by Kris Tualla
Passage to Arendal, Norway was—apparently—a ludicrous request. It kept the man laughing for several infuriating minutes. His face was so red, Eryn hoped he might have an apoplexy of his own. It would serve him rightly. When he was able to speak again, he gave her a figure for the cost of passage—if anyone could be found who would take her—that was just over double what she had left in her coin pouch.
And worse, he claimed no one would dare sail any passengers for another month, considering the winter weather. That meant she had to continue to pay for lodging and food, further depleting her resources and increasing her shortfall.
She had the tiara, of course. The little silver and emerald one that Henry Bell gave her after his wife died. Eryn always thought he did that to keep her on the estate. Liam needed care, and she was the highest ranking servant he had left. Without her, he would have needed to run the household himself.
She chuckled at that idea. But she sobered again at the proposal of selling the precious item so soon. It was the one thing that she held in reserve. As long as she had it, she had something. Perhaps when the weather warmed, she could pry out a stone or two and use that to pay her passage to Norway.
For now, she required another plan.
Eryn walked slowly toward the Tower. Perhaps she should try to gain employment there? The dead husband story would remove the label of bastard from her child.
“But Drew comes to the Tower to speak with his king,” she reminded herself. If I want to avoid him, that would not be the wisest place to abide.
How did she come to this point?
Of all the resolutions she made in her life, the one she swore she would hold fast was never to be like her mother. Never be foolish and allow a handsome gentleman to seduce that part of her which would open to him. Never give away her very being to a man before vows were spoken in a priest’s presence. Never let a seed be planted outside of the marriage bed.
But she had done precisely that.
Whether the knight roared across the courtyard, growled across a table, or purred in her ear, it made no difference. She was completely his. She asked him to take her. His promise that his devices would keep her from conceiving was irrelevant; she took the chance.
She took it willingly, and she took it repeatedly.
Geoffrey was right. I am a whore.
And now she was pregnant, with no husband, no income, and no home. She had become her mother.
Eryn stood at the end of the busy bridge to the Tower. Carts and horses rumbled past her. The stench of the rancid moat somehow seeped past its irregular crust of ice. The aroma fit her situation quite well, she thought.
A surge of voices and hooves pulled her attention toward the portcullis. A finely dressed pair of men on high-bred horses trotted their way through the scattering crowd. A small boy of three or four years was in their path, and Eryn cried out a warning. A man snatched the child into his arms just in time to keep him from being trampled.
“Ho, there!” Eryn shouted. She stepped forward. “Watch yourselves!”
As he passed her, the first man’s foot swung out and kicked her to the ground. She fell headlong into the mud and manure of the day’s traffic, ruining her best gown and staining her cloak. The second man trotted past as she struggled to her feet. She heard him laugh.
Pushed to her limit that day, and without thinking of the cost, she gained her footing with a heavy handful of the muck. She pitched it as hard as she could at the second rider.
It splattered against his back with a highly satisfying spray of filth across his silver-embroidered purple velvet tunic.
A gasp rose around her. People backed away.
The rider turned his horse around, met her eye, and approached her.
“I—I’m sorry, my lord,” Eryn sputtered and wiped mud from her face. “But there was a little boy on the bridge—”
She didn’t know what he hit her with, whether it was his foot, a club, or even his fist. But her teeth snapped together and her head was thrown back and she fell to the ground in a shower of visual sparks. She tasted blood.
“Arrest her for assault!” he bellowed. “And lock her in the Tower until I return.”
Kennan rounded the corner at a run. Drew saw him coming from his post by the London Bridge. Had he found Eryn?
“Have ye news?” Drew shouted, trotting toward his vassal.
Kennan nodded as he slowed his pace to an abrupt halt. He bent over, resting his hands on his thighs and blowing hard.
“Did ye find her?” Drew asked.
“Aye,” he huffed.
“Where is she?”
“Tower.”
“Doing what?” Drew yelped.
Kennan looked up at him. “Arrested.”
“Arrested?” Drew threw his arms wide. “Did ye say arrested?”
“Aye,” Kennan panted.
This was ridiculous; word of the murder charges could not have reach London before he did. And besides that, Geoffrey died in Scotland. The English wouldn’t care.
“What in hell did she do?” he demanded.
Kennan recovered himself enough to recount what happened on the bridge as he pushed through the crowds trying to reach Eryn. He told Drew she stepped in front of a nobleman’s horse and the man astride intentionally kicked her.
“If I’d been there he’d be holding his head in his hands by now,” Drew growled. “It seems he did the assaulting!”
Kennan winced. “My lord, she walloped the other one in the back with a handful of dung.”
A laugh burst from Drew before the gravity of her actions silenced him. “Oh, no…”
“And he came back and kicked her in the jaw, throwing her backward onto the ground.”
Drew—literally—saw red. His blood roared in his ears, heated his face and narrowed his vision. Danny died after the same sort of strike. “I will kill him.”
“That is well, my lord. But first ye’ll want to free the lady.”
“Was she badly hurt?”
“She did no’ get up on her own. She was carried into the Tower yard.” Kennan shifted his gaze and his feet.
“And?” Drew barked.
“And he ordered her locked inside until he returned.”
“Who is this man?” Drew growled.
The vassal gave him an apologetic look. “I do no’ ken, my lord.”
Drew began to pace in a large, angry circle, heedless of the bridge traffic streaming around him. His first task was to discover the identity of the pompous jackass who ordered Eryn arrested.
His second task was to figure a way to get her out before anything happened to her or his child.
The third was to avoid killing her himself.
Drew plowed through the streets of London toward the Tower. Along the way, he made a mental list of the Lady Eryn’s grievous transgressions, beginning with her lie about who she was, and then becoming unreasonably angry when he searched for her parents and spoke to King David.
“On her behalf!”
“What?” Kennan huffed.
Drew glanced at the vassal trotting beside him. “Nothing.”
They rounded a corner. Drew kept up his accounting: when she found herself with child—my child—she did not come to him. She ran here, to London, to search for a mother already long dead. I’ll grant that she did no’ ken that as yet. But what could she have been planning to do?
She had scant coin. She had no family. She was pregnant.
Stubborn, foolish woman.
And now I shall need to save ye.
Again.
Eryn’s face hurt. She probed her teeth with her tongue. None were loose. She slowly opened her mouth. It hurt, but nothing cracked or caught. Her fingertips skimmed over her skin. Her jaw was swollen and tender. Her neck was stiff. Her head ached. She was lying on a dirt floor.
She opened her eyes.
She was in hell.
Her prison was a large, dank, dark enc
losure. A myriad of grimy, smelly bodies shuffled, snored or swived with rough grunts all around her. Where was she?
Arrested. Tower of London. Dungeon. Where people died before anyone remembered they were there. Eryn had enough of her wits about her to not move, to not draw attention to herself. Not all the swiving was consensual, judging by the screams echoing against the stone walls.
She closed her eyes again. At least the filth on her clothes disguised their quality. The minute anyone judged her wealthy would be the last of her life. Her death might take hours, but it was assured.
But I shall die anyway.
No one knew where she was. No one would bring her food. The communal water barrel was a rancid stew of bodily waste. There would be no wineskins for her. Eryn slowly moved one arm so her hand could cup her belly.
I’m so sorry, little one. You never had a chance with me as your mother.
Hot tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
February 20, 1355
Drew contemplated the wisdom of coming to London and not seeing King David. He also wondered if there was a way the king might free Eryn.
He had plenty of time to ponder the two paths while he waited for the bastard John Holland, Duke of Exeter to return to the Tower. Without the abusive duke’s confirmation of the charges, Eryn could not be called to trial. And until she was called to trial, Drew couldn’t put his plan to free her into action.
The brilliant plan he would think of any moment now.
“Will ye see King David?” Kennan asked. “Shall I go have ye announced?”
Drew hesitated. He didn’t know what he would say to his sovereign. But endless sitting and waiting was slowly driving him to distraction. Perhaps talking with David would ease his worry. And provide an idea.
“Aye. Then ye wait here until I return. Should Holland arrive, fetch me straight away,” Drew instructed. “Ye ken how important this is.”
Upstairs, David stood to greet him and pulled him into a brotherly hug. Drew was glad to see the man in a cheerful mood.
“To what do I owe this honor, Drummond? Have ye raised my ransom so soon?” Though the king teased, Drew did not mistake the glimmer of hope in his eyes. Until that moment he wasn’t certain what he would say to the king.
“No, my lord. I’ve come to try to free one of your subjects from imprisonment in the bowels of this very structure,” Drew answered.
David sat and indicated that Drew should sit as well. “I'm certain that many of my subjects have been imprisoned here. What makes this one so special?”
Drew looked askance at the wooden chair. After days in the saddle and hours below, the last thing he wanted to do was sit. But one who wanted favor from his liege, did as his liege asked. Drew lowered himself to the offending furniture.
“She is one of your newly formed nobles, my lord.”
“She?” David lifted one eyebrow. “What is she doing in London?”
Drew waved a hand. “A misunderstanding, a broken betrothal, a decision to search for her mother.”
David looked amused. “How does that lead to imprisonment?”
“It seems John Holland, Duke of Exeter, nearly trampled a child. She objected, he knocked her to the ground, she pelted him with dung.” Drew snorted. “That earned her a stay in the peasants’ version of your situation.”
David snarled. “I hate that idiot. Always trying to prove himself the biggest man at the expense of everyone around him.”
“I guess being a bastard makes one that much more determined,” Drew said, suddenly realizing he was talking about Eryn.
“Even so, imprisonment in the Tower is a bit extreme for a dirty tunic,” David mused. “It’s no’ as though she tried to kill him.”
Drew leapt to his feet.
David peered up at him. “Did your chair bite ye?”
“Murder!” Drew barked. “She was charged with murder in Castleton! And theft!”
“That’s a bit of information ye neglected to mention,” David chastised.
Drew shook his head. “The charges were proved false. But the English do no’ know that!”
“So ye’ll claim her on the basis of heavier charges in Scotland?” David posited.
“Will ye give me your seal, my lord?”
He shrugged. “Aye… I suppose.”
David turned to his table and began to draft the document of charges. While the ink dried, he added his royal seal in red wax beneath his signature. Then he folded the parchment and handed it to Drew.
Drew gripped it. “Thank ye, my liege.”
The king did not release the deed. “Are ye finally smitten, Andrew?”
He gave David a resigned smile. “It’s far more than that, sire. She’s carrying my child.”
“A bastard?” he taunted.
“Not if I can get her out. No matter what she says about it,” Drew growled.
Chapter Thirty
February 21, 1355
“Eryndal Smythe?” the guard bellowed.
That’s me…
“Eryndal Smythe? Are ye alive yet?”
“Yes!” What she intended to be a shout came out like a grunt. Eryn pushed herself to her feet. She swayed a little and rested a steadying palm against the rough stone wall. “I’m here!”
The guard leaned into the doorway. “You best move faster, or I’ll leave you be!”
“I’m coming,” she squeaked. She stumbled toward the door ignoring who—or what—she stepped on in her way. She cleared her throat.
“I’m coming!” That was louder, clearer.
Eryn had no idea why she was being summoned. The intent might have been torture. Or hanging. She honestly didn’t care. It was preferable to lying on a cold dirt floor and waiting to die.
There was no indication how long she had already been in the dungeon. She was thirstier, hungrier, and dirtier than she had ever been in her life. She was as miserable as a body could be and still live. She focused her will on achieving the open door. What came next was immaterial.
“Eryndal Smythe?” the guard asked when she reached him.
“Yes.” She blinked and tried not to faint.
“You’re goin’ before the magistrate.” The guard spun around. “Follow me.”
Eryn struggled to keep up. Her jaw was still sore, and the surge in her pulse brought about by her sudden activity made it throb.
The guard stopped. Eryn stopped. She felt irons clamp around her ankles.
“Hold out your arms.”
She obeyed. Irons wrapped around her wrists as well. Their weight overwhelmed her.
“Come on, then.”
She fought to keep moving. If she fell, he might leave her behind to die. One foot in front of the other. Drag the chain. Ignore how the iron cut her ankles. Ignore her hunger. Her thirst. Keep up.
Eryn blinked in the sudden light of the court.
“Eryndal Smythe,” the guard announced in an official-sounding tone. Then he disappeared.
Eryn turned to face the magistrate. Her breath left her as if she had been pummeled.
What in hell was Lord Andrew doing here?
Drew bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from reacting.
She looks nearly dead. Purple bruising covered one side of her face. Dark smudges underscored her eyes. She slumped under the weight of her chains. Her clothes were covered in filth.
He ached to run across the court, scoop her up in his arms, and carry her far away from here. Time enough for that later. For now, he must convince the magistrate to release her into his custody. He needed to sound both disinterested in her as a person and convincing of the charges levied against her in Scotland.
“Are you Eryndal Smythe?” the magistrate demanded.
“Y—yes,” she croaked. Drew cringed at the dry roughness of her voice.
The magistrate looked over a document. “You are charged with personal assault on John Holland, Duke of Exeter.”
“Your honor,” Drew spoke up. “A
s I have already presented the appropriate documents, ye can see that the charges brought against this woman in Scotland are much more severe than the charges brought here.”
“Yes…”
Eryn squinted. “What charges?”
He ignored her. “Theft and murder are far worse actions than tossing a handful of mud,” he pressed.
“Murder?” she squeaked. “Who?”
The magistrate looked thoughtful. “Yes…”
Drew stood tall and straight. He could not look at Eryn while he made his pronouncement.
“King David II respectfully asks that ye release this woman, Eryndal Smythe, into my custody, as his knight and courtier, for the purpose of transportation back to Scotland to stand trial for the theft of family jewels from the Bell estate and the murder of His Majesty’s constable, Geoffrey McDougal.”
“Geoffrey?” she cried. “Geoffrey is dead?”
“Quiet yourself!” the magistrate snapped. “Or this session is over!”
Eryn’s teeth captured her lips and held them. Her pale eyes flicked to Drew.
Drew gazed at the man behind the table and waited. He knew he couldn’t push the officiate to decide or he might react badly. Better to wait patiently through the show of great pondering and deep consideration. The longer he stalled, the better Drew thought his chances were.
Finally, the magistrate spoke. “There is the matter of the fine.”
“Of course.” Drew didn’t blink or hesitate. “What is customary for assault with mud?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mock this proceeding?”
Drew shook his head. “No sir, not at all. But ye’ll agree that ‘twould be different if she hit him with steel or stone, would it no’?”
“Hmm,” he grunted.
Drew waited again, still not looking at Eryn. But he could see her from the edge of his eye, standing crooked and leaning on the railing. The first thing I’ll do is feed her. Then I’ll get her a bath. He wondered where her horse and belongings were.
“Five pounds,” the magistrate stated.
Though the fine was exorbitant—a year’s earnings for a laborer—Drew nodded and pulled out his money pouch. Now was not the time to argue the worth of a life. “Will ye remove the leg irons? I need her to ride astride. But ye can leave the manacles on.”