A Knight's Seduction

by Catherine Kean

  Fresh tears threatened. Mary might be so shocked by what she’d heard, she wouldn’t want to be best friends any more.

  Mary’s gown rustled as she turned away from the bed.

  “Please,” Claire whispered. “Do not go.”

  With an impatient little huff, Mary said, “Of course I will not go! What kind of best friend do you think I am?”

  Hope warmed Claire. “I am glad. I could not bear…to lose your friendship.”

  “Nor I yours,” Mary said with a tender smile. “I am pacing because, well, I think better on my feet. We must follow the examples of our favorite chanson heroines. We must figure out what to do next.”

  Claire sighed. “We still have not managed to get to the storage cellar and unlock the door, as Lady Brackendale suggested.”

  “We must make that our priority,” Mary said.

  Claire nodded and dried the last of her tears. “De Lanceau must have learned of the siege at Wode by now. Indeed, the sooner we get that door unlocked, the better.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A steady hum of noise filled Wode’s great hall. Mercenaries at tables near the entrance to the forebuilding shoved food into their mouths as they talked, chortled, and belched their way through the vegetable pottage, cheese, and bread served for the evening meal. Sitting at a quiet table with Mary on the other side of the hall, Claire took small mouthfuls of the fare and kept a discreet watch on all who entered and left.

  Lady Brackendale hadn’t joined them for the meal; she’d likely not been allowed. Veronique and Tye also hadn’t appeared. Claire had expected at least him to dine at the lord’s table, if only to show his authority, but either his duties had kept him from partaking or he’d chosen to stay away.

  Whatever the reason, Claire was glad. She didn’t want to have to face him. Not right now. Not until she had a firm grip once again on her emotions.

  Especially when she was preparing to slip down to the wine cellar.

  Seated at the table opposite them, along with a group of servants, Witt picked at a chunk of bread. The lad had been more than willing to help with their plan, quickly explained to him while the mercenaries greeted one another and grabbed places at the benches alongside the tables.

  Witt lifted his head, nodded slightly to her, and returned to his meal.

  Claire’s gaze moved on, as if the silent communication hadn’t been significant, but she couldn’t suppress a flare of apprehension. When the moment came to act, she and Witt would both be ready. So, hopefully, would Mary.

  Mary set her spoon down beside her bowl of pottage. “I simply cannot eat another bite. My stomach is churning.”

  “So is mine,” Claire admitted. They’d reviewed the plan several times before the mercenaries had escorted them down to the hall to eat. However, so much depended on Mary fainting and doing it brilliantly. What if, despite her best intentions, she couldn’t succumb at the right moment? ’Twould be catastrophic.

  Claire sipped her wine. In hushed tones, she said, “At least we do not have to worry about Tye keeping watch on us.”

  Mary gnawed at her lip. “I promise to do what you need me to do. Just tell me when.”

  Claire studied the tables of mercenaries. Most of the thugs had finished eating. Many were red-faced from plenty of ale. Soon they would be heading back to their posts.

  Claire drew in a shaky breath. “All right. Let us begin.” She downed one last mouthful of wine for good luck and then stood.

  A shrill sound, akin to an anxious squeak, burst from Mary. She rose from the table, her lips moving on a fervent prayer.

  Witt set aside his bread. After a quick word to the servants seated either side of him, he rose, tugging down the grubby sleeves of his tunic. He strolled to the end of the table.

  “Good luck,” Claire said softly to Mary.

  “You too.” Her head held high, Mary walked toward the mercenaries.

  As Claire made her way to Witt, several maidservants caught her gaze and discreetly nodded. Excitement rippled through Claire, for the clever boy had clearly managed to recruit more helpers for their distraction.

  Mary reached the mercenaries. The men eyed her with suspicion and amusement.

  “You.” Mary pointed to the thug who had searched under her garments for weapons the day the castle was besieged. “I want a word with you.”

  His arms resting on the table, the man squinted at her, his grin revealing stained teeth. “What do you want with me, milady?”

  Curious servants crowded in closer to watch the unfolding drama.

  Just as Claire had hoped.

  She resisted the urge to hurry. Slow, steady steps . Only a little farther and she’d reach Witt’s side.

  “ You did me a grave disservice,” Mary said, clearly indignant.

  “Did I?” The lout’s grin broadened. His fellow mercenaries, enjoying the spectacle, laughed and elbowed one another.

  Claire reached Witt, and he fell in beside her. Carefully, they moved back toward the small room off the great hall.

  “You had your filthy hand up my gown,” Mary said.

  Shocked cries rippled through the hall.

  “A violation!” one woman cried.

  “How awful,” another shrilled.

  After grabbing a burning torch from the nearest wall bracket, Claire hurried into the shadowed side chamber, Witt right behind her. He followed her to the arched door at the room’s far end.

  Her hand on the iron door handle, she glanced back over her shoulder. “We must go quietly,” she whispered. “There may be guards below.”

  “Aye, milady,” Witt whispered back. He withdrew an object tucked into the waistband of his hose: a slingshot made from flax. He patted the cloth bag stowed there as well.

  She smiled. “Well done.”

  “I am a good shot,” he said, grinning. “You will see.”

  Claire opened the door. Faint light flickered farther down the curving stairwell, indicating torches had been lit; even more reason to be cautious.

  She descended the uneven stone stairs, her right hand pressed to the wall, her left hand gripping the torch. Her gown rustled with each of her steps, and her shoes rasped softly on the stone, but she couldn’t help those sounds. Witt was but one step behind, his movements almost silent, his slingshot at the ready.

  The steps ended at a wide corridor. To the left was the way to the armory. To the right, the storage rooms. Peering around the wall of the stairwell, she searched for guards.

  A tall, armed thug stood outside the armory. However, instead of watching the corridor, he was picking at a scabbed-over cut on his left cheek. An earthenware pot, similar to the ones the local healers used for ointment, rested on a waist-high stack of crates beside him.

  She sensed Witt peering around her.

  Before she could say a word, he whispered, “I can take care of him.”

  The boy stepped out of stairwell, ran for the opposite wall, and crouched; the stack of crates blocked him from the thug’s view. With silent, cautious strides, Witt moved toward the armory.

  The guard, still oblivious, continued to pick at his wound.

  Claire didn’t want to watch what was going to happen, but she also couldn’t look away. She would never forgive herself if Witt came to harm.

  Halfway to the mercenary, Witt halted and reached into the cloth bag. He must have made a slight sound, for the thug frowned, set his hand on his sword hilt, and stepped away from the crates.

  Witt raced out into the passageway. Raising his right arm high, he spun the slingshot, causing a hissing noise. A small rock flew from the weapon and hit the mercenary in the forehead, and he winced and stumbled back. A
s he tried to draw his sword, Witt fired another rock. The man hit the wall, his head knocked against the stonework, and he collapsed, unconscious.

  “Well done!” Claire breathed.

  Witt returned to her. “I have plenty more rocks if we need them.”

  “Good. Now, let us hurry, in case he is not the only guard down here.”

  Together, they made their way to the wine storage chamber. Claire set the burning torch into the wall bracket inside the room. Light flickered over the large, iron-bound wooden barrels, three rows deep and two high, some coated with thick dust, that were stacked against faded tapestries on her left. On the right were tall shelves bearing smaller casks and jugs along with several reed torches and coils of rope.

  “I will keep watch, milady,” Witt said, “while you find the hidden door.”

  “All right.” With a pang of dread, Claire hoped the door wasn’t behind the barrels. If they were full of ale or wine, she and Witt wouldn’t be able to move them.

  Pausing beside the shelves, she ran her finger down one of the jugs with a cork stopper. Her gaze slid back to the tapestries, both depicting battle scenes. One portrayed a victorious crusader holding a beast’s severed head. The weaving was so long it spread onto the floor beneath the back row of barrels. She remembered Lady Brackendale saying she didn’t like looking at such a gruesome sight while eating, and had thus ordered that tapestry put into storage. Why, then, was it hanging in the cellar?

  Claire examined the tapestry as she walked in front of the rows of barrels to the back wall. She could see naught out of order, but a secret door was intended to stay secret except to those who knew ’twas there.

  “Witt, come and help me. We must move these barrels aside.”

  Doubt touched the lad’s gaze, but he came to help. Together, they grabbed hold of a top barrel perched at the end of the front row near the back wall. They gave it a good shove. While heavy, the barrel was definitely not full. With a dull thud , it toppled onto the floor and rolled away, liquid sloshing inside.

  “Easier than I thought,” Witt said.

  Claire glanced toward the chamber entrance. The falling barrel had made a loud noise. She hurried to the corridor, listened for any approaching footfalls, but all remained quiet. Still, they must hurry.

  “Now this barrel,” Claire said, catching hold of the one that had been underneath the barrel they’d just moved. With strong pushes, they managed to move it to the opposite wall.

  They moved four more barrels. Now the right half of the tapestry was freed. She pulled the dusty tapestry away from the wall.

  Beyond was a rectangular wooden door tall enough for a crouched man to step through.

  “There,” she whispered.

  Witt reached out and pushed at the door. It didn’t budge. “’Tis locked.”

  “Lady Brackendale said the key is under a flagstone.” Dropping to her hands and knees, Claire felt around the stones by her feet. If the key was under a flagstone beneath one of the full barrels, ’twould be hard to get to it. However, the partially-filled barrels in front of the tapestry suggested someone in the keep knew of the door and had left it fairly easy to access if necessary. That meant the key should be in an accessible place, too.

  Claire methodically pushed on each stone on the floor in front of her, searching for any that wobbled or shifted while she made her way to the back wall. On his hands and knees beside her, Witt tested the stones in front of him. Biting her lip, Claire pressed and crawled. Nothing.

  Just before her hand brushed the back wall, she pushed down on a stone with a dip near one corner. With a gritty rasping sound, the stone shifted up a fraction.

  “You found it!” Witt said.

  “I hope so.” Again, she pressed down on the corner with the indent. The stone moved up at the opposite end, but not enough for her to get her hand around to lift it.

  “Try standing on it, milady.”

  Scrambling to her feet, Claire did as he’d suggested. The stone rose on Witt’s side. Moving so that he faced the rising edge, he took hold of the flagstone and pulled up with a grimace. The heavy stone came loose.

  With an elated laugh, Claire dropped down by Witt again. Together, they shifted the stone aside to reveal a shadowed cavity.

  Before she gathered the courage to reach into the recess, Witt put his hand in, felt around, and pulled up a key dangling on a thin leather cord. “Shall I unlock the door, milady?”

  Such eagerness lit his face. Claire smiled, for she sensed ’twas important to him that he be the one to fulfill that important task. Once de Lanceau had regained control of the keep, the lad could boast that he’d opened the door so that his lordship’s men could secretly enter the fortress. One day, the lad might even be lauded in a chanson .

  And why not? He was a courageous young man. He deserved the honor.

  “Go on, then,” Claire said. Before the words had left her lips, he dashed over to the door.

  The key slid into the lock with a muffled grating noise. Then, as he turned the key, a click .

  The boy pulled the door open. A gust of frigid, dank air wafted out of the opening, as if a long-forgotten spirit had reached out icy arms to haul him inside.

  Looking into the darkness, he shivered. “It smells musty in there.”

  Peering in beside him, Claire said, “That passage has likely not been used for years.”

  “I should go inside and make sure ’tis clear. “If ’tis all right with you, milady?”

  Witt was as brave and noble as his grandfather. “All right. Hold on a moment.” Claire fetched one of the reeds from the shelves, lit it using the torch in the wall bracket, and handed it to him.

  With a grateful nod, the boy took the light and stepped into the tunnel. The flame crackled, illuminating cobwebs drifting down from the low ceiling. As he moved farther into the narrow corridor, the torchlight shifted on the rough stone walls. The light grew dimmer. His footsteps became no more than muffled scrapes.

  Hugging herself, Claire stayed very still, listening not only for sounds from the secret tunnel but the main corridor. The thug that Witt had rendered senseless would wake soon, or one of his comrades would find him and sound the alarm.

  Hurry, Witt. Hurry .

  As the silence continued, a nagging sense of regret weighed upon her. Tye would be furious if he discovered the unlocked hidden door; she was, after all, doing what she could to help his sire enter and retake Wode. Tye might even be wounded or killed in the battle. While she hated that Tye had murdered Henry, she couldn’t honestly say she wanted him dead.

  You have a right to loath him. He deceived you , another little voice inside her said. Have you forgotten?

  Nay. She hadn’t and never would. Gathering her resolve, she forced the regret aside.

  A scrabbling noise came from inside the tunnel. The light grew stronger again. Witt clambered out, his clothes coated with dust and cobwebs, his eyes huge.

  “T-there is something in there,” he said, shuddering.

  “Rats?”

  He shuddered again. “I do not know. I did not see it, but it moved away from the range of the light.”

  “The tunnel is clear, though?” Claire asked, taking the torch from him.

  “As far as I saw. Please, milady, do not make me go back in there.”

  ’Twould be best if the whole tunnel were checked for blockages, but she knew they’d been lucky not to have been discovered yet. “We have done what we came to do.” She pushed the door closed, extinguished the reed and set it aside, then pulled the tapestry back into place. “Now, let us move these barrels so they are not so obviously out of order.”

  They maneuvered the barrels to the front of the rows
. Just as they finished moving the last one, shouts carried from down the corridor. Witt made a strangled sound and lunged for the dislodged flagstone. He tossed the key into the cavity and pushed the stone back into the floor.

  The voices grew louder. “Find them!” Veronique snapped.

  Oh, God. Oh, God !

  “Milady!” the boy gasped. He frantically brushed the grime from his garments.

  There was no way to run past Veronique and her men who’d be heavily armed. Rocks and a slingshot also were no match for trained mercenaries when there was no element of surprise.

  Grabbing Witt’s arm, Claire pulled him toward the shelves of wine and liqueurs. “Play along,” she murmured.

  Looking terrified, he nodded.

  “Let me see,” she said thoughtfully, not caring to lower her voice. She picked up one of the earthenware jugs. “This one might work. Or—”

  Veronique rushed into the cellar, four grim-faced mercenaries close behind. “There they are!” the older woman screeched.

  Claire fought the thundering of her pulse. Feigning surprise, she glanced at Veronique. “Is something wrong?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “You know very well.”

  Fear lashed through Claire, but she held Veronique’s accusing gaze and said calmly, “We were looking for wine to help heal Witt’s grandfather’s wounds.”

  “Nay, you were not. Tell me what you were really doing.”

  “As I said, Witt wanted wine to bathe his grandfather’s injuries. We did not think ’twould cause any trouble.”

  Veronique’s stare was as cold as her disbelieving laugh. “You are lying.”

  “Mayhap you —”

  “Quiet,” the older woman ordered.