Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

  Satisfaction surged through her veins when he turned from his horse and started back toward the hut. He’d seen the error of his ways; he would release her. Too late she realized her mistake. Picking up another stout stick, he used it as a crossbar. She heard it thunk into the brackets that kept the shutters closed in windy weather. Standing on tiptoes, she met Raymond’s eye peeking through the upper end of the crack. His dry voice informed her, “You have my gratitude, my lady, for reminding me to secure the window.”

  Cursing with words she’d forgotten since becoming a parent, she fell back and tried to think of an escape. But not yet. Not now. It had been her mistake to show him her likely escape route. Now she had to discover another. The jingle of Raymond’s reins sounded like betrayal to her, and she ran to the window once more.

  He was going. Leaving with a salute to her—or the hut—leaving her alone and half mad with worry. As he rode away, she gnawed at her knuckles and listened to the scuttle of some woodland rodent in the corner. It firmed her resolve to escape, and to escape before nightfall. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and she made a slow circuit of the room. Exploring the wall around the door revealed an area where the mud had broken away from the woven frame of the wall. She scratched more of it away, but the woven wood beneath the mud held firm. With a smirk, she pulled Salisbury’s dagger from her belt—“It’ll hew wood, m’lady”—and went to work.

  At last she sat down on the soft dirt floor and flexed her fingers. The dagger would hew wood, but not fast enough for her needs.

  The thatch roof sagged; she jumped up and smacked it with her knuckles, bringing a shower of dry grass and dust down on her. Coughing, she went to the bucket and carried it to the low place. Climbing on it, she tugged on the sturdy cross timbers, releasing another shower and clogging her lungs, but bringing her no closer to the out-of-doors.

  Dragging herself to the window for fresh air, she reflected grimly on her situation. She was locked in a filthy hut with no food or drink. Night was coming on. No one knew where she was except for one foolhardy knight who was riding into a battle against uncounted foes armed only with a small sword.

  Sniffling, she wiped her nose on her sleeve. How could Raymond have done this to her?

  Raymond, who was facing death. And her daughter, who had been kidnapped, probably twice, and faced unknown horrors alone.

  Who had taken Margery? Why had they taken her? For ransom, or was this a repeat of Juliana’s abduction? Was this the result of a collision of the stars, or the culmination of some malevolent design?

  Again she made a circuit of the hut. The sagging roof proved secure, and no small holes had opened in the walls in the short time she’d mourned her freedom. She stopped by the woodpile. Raymond had suggested he would use a log for a weapon, and she’d imagined some small, efficient battering ram. Was it possible? Could she smash through the door?

  Reaching down, she selected a stout length of wood and hefted it in her arms, then dropped it with a cry and sprang back.

  She’d found the source of the spiderwebs.

  Controlling her shudders, she gingerly picked it up again, hoping the impact had dislodged most of the residents.

  Except for the one that crawled up her sleeve, making her loose her grip once more, the log seemed uninhabited—and well suited for her needs.

  “Stout English oak,” she muttered. “To counter stout English oak.” Puzzling about which end to ram with and which end to hold got her no closer to her goal, so after randomly deciding the wide end should meet the obstacle, she gripped it in her slippery fingers and ran at the door.

  The log met the door and the blow knocked her backward. The log was wrenched from her arms; she stumbled over the top of it and fell so hard it knocked the breath from her. When she could whimper, she whimpered. When she could speak, she said raspingly, “The door will not yield.”

  A chatter from the resident rodent seemed like agreement.

  Rubbing the place on her ribs where the log had bruised them, she dragged herself to her feet. “My mistake,” she said aloud, “was not trying the door before I assaulted it. Perhaps…” She staggered to the window and shook the shutters. She could not see even a shiver in the gap between them, but something did rattle. Something. She shook them again, watching the line of sunlight for movement. The stick Raymond had placed pressed tight against the shutters—the line remained stable, but somewhere in the window frame something was loose.

  She smiled, her first real smile for a full day.

  This was it. Rubbing her scraped palms together, she searched for her battering ram and hoisted it up again. She hesitated, then put it on her other side. Might as well be evenly bruised, she reasoned. She backed herself clear to the other side of the hut, took a breath, started forward—

  And stopped. That fall had been brutal and confidence-reducing. Some part of her quivered at a repeat of the pain. Some cowardly bit of her mind suggested she was better here in the dark with the rodents than in the midst of a battlefield where she could be raped, mutilated, murdered.

  The battering ram—nay, it wasn’t a battering ram, it was only a log—sagged in her arms. Tears dribbled down her cheeks, and defeat beat through her veins. She shouldn’t have come. She wouldn’t have come, either, but for Salisbury. What was it the old tracker had said? “She’s strong. Ye trust in her, m’lord.”

  He respected her, and she respected his opinion. But even he wouldn’t expect her to overcome such odds. Nay, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  Devil fly away with him. He would.

  Lifting the ram once more, she placed it against her side. She held it steady with her hands and took good, deep breaths of good English air. That would combat the strength of the shutters. Aye, it would.

  Aiming at the place where the crossbar rested, she glared at the window, pawed the ground, and charged with all her might.

  The log hit square on her target. The end met the shutters, held firm by the crossbar, and the entire frame, shutters, crossbar, and brackets flew out of the window, and Juliana flew out behind them.

  Salisbury hung on to Layamon’s sleeve and gasped in agony. His heart swelled nigh to bursting; his head throbbed with the rhythm of his rushing blood.

  “Hold up, ol’ man,” Layamon urged. “Wot happened? Is it m’lord an’ lady?”

  Salisbury nodded. “Tosti…dead. Troop o’ men…murdered him. M’lord…after th’ girl.”

  “Where’s m’lady?” Layamon looked out to the road.

  “Went…too. Gave her…me dagger. Keep her safe.”

  “Ye gave m’lady a dagger, an’ that’ll keep her safe?” Layamon shook Salisbury. “Are ye daft, man? No lady knows how t’ use a dagger.”

  Salisbury pulled himself erect. “She’ll learn.”

  Swinging on his heel, Layamon said, “I have no time t’ argue wi’ ye, ye ol’ fool. I must…” His brow knit.

  Swaying, Salisbury whispered, “Go after…m’lady.” His vision clouded, and he collapsed in the dirt.

  Juliana’s hips struck the wall; she somersaulted in the air, smacking her head on the side of the hut and landing with an audible wump. As she slowly recovered her senses, her first emotion was amazement, then triumph. She was outside.

  She lay panting beside the shutters. Her palms were well paved with gravel. Her chin had acquired a scrape. Her elbows were bruised.

  Once more she gained her feet, spreading her arms wide to heaven, but a glance to the west cut her celebration short. She hadn’t escaped to get lost in the woods at night. And how quickly could she move without a horse? She would soon find out. But first…

  But first she had to eat, for her head still spun, and the pain of her scrapes and bruises made her almost nauseous. Spring greens dotted the woods, and with a little searching she could provide herself with…with the bags Raymond had left hanging over a stump at the edge of the clearing. She rubbed her eyes. How odd—it was almost as if they were waiting for her. She stumbled to her knees beside the
m and opened them with greedy fingers. One loaf of bread was missing, one hunk of cheese, and a skin of wine. He’d taken what he needed and unloaded the rest. To ease his horse’s burden, she supposed, and was thankful for the consideration, no matter how accidental.

  The food put heart back into her, and she started down the path marked with the passage of many horses. Walking, she assured herself, would keep her bruised muscles from stiffening, and a horse wouldn’t be an advantage in the woodlands, anyway. She rubbed the bump on her head and sighed.

  Rounding the first corner, she kept her gaze on her feet and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. A whinny interrupted her meditations; she froze. Had she wandered close to the battle without realizing? Had a knight, posted as guard, seen her? At once she saw the horse, minus a rider, and jumped into the bushes. But before the creature could whinny again, she jumped back out. She stared and said aloud, “You’re my horse.”

  Her horse. Her palfrey. Left staked to a tether beside the path and munching grass while waiting for her to arrive. She circled the animal and asked incredulously, “What are you doing here? Raymond abandoned you?”

  She didn’t believe that. Raymond’s reverence for armor was only slightly less than his reverence for horses. His steed made him a knight, and he never forgot it. So—“He left you for me to find, didn’t he? He thought I would escape.”

  Her aches miraculously eased, soothed by the recognition that Raymond hadn’t left her to molder in that hut. Raymond had faith in her, a faith as strong as Salibury’s. Maybe he wanted her to miss the battle but was anxious for her to follow.

  She squinted at the sun, still dipping only halfway down to the horizon, and queried the absent Raymond, “You didn’t think I’d escape so soon, did you?”

  Her saddle had been placed over a log. Although she hadn’t done it for years, she could saddle a horse, and she put her back into the job. As she mounted, she hesitated. She should go back for the food bags. No doubt she would want for food before this journey was over. But she couldn’t spare even those few moments. She had to get to Margery and Raymond, and her sense of urgency grew.

  On the path, she kept a keen eye out for signs of passage. Once she thought she heard an animal shriek, and shriek again, but the woods deadened the sound, and she could not tell from whence it came. She had suspected the troop of horsemen was close when Raymond locked her in the hut. Soon, too soon, she found the evidence.

  A sunlit meadow beckoned her just ahead. On its outskirts, hoofprints proved the presence of horses. A thread of white wool had caught on a branch; she removed it and fingered it. She couldn’t prove its origin, of course, but she recognized local wool, and she noted its fineness.

  Hers? Nay, it couldn’t be, but her palfrey stirred as if she’d transmitted her uneasiness. She paused among the debris and looked out into the clearing.

  She could see no one, but the grass had been trampled as if a battle had been fought here—and she feared one had. Listening, she heard the birds calling in their chirpy springtime manner and determined the hazard had moved on. She urged her horse into the meadow, moving slowly, looking for signs she could read.

  And she found one, but only one.

  In the shade of a yew, the dark, still body of a youth rested without moving.

  With a gasp, she urged her horse toward him. At the sound of the cantering hooves, the body moved as if jerked by strings. Arms rose, then fell. Juliana jumped to the ground and ran to him.

  It was Denys. He had no visible wounds, no marks of sword or mace, but the color and texture of his skin looked like those of a fowl, plucked and left for weeks untended.

  “Don’t step…on me,” he whispered.

  “I won’t.” She touched his forehead.

  His lids fluttered open; his eyes focussed with difficulty. He cried, “My lady! Forgive. Forgive…”

  “Of course.” Glancing around, she found the brook that gave life to the meadow, and pulled off her kerchief. She wet it and wiped his thin face.

  It seemed to revive him, for he sucked in a difficult breath. “Don’t promise forgiveness…until you know…”

  “Until I know what you’ve done? I do know. You were stupid and greedy, but you could hardly have realized—”

  “Stupid. Took Margery…because Satan himself…tempted…” Tears sprang to his eyes. “My mother…I’ll never see my mother…because I sinned.…”

  Wetting her kerchief again, she let him suck the moisture. When he seemed to have trouble swallowing, she tried to lift his head.

  He screamed.

  She sprang away, horrified, and more horrified when he babbled, “Sorry. No courage. No knight…after all.”

  Cautiously, she took his cold, clammy hand, but that provoked no outcry. “Where are you hurt?”

  His deep, quivering sigh frightened her, made her wonder if it would be his last. “Rode over me.”

  Lifting his chainse, she began whispering the prayers for the dead. Hoof marks crisscrossed his chest, marking it as clearly as they marked the virgin forest floor. It looked as if someone had stood their horse above the lad and danced for pleasure. She credited youthful strength and a merciful Providence for the life still lingering in him, and she said, soothingly, “You’ll be with your mother again. She awaits you on the other side.”

  His head flopped from side to side. “Mother…good. Honest. Taught me…better.”

  “Mothers forgive all. I promise you”—she perjured her own soul, perhaps, but she had to ease this boy’s death—“she’ll forgive you.”

  His gaze clung to hers, absorbing her reassurance eagerly. Then the light went out, and he said, “Sir Joseph. Sir Joseph…Satan.”

  Comprehension came slowly, unwillingly. “Sir Joseph told you to abduct Margery?”

  A faint nod answered her.

  “Because she’s an heiress?”

  An even fainter nod.

  Now the full anguish swept her, and she cried, “Where’s Margery?”

  “Sir Joseph.”

  She sat back on her heels, her hands pressed to her mouth.

  “With mercenaries…he took. I stabbed…him in the leg. His horse…”

  “His horse did this to you?”

  “He laughed. Raymond…”

  Her fear grew weightier with his every labored word. “Raymond?”

  “She said…he’d come.” As he spoke, he seemed to shrink. “He did. He fought…”

  She spaced her words, enunciated clearly, wanted no confusion in this greatest of queries. “Is…he…dead?”

  “Nay. Still fighting…” In a gigantic effort, the last and greatest he would make, he pointed toward the end of the meadow.

  “He still fought when last you saw him?”

  “Not killing him. Sir Joseph said…”

  “Not to kill him? Why? So that Sir Joseph could torture him?” She rose in a fury. She would go after her daughter. She would save Margery from the cruel hands of this bastard uncle.

  She would go after her husband. She would save—

  Before she could take her first step, a faint murmur stopped her. “God go…with you.”

  She froze.

  She didn’t want to look down. She’d forgotten about Denys, and she didn’t want to be reminded. She didn’t want to see him.

  But she could see him, see his face floating in the tears of her conscience.

  Hopeless young eyes faced a pitiable death, alone in a wood. Every fiber of her soul wanted to run to her child, to her husband, but…what if this was her child? What if Margery was dying like this? Juliana would want somebody to stay. To help. To comfort.

  What the consequences of remaining would be to Margery, to Raymond, she didn’t dare consider. She sank back down again. “Why? Tell me why you listened to that…to Satan.”

  “Riches in a dowry. Waiting for me. Margery…only a woman. Resigned.”

  “And you believed that? Of Margery?”

  “Stupid. She told me.” He sigh
ed. “Already knew it. Never…touched her.”

  She bit back the several pithy comments that hovered on her tongue.

  “Only…so poor. Starved. Kicked…like a cur.” Tears built in his eyes, and he pleaded for understanding. “Mother…died.”

  Against her will, her outrage dissipated, and she brought more water.

  She dripped it into his mouth, but even the exertion of swallowing seemed too much. When he quit, exhausted, she settled herself beside him and soothed his face with the cloth. “I’ve done stupid things, too. I avoided marriage with Raymond, because I was afraid and because Sir Joseph urged me not to wed.”

  “Satan,” he whispered, his voice a thin thread of pain.

  “His fine schemes are woven into the web of my life.” Oh, God, it was true. Sir Joseph had manipulated her, and her voice wobbled as she continued, “You and I, you see, have much in common. We’re battered souls who met with an evildoer and succumbed to his lures.”

  “Not you.” She almost couldn’t hear him. “Not your fault.”

  “Aye, it is.” The responsibility for this disaster sat squarely on her shoulders, and she said, “If I hadn’t been such a coward about Sir Joseph, this would never have happened.”

  “My fault.”

  “Nay. If I had been more gracious to you—”

  “Always gracious.” Denys’s voice was stronger with a spurt of indignation.

  “I could have been better.” Wretched, she said, “I will make you a promise. Because I’m older and wiser, and have more than”—she swallowed—“more than a little responsibility for this disaster, I’ll take your sin as mine.”

  His dull eyes fixed on her with something like hope.

  “I’ll do penance for it all my days, according to the priest’s justice.” The priest would scream about that promise, she knew, but willingly she would take his admonitions. “In this way, your soul will be free.”

  “My sin,” he whispered frantically. “No penance.”