Feeling the chill seeping into his toes, he set off for the stables.
The heavy door was closed, which seemed strange, but he assumed the ostler had granted his lads leave to start the day later given that it was Christmas Eve.
Once inside he shoved the door closed.
During Tybaut’s tour, he’d been impressed with the construction of the building which retained the heat of the animals it sheltered. It’s warmth was welcome after the chill of the outdoors. But it seemed eerily quiet, as if the horses stood stock still. Even the normally friendly Cob eyed him like a stranger when he walked by his stall. Removing his cloak, he peered into the gloom, seeking the wandering dancers. A troupe usually consisted of at least six men. Where were they?
A young man emerged from the shadows. He looked more like a knight than a mummer. Cob nickered. Warning bells went off in Bronson’s head, but it was too late. He cursed when the youth drew a dagger and he realized he’d left his weapons in the house.
Bellowing a war cry, he lunged, but strong hands grabbed him from behind. The armed stranger advanced on him, waving the dagger. Bronson leaned back against his unseen aggressors using them as leverage to kick at his attacker, but they yanked him backwards. The grinning youth took a mighty backhanded swipe at his throat. He jerked aside, but a river of molten lava seared across his chest as the blade ripped open his skin.
Am I to die here?
The answer came as pain exploded in the back of his head.
Swan stared into her empty soup bowl. “What’s taking him so long?”
Grace looked anxiously towards the door, chewing on her lower lip. “I have a bad feeling.”
On the one hand, Rodrick was tempted to tell them they worried too much, but on the other, Bronson had been gone overlong. He came to his feet. “I’ll go out and hurry him along. He’s probably required a demonstration of their talents.”
He retrieved his cloak from his chamber and left the house. The cold stole away his breath. He drew the cloak up to cover his ears and mouth and set off at a brisk walk to the stables. There was no sign of Bendik and Becca. They must have gone with Bronson.
The door to the stables was closed—strange. He shoved hard, but it refused to budge. An uneasy feeling crept into his gut. If the troupe was demonstrating Morris Dancing they were doing it silently.
He reached without thinking for the dagger he’d left in the house. He decided to check the rear of the stables, or mayhap for some strange reason Bronson had taken the entertainers to the men’s barracks near the rampart. Accommodations would be warmer there. Or perhaps they were in the church, peculiar as the possibility seemed.
Edging cautiously along the back wall of the stable, he put his right eye to a crack between two planks. Nothing—only horses. He went a few paces further and bent his knees to peer through another small space where the moss chinking had fallen away. The breath left his already beleaguered lungs. A man lay face down in a pool of blood—a man with unmistakable red hair. “What the devil?”
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled around, vaguely aware of a giant standing behind him. A mailed fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling backwards, his head smashing into the wooden wall. The sky was suddenly where the earth should be.
Why would a mummer be wearing armor?
He attempted to get up but a booted foot pressed on his chest as the fist landed on his nose. He choked on blood, pain lancing into his head.
“Leave him, Titus. He’ll soon freeze to death out here.”
He sank into blackness, thinking the sneering voice was somehow familiar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Grace jumped up from her seat, sending her bowl clattering to the floor. Her heart was racing; intense pain throbbed in her temples. “Something has happened to Rodrick.”
Swan left her place at the table to lift a corner of the window covering. “Where can they be?”
A commotion at the main door of the house caught their attention. Relief flooded Grace. Bronson and Rodrick had returned. But her blood turned to ice when the man who had entered the house removed his cloak. “Godefroy!” she gasped, gripping the edge of the table.
Swan frowned, pressing close to Grace. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Grace grasped her hand. “Godefroy is my stepson.”
He bowed with a mock flourish. “At your service, step-mama,” he said, flicking his still fastened cloak back over his shoulders.
A serpent wriggled in Grace’s belly. She had never liked this young man, never trusted him, but she determined not to show her fear. “Where are milord Bronson and milord Rodrick?”
He sneered. “Safe enough. They won’t interfere.”
“Interfere in what?” Swan asked, apparently unperturbed though Grace felt her cousin’s fingernails pressed into her flesh.
“Don’t worry,” Godefroy said to Swan. “I’m not interested in you.”
“But what do you want with me?” Grace said, deafened by the pulse at her throat. “I have given up any claim on your father’s estate.”
“That’s of no importance now. All is lost if Plantagenet takes what should have gone to Eustace.”
He must be mad.
“Eustace is dead.”
“But Stephen’s second son, William lives. He will be king, not Henry the upstart Angevin.”
“William has pledged to Henry,” Swan declared.
Grace recognized the malice in Godefroy’s gaze. “And what do we have to do with this? Why have you come here?”
“Your cursed father must be persuaded to change sides. He has long been Stephen’s man. Now he must support William’s claim to the throne.”
The serpent bit into the vital part of Grace’s body that kept her heart beating. “You believe I can influence my father?”
Godefroy grinned as a burly giant of a man entered the Hall. “No, but if he thinks changing sides will save your life, he will.”
Swan thrust her chin in the air, hands on hips. “You can’t get away with this. Our Steward will return momentarily, as will my brother and my cousin. There are men in the barracks, dogs—”
She stopped as Godefroy strode toward her, his hand raised.
“Stop!” Grace cried. “Harm a hair on Suannoch’s head and I will fight you every step of the way.”
Godefroy laughed. “Titus here will tie her up with your puny Steward and your other servants in the Buttery. The dogs have been taken care of, the men-at-arms drugged, your brother and cousin out of the way. Our horses await. Get your cloak.”
Rodrick tried unsuccessfully to cover his ears with his hands, desperate to assuage the insistent pounding. He lifted his head, gagging as the world blurred around him. He managed to raise up on one elbow, transfixed by the bright red pool on the white ground. Someone had shoved a knife up his nose. He coughed, spitting up more blood.
No, it hadn’t been a knife—a fist. Gingerly he touched a finger to his nose, instantly regretting it as pain flared again. He was fyking cold. His teeth were chattering, but at least the pounding had stopped.
Pounding? Sounding like—horses. Galloping away.
He had to get inside, get warm. Had to find out what had happened. Who were these men? The voice—the last thing he recalled hearing—nagged at him.
He scrambled to his knees, resting his forehead against the wood of the stable. The stable—Dieu! Bronson was inside.
He put his eye to the crack, careful not to touch his nose to the rough wood. His cousin was still there. Hadn’t moved. Was he dead? Rodrick wasn’t sure how long he’d lain on the cold hard ground, but for certain he’d be incapable of opening the stable door with his frozen fingers.
He braced himself on all fours, then bent one knee, planting his foot on the ground. He’d lost feeling in his toes and hoped when he tried to stand his legs wouldn’t fail him. Bending the other knee, he came slowly to his feet, his fingernails digging into the rough wood.
Panting hard, h
e levered his body away from the wood, then let go, ridiculously elated when he didn’t fall over. As the fog in his head cleared, dread gripped his vitals. Swan and Grace were alone in the house, apart from servants. Someone had made sure of it.
Strangely, his greater fear was for his sister. Her name echoed over and over in his head.
Forcing his frigid body to move, he staggered to the house, pushing the door open with his shoulder, relieved when it gave way, apparently unbarred. He slammed it shut and fell to his knees, hands tucked under his armpits, arms folded across his trembling body.
He scanned the Hall. Empty. But the pounding had begun again. Someone was shouting.
Leaning heavily against the door, he came slowly to his feet and listened.
“Help! Help!”
Swan!
He moved towards the buttery, holding on to the wall. The shouts grew louder. He tried to assure Swan he was there, he was coming to her aid, but sounds refused to emerge from his raw throat.
Someone inside was kicking the door. With trembling fingers, he turned the key in the lock. The banging and shouting ceased.
Not knowing what to expect, he opened the door slowly. Swan and Lucia sat back to back, tied together, the maidservant’s feet wedged against a barrel, pushing back against her door-kicking mistress. Swan’s knees were bent. Her gown had slipped around her thighs. The abject fear left her face when she saw him, but then her lip trembled as tears welled. “Rodrick, you’re alive, but what have they done to your nose? Untie me quickly. They’ve taken Grace.”
He swayed on his feet, unable to take his eyes off Swan’s bared legs.
Who? Why? Where have they taken her?
“There’s a carving knife in the pantry, milord.”
Tybaut!
Dragging his gaze away from Swan, trying to make sense of what she’d said, it dawned on him the Steward and Jolly and the scullery lads were bound together, crammed in the tight space amid the barrels. The Cook was sobbing, her face redder than a beetroot.
“A knife, milord. In the pantry. You can cut our bonds.”
He shook the fog from his head, feeling blessed warmth creep back into his limbs. He crossed the hall, retrieved the knife from the pantry and returned to cut Swan free.
The room tilted when he got up too quickly, so he passed the knife to Lucia. “Cut them loose.”
The maid knelt quickly to slice through the men’s bonds.
He pulled Swan into his arms, savoring her warmth. “Who has taken Grace?” To his own ears he sounded like a drunkard.
“It was Godefroy de Cullène,” Lucia declared. “He wants to force your father to change sides and support William’s claim to the throne.”
“He is mad,” Swan whispered, her voice hoarse. “William doesn’t want the throne.”
Rodrick’s instinct was to leap on his horse and go after Grace, but his cousin—
“Tybaut. Milord Bronson is in the stable, badly injured. I need your help to open the door.”
He avoided Swan’s eyes, unwilling to voice his belief her brother was dead.
“Aye. The lads and I will get it open,” the steward reassured him, scrambling to his feet. “I blame myself, milord. I should never have allowed them onto the estate.”
Rodrick gritted his teeth as the Steward rushed off. “Your nose is broken, my love,” Swan murmured. “I don’t know how to set it.”
“With your permission, milord, I do,” Lucia said. “I learned from my grandmother, who was taught by your grandmother, Countess Carys.”
The maid placed her warm fingers on his nose, barely touching. It was almost pleasant until she suddenly pressed hard. Pain arrowed into his head. But then it was gone. His nose felt better.
“The bruising will take a while to disappear, but it will heal now.”
Rodrick thanked the saints for the healing skills passed on since his grandmother’s time. If Bronson still lived, he would need this young woman’s help.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The scullery lads put their shoulders to the stable door and rushed in, led by Tybaut. “There he is,” the Steward shouted. “Turn him onto his back.”
“No,” Lucia yelled as she hurried in with Swan. “Wait. You might injure him further.”
Swan fell to her knees at her brother’s side, sobbing. “Bronson,” she breathed, afraid to touch him. “You cannot die.”
Rodrick knelt beside her, his arm around her shoulder.
Bronson’s hair was matted with dried blood. Lucia ran her hands over the back of his head. “There is a swelling here,” she said. “But he lives. They struck him with a heavy object. We must be careful how we turn him. Judging by the bloodied straw beneath him, he has obviously suffered a grievous wound. If it’s his belly—”
Swan shuddered. “Jolly is bringing the dwale,” she murmured.
Lucia shook her head. “We won’t need it until he awakens. Then the drug will calm him and aid his healing.”
The men positioned themselves to turn their master onto his back. Only Rodrick’s strong hand gripping hers prevented Swan from swooning. His attacker’s weapon had sliced through his tunic and penetrated deep into his chest. Blood oozed from the raw flesh.
“Fetch his cloak and wrap it around his lower body while I examine the wound,” the maidservant said. “We must warm him up, though the chill may have helped control the bleeding.”
She peered at the deep gash that ran from one armpit to the other. “He’s lucky it wasn’t lower,” she observed. “The fabric of his tunic has adhered to the torn skin, and I am afraid to remove it.”
“What can I do?” Swan asked, feeling completely useless.
“Put your hands on either side of the wound and slowly press the edges of his tunic together. We’ll try to close the wound this way, then pad it with linens.”
Tybaut dispatched one of the lads to get cloth from Jolly.
Swan flexed her cold fingers then put her hands on her brother’s chest, carefully pushing the edges of the gash together. Bile rose in her throat as more blood oozed from the wound. She uttered a prayer of thanks he hadn’t awakened from his stupor.
“Let me,” Rodrick whispered.
“No,” Swan replied. “I must do this for my brother. Where are the men-at-arms? And the dogs? This was a carefully planned attack. You have to organize a search for Grace.”
Rodrick came to his feet. “No need to search. There is only one place Godefroy can have taken her—Cullène Hall. But we’ll send one of Edwin’s birds to Ellesmere to inform my father. He is closer and can be there before us. At least they didn’t hobble our horses.”
Swan gagged, sickened by the thought they might have maimed her beloved horse.
Rodrick hurried away, passing the scullery lad returning laden with linens. “Cook says there’s more if we need them.”
Lucia rummaged through and pulled out an old bedsheet. She folded it into a long pad. “Keep pushing the edges together, milady, then slowly withdraw as I press down harder.”
Swan again thanked God for the presence of this servant who might yet save her brother’s life. She wished Rodrick still knelt at her side, but was heartsick for him and his fear for his sister. Lucia too must be wretched at the loss of her mistress, yet she tended Bronson calmly and carefully.
The day had begun with great promise. But a dark shadow had been cast over the celebration of the birth of the Light of the World.
Rodrick released the pigeon into the cold air. “Godspeed, little bird.” He would have preferred to impart the dire news to his parents in person, but time was of the essence.
Hastening back to the stable, he caught sight of three of Shelfhoc’s men-at-arms walking towards the house from the direction of the barracks, one soldier bearing the weight of a dog dangling lifeless in his arms. His heart plummeted. Surely it hadn’t been necessary to kill Bendik and Becca.
His spirits lifted when he saw Becca loping behind the men, shaking her head. Beyond her came more soldier
s.
He hurried towards the man carrying Bendik. “Is the dog dead?”
The soldier looked half asleep. “Nay, my lord. Drugged. The lot of us. Must have been something in the soup brought from the kitchens.”
Rodrick lifted Bendik into his arms. To his relief the hound raised its head, its eyes glazed. “Good dog.”
As if understanding his words, Bendik wriggled out of his grip, stood shakily on all four paws and shook himself, yawning widely.
“Aye,” the soldier continued. “But how they drugged the dogs is a mystery. What were they after?”
Rodrick gritted his teeth. “They’ve taken my sister.”
The man’s jaw dropped as he straightened his shoulders. “We’ll find her, milord. On my honor, I swear it.”
“First we must see to your new Master. He is badly wounded.”
The men followed him into the stable where Tybaut and the lads had Bronson propped up, his head drooped forward. Lucia was wrapping linens around his chest while Swan held his long hair out of the way. Her eyes widened with relief when she saw the men-at-arms.
As if sensing their new Master’s distress, both dogs lay down alongside him, looking expectantly at those tending him.
“You kept his tunic on,” Rodrick said with surprise.
“Lucia thinks it’s better to do so until we can stop the bleeding. He is still warm—a good omen. It’ll take strength to lift him.”
Rodrick knelt beside Bronson. “The men were drugged, but seem to be recovering. The dogs too. At least the blood hasn’t seeped through the bandages yet.”
“Let’s hope moving him doesn’t worsen matters,” Swan replied.
“Wait!” Tybaut suddenly declared. “I have an idea.”
He hurried off in the direction of the house, taking two lads with him.
Sinful Passions Page 11