by Lynn Kurland
Christopher felt his heart leap uncomfortably at Jason’s words. The cellars could conceal any number of intruders. But how, by the saints, would they have gained such a place? Ranulf had doubled his watchfulness since Colin’s departure. Christopher had no doubts his captain hadn’t been lax in his duties. And there was surely no other way in save the front gates.
Except for the seaside tunnel.
Christopher felt his flesh break out in a chilling sweat.
“Merde,” he breathed, shocked at his own stupidity.
“My lord?”
Christopher shook his head. “Come with me, Jason. Here, give me one of those bows. Keep a sharp eye on the shadows, lad. I fear we may be facing Warewick sooner than we’d hoped.”
“As you will, my lord. Here, follow me,” Jason said, stepping in front of him. “There are bodies curled up everywhere here.”
“Alive?” Christopher asked sharply.
Jason sucked in his breath. “Aye, my lord. Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Get me to the cellars, lad. I’ll tell you there.”
“I’m with you, my lord,” Jason said. “Follow me.”
Christopher put his hand on Jason’s shoulder and held the crossbow lightly with the other. Why he hadn’t thought of the passageway inside the outer walls sooner, he surely didn’t know. It made horrifying sense. Before he’d wed, few people had known of the passageway. Colin and Ranulf were the only ones who came to mind.
Yet he remembered all too well the night Lina had come to him, terrified that they would be assailed from without—or within. He’d been tremendously proud of his defenses and had boasted that Blackmour couldn’t be taken by force. He’d even gone so far as to tell her of the rocks that blocked the seaward tunnel that led to the passageway through the walls. He’d assured her that no one would breach the outer rock covering, much less find the way inside and into the larder. The only thing she had to fear might be a few rats. After all, no one knew of the existence of the passageway.
Christopher had the sinking feeling Lina’s interest had been more than concern for her own safety. He let out his breath slowly, trying to calm his racing heart. If Lina knew, then Warewick knew as well. Christopher had no doubts the man wouldn’t have hesitated to make use of what he’d learned.
He surely wouldn’t have dared mount a siege. He would have had to keep one eye on the keep and one eye behind him looking for Artane and Wyckham and half a dozen other allies of Blackmour’s. Aye, stealth would have been his choice. Christopher gritted his teeth as he made his way down to the kitchens. Saints, he had been blind!
They reached the bottom of the cellar steps and Jason stopped.
“’Tis black as pitch, my lord,” he said, hesitantly. “I can see nothing.”
Christopher strained to hear aught amiss. The only thing he could make Out was the faint echoes of Cook’s snores.
“We need to search the east wall,” he said, at length.
Jason was silent for a long moment. “East, my lord?”
Christopher smiled to himself. “The stairs are on the north side of the cellar, lad. We are facing south. East is to our left, aye?”
Jason put his hand on Christopher’s arm. “My lord, I . . . I think I am beginning to understand. How it must be.”
Christopher turned Jason east. “I hope you never learn the whole of it, Jason. Now, as quietly as we can, let us search for the loose stone. It was well hid the last time I was down here.”
“Loose stone?” Jason echoed, in a whisper. “In the wall? But—”
“What did you think filled the walls? Rubble? In some places, aye, but not this wall. And the outer side of this wall is twice the thickness, to make up for the passageway. I at least credit my father with some sense about that. If he’d carved out the passageway and left the outer wall but a pair of arm lengths thick, the kitchens would have slid into the sea long ago.”
“As you say, my lord,” Jason said, with a gulp. “Your sire’s good sense on this matter be praised.”
“Aye,” Christopher agreed. He walked carefully, feeling ahead of him with both his hands and feet. Once he reached the wall, he slid his hands over the surfaces of the stones and, more importantly, in between. The mortar was solid in all the places he touched. He swore silently. He hadn’t been in the passageway for years, but surely he hadn’t forgotten the place of entry that easily.
“Wait, my lord, I think ’tis here.”
Christopher felt the mortar around the stone Jason had found. It was indeed loosely packed. He dug at it with a crossbow quarrel and heard Jason doing the same.
“Perhaps it will come free now, my lord.”
Christopher helped Jason pull on the stone and it dislodged with a suddenness that made them both jump back in surprise. It landed on the floor with a muffled thump.
“Bloody hell,” Christopher muttered. “Nay, Wolf,” he said, quickly, feeling his hound brush his leg. “I’ll go first.”
“My lord,” Jason whispered, “wait. It seems less dark in there. Think you some of the outer wall has given way?”
Christopher leaned forward into the passageway. It was miserably damp, but no chillier than the cellar. If rock had fallen away, surely he would have felt some sort of stirring of the air.
Jason caught his breath. “My lord, the light flickers. I daresay ’tis from a torch.”
Christopher pulled Jason back and climbed into the passageway. “Stay behind me,” he said grimly. “I have the feeling we won’t be alone for long.”
“Nay,” Jason breathed. “You cannot think Warewick—”
“I would credit him with almost anything. Come along behind me and keep as quiet as you can. Wolf, no noise, boy.”
The passageway was large, as it should have been, given that the walls of the keep were some twelve feet across. Christopher judged the passageway to be two full paces wide. Enough to maneuver in, should he meet someone he needed to slay.
He hadn’t walked for long when Jason caught him by the shoulder.
“It grows even lighter ahead, my lord.”
Christopher pursed his lips. Saints, Warewick was cunning! Christopher blessed his intuition yet another time. Perhaps a bit of Berengaria’s Sight was finding home in him. He would have to tell her the tale the next time he saw her.
“Bloody Hell!” Jason’s exclamation was immediately followed by shouts up ahead.
Christopher lifted his crossbow and fired it. He heard a scream, heard Jason’s bolt fly past his ear, and heard another scream. Christopher heard footsteps running toward him and cursed fluently. Saints, he hadn’t counted on how difficult it would be!
Wolf snarled and Christopher could only assume his hound had attacked, because a man yelled in pain. Wolf cried out. Christopher pulled Jason behind him and strode forward. He thrust out with his sword.
The same man gasped in pain, then was silent. Christopher pulled his sword out of the man’s body, feeling it had been altogether too simple.
“Wolf?” Christopher asked Jason.
“He seems to have lost part of his tail, my lord. He’ll live.”
“And Warewick’s men?”
“Just Gillian’s sire, my lord,” Jason said quietly. “He stands some twenty paces in front of you.”
“Aye, whelp,” Warewick snarled. “That’s how far away I am. Will you count for your lord while I come to him to slay him? And while you’re counting, I’ll be complimenting your master on his cleverness. How did you know, Blackmour, that I would come? Perhaps you aren’t as blind as I thought you.”
“Are you come to slay me in my bed, like the coward you are?” Christopher demanded.
“Coward?” Warewick choked. “It requires skill and cunning to slip in and out of a keep unnoticed. And more courage than you have, child,” he added derisively.
Christopher ignored the slur. “What weapons does he have?” he asked Jason quietly.
“Sword and knife, that I can see.”
Christopher sta
rted forward, then stopped abruptly as his foot came into contact with the corpse directly before him. Saints, the body was close! Which meant the man’s sword had been just that close.
A shiver went through him that had nothing to do with the dank chill. He could have lost his head and never been the wiser.
Panic flooded him. By all the saints, what was he thinking! To parry against an enemy who wanted him dead? It was one thing to spar with his captain, or Jason. They wanted him to succeed. But Warewick? Unbidden, and certainly unwelcome, came the memories of just how easily Warewick had humiliated him before. Half the blows he’d anticipated. It had been the others which had left him bruised and battered, the ones that seemed to come from out of nowhere.
And now to cross swords with the man?
Christopher took a deep breath.
What other choice did he have?
To be sure, he could turn and run—and then live with his cowardice for the rest of his days. What would Gillian think when she learned? If she were even left alive to learn of it! Warewick would seek out his daughter and then her life would be over. Or worse, he would repay her daily for Christopher’s cheek.
Christopher hesitated. If he fought, could he win? What might he lose in the fray? A limb? His very life?
“Come, Blackmour,” Warewick said, his voice echoing off the stone, “come at me, if you dare. Let me finish you as I should have weeks ago. You’ve stood in my way for too long. Now, come at me and let us be done with this foolishness.”
A fight it would be.
For he had no other choice.
He put his foot on the corpse’s back and slid forward until he felt solid stone on the far side of the body.
“Ah,” Warewick said, with a laugh, “you make it easy for me. Aye, come closer, son.”
Wolf growled and Christopher put his hand out.
“Enough,” he said, quietly. “I can do this myself.”
Jason’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“I can shoot the torch from his hand, my lord,” Jason murmured.
Christopher smiled grimly. This was aid he could accept.
“Aye, Jason, you do that.”
The arrow flew past Christopher’s ear.
“You little bugger!” Warewick exclaimed.
“Got his hand too,” Jason said. “Right through the wrist.”
Christopher promised himself a good laugh over the smugness in his squire’s voice. But that would come later. Now would come a fight on his own terms.
He stepped forward, feeling his way further past the lifeless body of Warewick’s man. He heard Warewick cursing in the darkness. He took another step forward.
“How does it feel, Warewick?” Christopher asked. “Frightening? And know this: You’ve seen your last bit of light. The next glow you see will be the fires of Hell.”
“I’ll kill you anyway,” Warewick spat. “See if I don’t. I’ve waited too long, paid too much to see you dead. All my life I’ve wanted your land and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose it now, when I’m so close to having it. Draw your last breaths, Blackmour, for I’ve no intention of dying this day.”
Christopher listened to Gillian’s father continue to boast of what he would do once Blackmour was his. Christopher said nothing; he was far too busy listening and marveling at what a fool Gillian’s sire was. Had he no idea his voice was all Christopher needed to find him?
And once found, he would be dead.
Christopher stopped and waited for Warewick to come to him. And when he was close enough, Christopher swung in an arc guaranteed to disarm.
At least it had worked well enough with Ranulf.
Christopher felt sword meet sword, then heard the ring of Warewick’s blade as it left the man’s hand and slammed against the stone wall.
“You bloody whoreson,” Warewick exclaimed.
Christopher listened to the man fumbling in the dark for his steel.
“Think you that will stop me? Aye, I’ll find my blade soon enough and then—”
Christopher swung with all his might.
Warewick screamed. Christopher heard the man stumble backwards. He didn’t wait to see what Gillian’s sire would do next. He continued to press forward, swinging and thrusting without pause.
“My eyes!” Warewick screamed. “You cut my eyes!”
It was so perfect that Christopher almost paused to savor it. To blind the man was perfect recompense for the destruction Warewick had wrought on him. He was momentarily tempted to allow Warewick to live, to enjoy in full measure the repayment of his own vile deed. There was a part of him that wanted with all his soul to see Warewick pay for every lash mark on William’s back, every scar Gillian bore, and his own blindness.
But if he left Warewick alive, who knew what mischief the man would combine? His fury would be endless and Gillian would spend the rest of her life wondering when her father would appear.
So he thrust deep. Blade hit bone and Christopher pushed harder, burying his sword to the hilt.
“Damn you to Hell,” Warewick gurgled.
“Not if you’ll be there,” Christopher returned.
He shoved Warewick away from him, not wanting any chance encounters with the man’s dagger. He heard his father-in-law fall to the floor with a heavy thump.
And then there was silence.
Christopher stood there for several moments, listening for the slightest movement.
“My lord?”
“Fetch a torch, Jason.”
He heard Jason scramble back out into the cellar, and still he didn’t move. He listened with all his might for the sound of a footfall he might have missed or the sound of Warewick suddenly sucking in air for one last struggle.
But all was silent.
It seemed an eternity he stood there, waiting for a single sound, bracing himself for the possibility of an attack he couldn’t see.
Christopher heard footfalls behind him. He eased away from Warewick and lifted his blade against this possible new menace.
“’Tis me, my lord,” Jason said. “Here, let me see what damage you’ve wrought.”
Christopher lowered his blade, then heard Jason gulp. Jason’s hand was suddenly on his arm tugging.
“Let us be away,” he said, his tone strained. “He’s very dead, my lord. I’m merely grateful I wasn’t forced to look after breaking my fast.”
“You’ve been too long out of battle, my lad,” Christopher said, following Jason. “Lost your strong stomach, have you?”
Jason’s only response was to walk faster.
Christopher followed his squire to the cellar entrance, then felt for the opening. Once he’d found it, he stayed on his feet long enough to find a handy wall to lean against, then he sat down with a thump.
It was only then that he allowed himself to shake. The terror that washed over him was like nothing he’d ever felt in battle. By all the saints above, how had he possessed the cheek to fight to the death? Warewick could have slit his throat by sheer luck!
Suddenly, on the heels of that thought, came another.
He had fought to the death.
And he was still alive.
It was almost enough to make him laugh. Saints above, he had done it! He had stared blindly at death, and come out victorious.
“My lord? Are you unwell? You look worse than I feel.”
Christopher shook his head, feeling vastly relieved. “Unwell? Lad, I’ve never been less unwell in my life.”
“As you say,” Jason replied, doubtfully.
Christopher reached for his sword and then rose to his feet. He couldn’t explain to Jason the feelings that coursed through him. Saints, for the first time in three years, he felt completely himself! The loss of sight hadn’t made him less of a man. No matter how often Gillian had told him so, he’d had to prove it to himself.
And now that he’d proved it, he could go on. Gillian would come home and know that she need never fear her sire again. William’s soul could be at peace,
knowing he’d been avenged. Christopher would live out his days knowing he could protect his lady if need be.
But God help him if he had to face another night such as this.
“Come, Jason,” Christopher said, resheathing his sword. “Let’s see to Wolf’s tail and then find Ranulf. I’ve no mind to have those bodies rotting inside my walls.”
“And then, my lord?”
Christopher put his shoulders back. “And then,” he said purposefully, “I’ve another thing to see to.”
And see to it he would. He’d just faced Warewick and lived to tell of it. His day was off to a bloody fine start. And it would finish out that way, if he had anything to say about it.
thirty-five
GILLIAN STARED INTO THE FLAMES OF THE FIRE IN THE hearth. She’d been at the Lord’s Hall for over a month and nary a word from Blackmour nor its lord. Her only accomplishment over the past five weeks had been besting Colin in chess.
It was a hollow victory.
But what had she expected? For Christopher to come running to fetch her? He likely wouldn’t have if it had been a straight path from his door to “hers. The path below was anything but straight.
One of Colin’s men had fallen just the week before and broken his leg. The more Gillian thought about it, the less she wanted to see Christopher coming up that path. He would kill himself and then where would she be? Mistress of Blackmour, without her lord by her side? The thought wasn’t worth contemplating.
She sighed deeply. As if any thought about a life together with Christopher was worth contemplating. She certainly hadn’t had any messages from him. Obviously he’d agreed with her reasons for leaving. Her father had humiliated him one too many times. The first had come at her wedding by means of her pitiful dowry. As if dowering her with Braedhalle hadn’t been painful enough! Saints, but it must have galled him to accept that.
Her sire had continued his assault by making Christopher look like a bumbling page in his own hall before his own people, then laughing while he told of Magdalina’s perfidy. It was no wonder Christopher wanted nothing to do with her.
In truth, she couldn’t blame him. Each time he realized she was near him, he likely thought of those hateful memories. Nay, ’twas best she left him be. The Lord’s Hall could be made comfortable in time. Already she’d fashioned a clumsy bit of needlepoint for a pillow. Tapestries would follow, over the years. Her son wouldn’t grow up in Blackmour’s splendor, but at least he’d be warm and well-loved. Gillian had nothing else of value to offer.
