by Diana Cosby
As she reached for the next plank, the rough timbers bit into her blistered hands, and her back screamed from the strain. She forced herself to push through the pain. Only after the bells of Vespers began to chime did she glance at the cloudless sky.
“Enough work for the day, men,” Sir Nicholas’s voice boomed. “A good start.”
With nods, the men within the castle and his English knights nae on sentry began congregating in the courtyard near the well. Boisterous laughs met with friendly greetings.
Elizabet swayed with exhaustion as she watched the smiles, the shared laughter, remembering all too well the heartwarming camaraderie between her people, wanting back what no longer existed.
Rubbing the aching muscles in her arms, she stole a glance at the towers, where her family, as her hopes for the future, lived.
The ringing of the bell grew silent, but the passage of time rang all too clear in her mind. She must learn the inner workings of the castle and discover where her family and people, if they still lived, were being held. She’d counted on subtly questioning the people who lived within, an intent she’d nixed as she’d remained beneath the castellan’s watchful eye.
Ignorant of her dilemma, Nicholas threw the timber in his hands to the ground, then gave her a scrutinizing glance. “Come.”
Too weary to protest, she followed as he made his way toward the large gathering of men. Mayhap she could discover the location of the dungeon from the men during their upcoming meal? Her questions of the castle’s layout would be those of any new arrival and shouldna arouse undue suspicion. Once it was dark, she could slip inside.
As they crossed the courtyard, she caught the scent of roasting pig. Her stomach growled, a reminder she hadna eaten in several hours. She couldna ever remember being so tired or hungry.
“You smell like a gutter whore, Sir Jon,” an English knight called out, and the other men roared with laughter.
Heat burned her cheeks as Elizabet glanced toward the center of the bailey where the men jostled each other near the well, tossing out ribald jests.
Sir Jon reached down and grabbed a bucket of water. “No worse than you,” he yelled, and gave chase.
Several men cut off the would-be escapee who yelped as the water drenched him. Mud and soot rolled off of him, and the group hooted with laughter. Mud-slicked, the men returned to the well, and began to strip their smoke-laden and sweaty clothes.
Panic swept Elizabet as creamy white buttocks and raw, hewn muscles strode about in a shameless, all-male display. She halted. ’Twould only be a matter of time before they saw her. As the castellan’s squire, she would be expected to strip and wash as well. Heart pounding, she took a step back toward the keep.
Nicholas smiled at the men’s antics as he began to loosen his trews, pleased with this day’s effort. The last of the decrepit buildings lay heaped upon the ground ready to burn. Tomorrow, they could begin to rebuild. In time, like the castle, everything would fall into place.
He glanced at his squire, expecting to see the lad relieved that the day’s labors had ceased and, like the other men, removing his filthy garb, anxious to wash away the day’s grime. Instead, Nicholas spotted him slowly backing up and halfway to the keep. “Thomas?”
Fists tight at his sides, his squire halted midstep. The lad’s gaze cut toward him, wide and unsure.
Confused and surprised by his squire’s reaction, Nicholas started toward him.
If possible, the lad’s face grew paler. Thomas held up his hand as if a shield. “Stay back.”
What in Hades? “I will not harm you.”
Fear raced in Thomas’s eyes as he glanced from him toward the naked men then back. “Do nae come closer.” His body trembled and he took another step back.
Anger stormed Nicholas as the realization of the lad’s true fear slammed home. God’s teeth, the lad had been raped.
CHAPTER 3
Nicholas fisted his hands in raw fury. Memories poured through him of how throughout the day Thomas had watched him, his gaze nervous and filled with suspicion. Neither had he missed how when he’d caught his squire earlier, the lad had stiffened in his arms. And with the youth fending for his own life, who knows what miscreants he’d encountered or what other nefarious deeds they’d served him.
Blast it! Why hadn’t he considered the possibility of the lad being brutalized before? “Thomas,” Nicholas said gently, “these men will not touch you in that way.”
The lad’s eyes widened, then his lower lip trembled. “Keep away from me!”
At the panic in his squire’s voice, Nicholas’s outrage exploded. If the perpetrators had stood before him, he would skewer their heads on a pike. Damn them and their perverse pleasures.
With effort, Nicholas held his emotions in check. Anger would do naught but broaden the void between them. The moment called for patience and understanding, strengths that had guided him many times over, qualities that would serve him now.
He unfurled his fists and shook his head. “I will not make you wash with the men.”
Relief cascaded over the lad’s face, but distrust lingered.
Holding his squire’s gaze, Nicholas stepped forward.
On trembling legs, Thomas took another step back.
“I give you my word that you will not be harmed.” Nicholas gestured toward the keep. “Follow me. There is a basin of water in my chamber. You can bathe there—alone.”
For several moments, his squire eyed him, unsure. Then he nodded.
Guilt assailed Elizabet as she followed the castellan. She hadna meant for Nicholas to assume she’d been defiled. At his horror, she’d almost revealed the truth. In the end, she’d maintained her silence. With her family and people captured in his cells, their fate unknown, she couldna afford to tell him the truth until they were freed.
The aroma of roast pork, rosemary, and sage filled the great hall as she followed the castellan inside, trudging on legs that felt heavier than sacks of grain. With the few times she’d accompanied her father to Ravenmoor Castle, she doubted the women working inside would recognize her.
Moments later, they entered the turret and ascended the steps. The pad of her boots echoed around her as the flicker of torches sent long shadows dancing ahead.
At the third floor, the castellan headed down the corridor and entered a large chamber at the end. The few rugs upon the floor, the barren walls, bespoke a man nae drawn to wealth or luxury, but practicality.
A small table stood beside a massive bed. Heat warmed her cheeks as she took in the sturdy frame, the thick, feather-stuffed mattress covered with a woven wool blanket. She could easily envision him lying upon it, sprawled out, naked.
Naked? On a soft groan she closed her eyes. Was she addled! ’Twas wrong to think of him such. He was the enemy, the man who held her people and family. To soften toward him in any manner was dangerous.
Shaken by her untoward thoughts, she opened her eyes to find him kneeling before a well-polished trunk in the corner with iron hinges. After riffling through the contents, he pulled out a pair of hose and a long, linen tunic.
“These should fit you better than your oversize robe.” He tossed the garments at her.
She caught the clothes. Hands shaking, she set them on his bed. “I do nae need them. After I rinse out my garb, it will serve me fine.”
With a weary sigh he stood, folded his arms across his chest. “After you bathe,” Nicholas stated, his each word crisp, “you will wear the clothes I set out, because you are my squire and I order it.”
Elizabet glanced at the basin near the hearth. As promised, water stood readied. She faced him, nodded.
“In the future,” he continued, “there is another pair of trews and a shirt inside the trunk that you will wear as well.” After one measuring glance, Nicholas walked to the door. At the entry, he paused. “I have several tasks that require my time. Once you are finished, go to the great hall and eat. After, await my arrival. When I return, you will serve me.” The castell
an strode out, closed the door with a firm snap.
Her entire body trembled as she clutched the rough, homespun linen against her breast. She hadna considered her attraction to the castellan, but neither had she anticipated him to be a fair, considerate man.
This was supposed to be simple. Slip inside Ravenmoor Castle, find a way to free her family and people, then leave. Except the frustrating man was making it complicated. But standing here pondering what she couldna change wouldna help achieve her goal. With a sigh she began to remove her garb.
Nicholas shook the water from his hair, thankful to be clean at last. He donned his tunic and cinched his belt, eyeing the ledger on the desk in the small but serviceable chamber where the castle records were kept. Mayhap he could make a degree of headway reviewing the previous castellan’s entries in castle’s operations before the meal.
A knock sounded upon the door.
He grabbed a towel and wiped his face. “Enter.”
The door groaned open and Sir Laurence, a slender English knight who’d served the previous castellan, entered. “Sir Nicholas.”
He lowered the towel. “You have news?”
“Of sorts. ’Tis the prisoners in the dungeon.”
“Prisoners?” Nicholas eyed the knight hard. “I have been here over a sennight. When I asked if there was anything of importance that I should be informed, why was I was not appraised there were prisoners?”
“My regrets, Sir Nicholas. Sir Renaud had issued strict orders not to be bothered by the prisoners’ welfare, and I . . .” Sir Laurence cleared his throat. “ ’Tis an oversight that will not happen again.”
Blast it, he’d believed he’d addressed all immediate issues. “Tell me.”
“The healer requests that the bodies be moved.”
Nicholas slapped the towel onto the chair. “Bodies?”
The knight shifted uncomfortably. “Sir Renaud—”
“I do not give a bloody damn about Sir Renaud. Tell me about the prisoners—no.” Nicholas strapped on his broadsword, strode to the door, and jerked it open. “Take me there. I will see for myself.”
“Yes, Sir Nicholas.” The knight hurried through the entry.
After exiting the keep, they crossed the courtyard and entered the far turret. As Nicholas reached the top of the stone steps leading to the dungeon, the guard at his post snapped to attention.
Sir Laurence shoved open the aged wrought-iron door. “This way.”
Torchlight sputtered as a cool slice of wind whistled through the dank confines. As he stepped inside, the stench of bodies and refuse struck Nicholas like a catapult. Within the broken cast of yellowed light, he found men huddled inside narrow cells no larger than a coffin. Some dying, while others lay unmoving, their gazes fixed.
Furious, Nicholas strode up the narrowed center path, repulsed by the foul conditions and the basic lack of respect shown to their fellow man. In his many years of service to the king, never had he witnessed such atrocities as those sprawled before him. ’Twould sicken the stoutest man.
“Sir Laurence,” Nicholas boomed, “I want the dead removed from the cells immediately, and bid the healer to return. Those who live will be tended to posthaste.”
“Aye, Sir Nicholas.” The click of hurried steps against stone echoed as Sir Laurence rushed out.
With methodical precision, Nicholas scanned the cells. Three cells down, his gaze collided with a pair of ice-blue eyes bright with fever. The coldness in their depths pulsed with rage. Hair as black as soot framed the rigid determination set within the stranger’s face, and several dark bruises with an angry purple-black hue cut across his cheeks and forehead. Though the prisoner only stared, his silence spoke volumes.
The man was dangerous.
Nicholas acknowledged him with a brief nod. As a warrior he understood the risks this man had taken in fighting for his beliefs. He also understood his part in this lethal game—as castellan, he must serve justice to those who went against his king. These men were prisoners because they’d broken the law in opposing England’s rule. Still, he would ensure they were treated with respect.
Accompanied by the soft moans of the wounded within the cells, Nicholas walked over and stood before the dangerous man’s cell. This close, he caught the sheen of sweat on his brow, the gaunt appearance of his face, and the tremors that wracked his body. A hand’s length away lay the large frame of a dead, older man, the shaft of a broken arrow protruding from his back.
The prisoner’s eyes narrowed.
As if living in these vile conditions the man didn’t have cause to be furious? Nicholas nodded toward the dead man. “He shall be removed immediately and given a proper burial.”
The prisoner lifted his jaw in defiance, and for a split second the gesture reminded Nicholas of Thomas. An odd thought. Or was it? Though the lad’s struggles to fend for himself held not the bloodshed this man had witnessed, in a sense Thomas was a prisoner to the lessons of life as well.
The sounds of men climbing the steps echoed from the turret.
With one last look at the prisoner, he headed toward the door.
Sir Laurence entered the dungeon followed by several knights.
A pace away Nicholas halted and gestured toward the cell where the fevered prisoner still watched him. “Who is that man?”
Sir Laurence shot a curious glance down toward the cells, scowled. “Giric Armstrong. With his father having recently died during his incarceration, he is now the Earl of Terrick, a title that gives him the holding of Wolfhaven Castle, whose land borders Ravenmoor.”
The Earl of Terrick. Bloody hell! “As if treating the noble with such contempt would help bring peace?”
Sir Laurence’s face paled.
Frustrated, Nicholas held up a hand. “I know, the previous castellan’s orders. Tell me what you know of him.”
Sir Laurence shot the earl a cool glance. “Though loved by his people, many, along with me, think he is a thieving reiver just the same. Sir Renaud had him beaten for his insolence, and ordered that the healer leave him be.” He shot Nicholas a cautious look. “After the castellan’s death, I ordered that Lord Terrick be given extra water and food, but he has remained in a fevered state.”
With the information he’d gathered, doubts assaulted Nicholas as to whether the noble had earned the beating or if the previous castellan meted out the punishment for his own corrupt pleasure. “And who is the dead man in his cell?”
“Lord Terrick’s father,” he replied. “Sir Renaud refused to allow dead prisoners to be removed from the cells.” He shook his head. “I regret not having informed you immediately of the prisoners and their status upon your arrival. Sir Renaud was so adamant about not being bothered with the prisoners that I . . .” He lowered his head in shame. “ ’Tis no excuse.”
Nicholas scanned the cells with disgust. “From this moment on, I will be informed of every aspect of running this castle. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir Nicholas.”
“Begin removing the dead and start with Lord Terrick’s cell. When the healer arrives, she is to tend to him first.”
Sir Laurence gave a brisk nod, waved his men forward, and started the gruesome task.
The first star twinkled in the blackening sky as Nicholas glanced out the tower window, one of the two sources of fresh air in the soured confines. Drawing in a slow, cool breath, he understood Lord Terrick’s anger and his pain, remembered too well the grief at his own father’s death in addition to his resultant disillusionment. That moment, the happy life he’d coveted as a child had crumbled, his beliefs shredded by bitter tongues, lies, and deceit. From the dregs of tragedy he’d learned to fight for truth, to persevere, and to never give up faith.
He glanced toward the center of the courtyard. The bonfire from the destroyed huts still raged an orange-red. The thick swath of smoke stained the pristine night, which had grown quiet except for the footsteps of more of his men heading up the steps to the dungeon.
Nicholas looked at
the window to his chamber where he’d left Thomas, and his throat tightened. With ease, the lad could’ve been one of the injured or dead locked within the cells. Through a miracle he’d been spared. By God he’d do right by the lad, teach him, guide him to a better life. With a hard swallow, he helped his men haul out the dead.
Dressed in her new garb, refreshed after having washed off the layers of dirt and soot from her body, Elizabet descended the steps to the first floor. The great room unfolded before her, rich with the scent of roast pig, fish, and ale.
The front door opened with a bang, and a knight entered. He glanced toward several knights near the hearth. “Simon and Giles, Sir Nicholas needs more men to haul the dead from the dungeon.”
Air rushed from her lungs. On trembling legs, she pressed her hand against the stone wall.
The dead?
Giric? Her father? Their people?
Tears burned her eyes as she struggled nae to race down the last two steps of the turret. As she entered the great room, the knights were exiting the keep. Several lads, a few women, and three old men continued to set up trencher tables. Otherwise, the enormous chamber lay empty.
She must learn the truth! Ignoring a woman’s call to assist her, Elizabet hurried to catch up to the knights. Outside, she followed at a safe distance, and with each step, prayed for her family’s life.
Across the bailey, the knights shoved open a door and headed up a turret.
The dungeon! She gave a quick look to ensure no one noticed her, hurried to the entry, then pushed open the door. Heart pounding, she peered up the steps.
The scrape and shuffle of feet on stone and a grumbled curse echoed from above. A moment later, torchlight illuminated a stocky man descending the stairs, a body draped in his arms.
God no!
’Twas the butcher, a man who’d faithfully served her family for years.