He received the first report…from the maiden Zaria who’d made it to him shortly before Marty. Jacob instantly gathered together a small army, thinking quickly and commanding them on what to do. They did not travel together, but in distances, and faraway places at every angle, and had all been trained to handle such situations, to strike suddenly, secretly without being seen. How was he to know if the culprits were watching from every angle themselves, even despite the agreement to hand her over in exchange for him? They could attack at any given moment. But not like this, not if they were wise. He’d planted a generous number of men in regiments all about him, sending them out by groups, some ahead of him as he intended to travel swiftly. He could not help ride swiftly…he and Marty together off to themselves trusting that those surrounding from distances would keep any harm from befalling him ahead of time. An image of his dear, beloved wife stayed fixed in his mind…one of her as he’d last seen her and another of this and whatever condition she was in. Trapped, no matter the case. Held hostage. Possibly abused.
He sped his horse, his teeth ground together. Marcus, damn him. He should have protected her. He’d failed. How could this have happened? How?
“How?” He came to ask aloud. “Damn him, how?”
“He did his best to protect her,” Marty defended, although with little emotion. “He fought, milord. Only he sent the driver away who had been commanded to return with some word from him, and possibly for instructions on what to do next.”
“Then why did he not send him? Where, for the love of god, did he send him to?”
“To Rylan to see if the life of the handmaiden could be preserved. She had been injured, but still lived.”
“To hell with the handmaiden.”
And to hell with Marcus, he thought to himself, for making the situation even worse by going against the commands of the captors, whomever they were. Time would tell. Yes, he would hand himself over…but only in exchange for her freedom.
******
A very long amount of time passed. How long one could not tell. Although little communication passed between them, they did purposely mention an unborn child—one that did not exist. Food was brought to them. Not much, but enough. He didn’t eat but encouraged her to do so, whispering in her ear from time to time to mention the supposed child, and that it be nourished, that she would eat for the sake of the child.
She did everything he said to do, becoming weaker by the hour, however many had passed. It could have been four, five or dozens. How could one tell? There was no light, only from narrow slits in the top of the rock wall, a wall that as she slept, Marcus observed, pacing the floor, racking his mind, thinking of only one thing. Getting her out before Jacob could have a chance to give himself up, to spare them both. To spare them all.
She lay sleeping on the cot. Exhausted by the circumstances. Dirty. Her hair all mangled and tangled. Occasionally the man who kept the door would peep inside asking if they were well. Yes, the story he had concocted about a child had served to their benefit.
They wanted Jacob and badly.
He racked his mind on and off. If only he knew exactly who was behind it. One could not tell by these men. He’d never saw them before, not any of them. Not the first, not those who’d stood afar, not the one who kept the door. What would they do to Jacob if he fell into this same situation?
This now seemed more an act of revenge. He thought about the king, the brother of the previous king whom Jacob had beheaded for the emperor’s sake, and to serve as a reminder that no such opposing activity would be tolerated. Yes, he thought to himself, observing places here and there in the wall where the rocks had chipped and cracked and broken with time. This had nothing to do with the Great City. It was an act of aggregated revenge. He continued to observe the wall, sharp points here and there, and then Rachel, sleeping, and then his arm. He began to react, not even thinking his thoughts specifically thru, but moving with the ideas in his head; as his mind imagined…so he spontaneously reacted, giving no place to mind over matter or any consequence at all. Only the idea. The imagination. A prospect.
He glanced at the door, and then the wall, and again his arm. Swiftly but quietly he rolled up his left sleeve moving toward a very sharp point in the rock wall. He g
lanced at the door one last time before closing his eyes, clenching his teeth, raising a fist and then slicing his lower arm across the sharp edge. His flesh stung. Pain coursed thru him, rippling every inch of his being. He opened his eyes. Blood began to ooze out of the self-inflicted wound. He inhaled a deep breath, grinding his teeth together, and closed his eyes with one last, hard slice.
He nearly cried out from the pain, but kept his teeth ground together and simply stood there a moment, adapting to it. Without looking, eyes squeezed shut, he raised his other hand, palm upward, and his heart triumphed in a way. The warmth of his own blood filled his palm. He focused upon catching it, and while his flesh did burn, he rushed to the spot where Rachel lay. He knelt, taking hold of her skirts, pulling them upward while he allowed the blood to freely fall and flow onto her skirts, and then onto and thru her underclothing, the flesh between her legs where a child could certainly be either born or lost. He moved his arm slowly in a circular like motion, allowing his very own life to seep onto and through her garments.
He did begin to feel weak, for a lot of blood it was. The gash was not a small one. It was deep, and produced a perfect amount of blood to cause a perfect scene. He rose, pulling his sleeve down over the wound and pressing so as to prevent the flow, and went to the door. He held his arm to the side, squeezing together with his fingers the wound he’d created, and called out very loudly to the guard, hoping he was near and had not ventured away any place else.
His voice was such that it was instantly hearkened to. The door swung open and Marcus instantly as if in a state of panic, dashed toward her, saying, “She is losing it for sure. The child. She is losing it.”
And just as his imagination had led him to believe, the guard was alarmed. Quick strides brought him close to her so that he had a very clear view of her condition. His eyes rounded, for the amount of blood was substantial. And it was as he slightly bowed to get this closer look, panic covering his features, Marcus caught hold of his collar, punching him once in the face while taking hold of his sword, and before he could arise, Marcus pierced him thru the chest, clamping his other hand over his mouth so that no sound could be heard from any distance. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth. Wide eyes stared into Marcus’s. He gasped, his body going limp…and he died.