by Nicole Locke
‘I think you pushed him too hard into the hole you had made, Mama,’ Pepin announced.
‘She did not,’ Clovis said. ‘How else was he to fall in the hole unless she pushed him? And it’s a trap. Remember Imbert told us it took months to dig and line with smooth wood like that.’
It was the perfect trap, built inside a hut so no one from the outside could see it, and the truth of what she’d done in hitting Balthus of Warstone over the head and shoving him into it made her stomach curl.
After a few weeks of travel, they’d arrived at their destination. A small village where she had separated from the last of Ian’s servants who’d left with her that fateful day. Sarah and Imbert, the stablemaster, more friends than servants, had helped her enlist the others in the household.
They’d stayed together the longest until this village where she’d given Imbert coin to organise this hut and trap. Wind blasted against the sides of the thin structure. The rain had turned to snow then to slush. The weather was bitter and caustic. Even if they wanted to travel again, it would not be wise. She might have trapped Balthus of Warstone in the pit, but the weather had trapped her, too. It was just as well as she needed to know what danger he’d brought to this tiny village and to her.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she said.
‘It was only him,’ Clovis said. ‘He’s not the man you hit.’
‘Mama doesn’t hit!’ Pepin shouted.
‘Pepin,’ she pleaded. ‘Please.’
Glaring at his brother, Clovis added, ‘He slowed the horse when he got into the square and dismounted. That’s when we showed ourselves to him and ran.’
‘He got lost then!’ Pepin said.
‘And Sarah saw us,’ Clovis added.
Sarah, who must have immediately run to her to tell her to wait in the hut and prepare. So she had, right behind the door.
‘What then?’ she asked.
‘I went to the woods like you told me to,’ Pepin said.
‘And a good boy you are for doing so.’ The villagers were about so if harm came, he would be protected, but the woods was his favourite place to hide.
‘I ran here,’ Clovis said.
Clovis had burst through, closed the door and run around to the far side. Balthus hadn’t fought, hadn’t known he’d needed to fight because she’d cracked him over the head with a sturdy branch, pushed, and all that was left had been the sound his body had made when he’d hit the bottom.
Pepin peered over the smooth ledge. ‘Do you think his legs are broken?’
What had she done? She’d hit Balthus on the head merely to disorientate him, but even that felt like too much the way he’d suddenly swayed, then she hadn’t meant to push him so hard, but she was terrified it wouldn’t work. Was it possible he’d broken his legs, his arms...his neck? She hadn’t heard anything snap, but then she could barely hear anything over the roaring in her ears. With far more trepidation than her children’s, she tried to see to the bottom of the pit.
It was as dark as night...which was her intention because enemies didn’t deserve to see. But now she realised it was too dark.
She should be glad she’d hit and shoved him too hard. The entire family deserved pain, agony, and yet she felt ill. She needed to know if he’d survived.
‘Clovis, is he still...breathing?’
Eagerly lying near the edge, Clovis peered down; Pepin mimicked him. She threw more kindling on the fire. Perhaps more light up here would provide more light down there.
Fear was closing off her senses... What would she do if the youngest Warstone was dead? Could any amount of hiding save her sons from the family then? And where was the servant she’d first injured?
‘When you ran here, did you see anyone else with him?’
‘No, Mama,’ Pepin said. ‘Did he ruin your hide-and-seek, too?’
‘He’s not moving,’ Clovis said.
She’d go mad with this conversation reciting all her fears! She’d hoped this village would be a haven for approaching spring. She wished, fervently, that Balthus had never found her. She didn’t want to run again. But there was no running from a dead Warstone in a pit.
Séverine jumped at the knock at the door. Froze when it opened until Sarah poked her head in and looked at the boys on their stomachs. ‘Is he in there?’
Séverine nodded. ‘Where’s Imbert?’
‘Doing a check and notifying everyone.’ Sarah peered over. ‘Who did you catch?’
‘I thought you saw him.’
‘It’s cold outside and I kept my head down. It’s dark down there, I can’t see an insignia, so it’s not Ian. A mercenary of his?’
Everyone’s eyes were working better than hers! ‘It’s Balthus.’
Sarah grabbed the backs of the boys’ tunics and pulled them away. ‘You’ve got to run now.’
‘He’s too still. If he’s dead or truly hurt...’ Séverine said.
‘Then they’ll only hurt you worse. Get up, boys!’
The boys fought Sarah’s grip until they were free. Clovis pulled down his tunic; Pepin looked expectantly at her. They may have known these servants all their lives, but their mother had the final say. She needed to be a mother to them. Now that the surprise of what she’d done had sunk in, a certain truth was becoming all too clear.
‘I know that expression,’ Sarah said. ‘You can’t be soft when it comes to them, you must go. This was always the intention.’
‘I know what they’re like! But leaving an actual Warstone wasn’t the intention. He’s a complication. It was supposed to be a mercenary sent by my husband, one with the intention of dragging us back before Ian’s parents. Or Ian himself, who wouldn’t harm us.’
‘Balthus is well known to be a favourite of his mother’s, and intends to do you harm,’ Sarah said.
She didn’t know what he intended...he’d been reserved at the woodcutter’s shed. No matter that moment by the tapestry where it had seemed they’d shared something, he was a Warstone, and she could only trust half of what he said.
‘If I leave him, that’s dangerous for you and Imbert.’
‘His servants will take care of him.’
‘There are no servants.’
‘He’s a Warstone, they’re simply not here yet. His mercenaries are most likely burning the other villages as we stand here now.’
‘He has no mercenaries. There was only one other man at my family’s home. Even so, Balthus of Warstone is in that pit, and if he’s harmed or dead, there will be consequences if I go.’
‘Don’t say it, child. Whatever you do, don’t—’
‘I’m staying to make certain he’s unharmed. I need a torch to see if he’s still breathing.’
‘The only good Warstone is a dead one. You know that,’ Sarah said.
‘I’m going down there,’ Séverine said. ‘If he’s dead, that risks all of us.’
Sarah huffed. ‘I’m getting Imbert to talk some sense into you.’
Chapter Five
Pain was all Balthus was aware of before he could recognise where he hurt. His arm, his left knee. His head.
Shadows flickered, and there was the crackle of fire...and heated whispers between a man and a woman. The man’s voice he didn’t recognise. The woman’s voice was familiar. Why?
A pain like thin daggers continually thrust into his left elbow, the rest he ignored. What mattered were those voices.
The man’s was raised, the woman’s whispered but urgent.
Something wasn’t right. He opened his eyes. Above him, lit by firelight, he saw Séverine and a familiar-looking man, who was gesturing threateningly.
She shouldn’t be standing so close to the man, so near the crevasse into which he’d fallen. She was in danger.
‘Move.’ The word came out hoarsely and barely above a whisper. But the man stepped back im
mediately. Balthus couldn’t see him, but he knew he was still there.
‘Séverine, move.’
She turned her back to the man and peered down at him.
No! He tried to rise.
‘Balthus,’ Séverine said.
‘Get away. Run,’ he gasped.
Her brows drew in, but she didn’t move. He couldn’t hear anything but the clink of a door latch.
‘Where does it hurt?’ she said.
‘Keep your eyes on him!’
‘He’s gone,’ she said.
Where would he go? Her back was to him; she was too trusting. ‘Step away, and I’ll find a way up.’
She paused.
‘Now! You can’t fall in like I—’
‘Balthus, how badly does your head hurt?’
It hurt like he’d fallen into a hole and banged it, except... ‘You hit my head, shoved me in here.’
She straightened, and he noticed the construction and the roof far over his head.
‘What have you done, Séverine?’
‘What should have been done from the beginning. It seems I’ve captured a Warstone.’
There was a bite to her tone, and something else that made little sense given her triumphant words.
‘Why am I here? What is this place?’
She crossed her arms. ‘Can’t you tell? Your ilk has carved out hundreds of traps and created devices to contain and torture people, or have you never personally inspected any of them? I’ve seen them, it was what gave me the idea for this place.’
A well inside a hut. Until he inspected this further, it was indeed a trap.
‘Now tell me, is anything broken, are you bleeding?’ she said.
Concern. That was the tone he didn’t expect from a woman who’d built a Warstone trap to catch a Warstone.
Maybe he could play to her softer side. ‘I do hurt.’
‘I don’t care if you’re in pain,’ she said. ‘I care if you’ll be dying on me sooner than I’d like.’
Her words were harsh, but again something was off. Did she care? No, that couldn’t be correct; she had no reason to be concerned or care for him. He truly did hurt and couldn’t think! He’d go mad within the year if the end of his arm didn’t stop stabbing him so!
‘Why don’t you get a ladder and I’ll crawl up so you can inspect me,’ he said.
She huffed. ‘You’re well, then. That makes everything much easier.’
Careful to keep his left side hidden, Balthus stood. The pit wasn’t large, no more than the height of a man and a half wide, but it was deep, and lined with finely sanded wood. Running his hand along the slats, he could find no purchase. This could be a problem.
‘Let me up, Séverine,’ he said.
‘Or what?’ she said. ‘Why are you following me?’
‘It’s peculiar to have a hole in the middle of a hut.’ He ran his hand over the sides. ‘Why did you truly have this built? It’s far too random to catch me.’
‘How many mercenaries are on their way, or is Ian already here? Your servant isn’t with you—where is he?’
There was a jest here somewhere if only the increase of pain, and the fact that there couldn’t be laughter in his life, didn’t distract him. He wanted to laugh, even if it was a pale version of the true emotion. The difficult aspect of this quest was to find Séverine. Years he’d been prepared to ride and seek. After all, she’d eluded capture by Ian...but now he wondered. How hard had Ian actually searched for her? Because he was finding her all too easily.
All he needed to do was tell her that her husband was dead and to find and secure a piece of parchment. Instead, she’d shoved him down a black hole to ask him questions. He could...stay.
Which had nothing to do with the fact he didn’t want to end their time together, and everything to do with the very certain truth that Séverine had had this built... What else had she done in those years away? If he gave the reasons he was here, he might never know, which was unacceptable. And cooperating and not giving in to his impulses had never been in his nature anyway.
‘You trapped me to gain answers? You could have asked me before you injured me.’
‘You said you weren’t injured. For a Warstone, you’re not a good liar.’
‘Why don’t you let me up, and I’ll show you what I am?’ It was a weak bluff. He was nothing but weak.
She shook her head. ‘I like you like this.’
‘What do you think will happen when they find me in this pit?’
‘Which they? From what direction are they coming?’
He could play this game. ‘Does it matter who they are? Do you think my family or any of their entourage would cease looking for me? And yet you are standing there, waiting to be caught.’
‘That’s what you want to hear? Farewell, Balthus?’
Not in the slightest. He’d never talked to her for any length of time and in this way before. And, as much pain as he felt, he was loath to stop it.
Poorly dressed, her hair in a simple plait, the fire behind her cast shadows over her features, and yet at this angle he could imagine the length of her legs, pretend she was some angel sent down to absolve him of his sins...until he sinned with her.
How he resented Ian taking her away from him. She was to be his! It had wrecked him over the years to know she’d lain with his brother. He’d avoided that cursed house, and yet, whenever he’d been in residence, he’d craned his neck to see her gliding up a staircase or turning a curve in a hallway.
‘If this is goodbye, I look forward to the riddles on how to escape.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I don’t play Warstone games.’
Oh, she didn’t like that. Interesting. ‘You ordered this built to trap a man, and your boys ran through a village slowly enough that I could follow them. I think you play games better than most.’
He didn’t know why he was antagonising her. It wasn’t the way to build trust when there was none between them. He’d expected, with Henry by his side, to ease her into some sort of agreement. After all, Henry was as affable as he could be, and perhaps she’d see he was different from Ian.
Different? He was an impulsive fool! Provoking her, imagining the length of her legs, what it would be like to lie with her. He wanted to get away from games, away from the Warstone life, and she’d just trapped him, and because it was her, he wanted to stay in it.
He’d never deserved her before and was now barely a man. ‘Let me go, Séverine, and no one gets hurt.’
‘Threatening me,’ she scoffed. ‘That didn’t take you long, though it is rather foolish, don’t you believe?’
Threats were foolish when negotiation would fit much better. Either he was out of practice, having been in the company of non-Warstones while he recovered from his severed left hand, or the daggers of pain in his left elbow down to his stump were distracting him.
Sliding to the floor, he leaned his head back against the circular wall. Ah, his head ached. Perhaps, after he rested, after she left, he could find a way to escape. Perhaps—
‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘Resting.’
If he opened his eyes, maybe he could discern her reaction. If he could see her, he might see concern or indifference. What did he know of this woman?
What everyone else assumed. That she was a fragile flower who had been forced to marry his brother. The girl he’d caught dreaming while staring at a tapestry and who had seemed surprised anyone noticed her.
Except she wasn’t fragile. She’d eluded his brother and hidden two growing boys for years. An impossible feat. Further, she’d confessed to constructing this trap, and she was pleased he was stuck in it. No, she wasn’t to be underestimated.
Even if he had both hands, he couldn’t escape this hole without help, but now he sat, and exhaustion was consuming his body.
He hadn’t lied when he’d said he hurt. Perhaps he could rest for a while.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.
He was physically and emotionally empty. Healing from a severed hand, immediately setting out on this journey to find Séverine. Grieving because of his brother. Angry at him still because Ian had tried to kill him. A few weeks out on this journey, and he was so weakened!
‘Someone struck me on the head and shoved me into hole,’ he said.
‘Are you bleeding?’
‘Again, inspect me yourself. Or lower a torch and do it that way.’
‘I have, and it doesn’t allow for the shadows.’
That had him opening his eyes. ‘Why would you admit a weakness?’
‘That’s a—’
‘I could hide a weapon along the edges since you shoved me in here with all my weaponry.’
‘You won’t harm me.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m here to do,’ he bit out.
She paused. ‘That was quite direct...even for one of your kind.’
‘If I said anything else, would you believe me?’
‘Why would you want me to believe you?’ she said.
‘Now, there is a question that has no answer.’ If he told her anything, she’d think it a lie, but even so...why did he want her to believe him? That wasn’t necessary to achieve his goal here.
He was so weary. Negotiating was the correct action to securing the parchment; being kind...a true brother-in-law would be the appropriate path to telling her about the loss. But what was right didn’t feel like it. Why?
Because he’d wanted to make her suffer because she’d run away with his nephews and worry that bit longer? That would be his brothers’—Ian or Guy’s—tactic. Because he had been curious? That was his brother Reynold’s trait. That man studied everything.
Because he’d wanted to be around her for as long as he could? He couldn’t say he’d missed her; he’d been in her presence for mere hours many years ago. He couldn’t conceive of her smiling now, for why would she ever share joy with him? No, even that desire, one for which he yearned, didn’t encompass the inexplicable reason he didn’t blurt out the truth. It was a mystery.
