Chapter 3
Scotts Manor
It hurt. It hurt so bad he wanted to puke, to cry, to call out for salvation. He clinched his jaws tight enough his teeth and jaw hurt to the point they might break. Beads of sweat wet his face, he could smell his own blood, his own urine, and body odor. He heard the click as the wheel slid into its stop, and the man at the lever stepped back. But the pain rolled on and on. His legs, arms, and back were stretched beyond endurance, every joint ready to be severed. I will not talk! I will not!
Cyrille opened his eyes and saw the low ceiling over his head. He heard the two guards talking in their foreign tongue. He slowed his breaths, concentrating on inhaling and exhaling, to move his mind a little farther away from this prison, in this barren, God-forsaken land. He thought of home, his sister. He would return there one day, both he and his brother. He just had to endure and King Richard would attack, and there would be no more need for their secrets.
He must have lost consciousness because he awoke in the cell. Why did he feel so lost? Because he wasn’t here. They already escaped, and the Emir was dead. No, he wasn’t dead. The man who tried to burn him alive had somehow escaped. Cyrille was confused. How did they end up back in this hell hole? Did the Emir hunt them down again? He had come for Alena. He must have come for them too, only he was having trouble remembering.
He tested the chains holding him to the wall. He pulled a little, but they would not give. He pulled harder, franticly, until it turned into a maniacal frenzy that left him exhausted, panting. Desperation built and built within his chest, until he felt like sobbing. This could not happen again. He could not survive again. He could not! He pulled again, braced himself against the wall, pulled again and again, until his arms felt as if they would pull from their sockets. His wrists were bloody from the effort, and yet the chains would not yield.
Then they had him again. He was tied to the table. He couldn’t move, and the knife was coming at him. He could see the tip, so close, it blurred in his vision. The pain. It exploded in his head, and he tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Pain, it rolled on and on, washing over him, taking his breath, imprisoning his senses, so he knew nothing but the pain. He could not scream, he could not fight. Where was Damien? His brother always kept him safe, despite the stupid things he had gotten himself into over the years. Yet, he knew Damien could not save him, it was his turn to save Damien. That’s why he was here, and not his brother. He would be strong, because he knew his brother would be.
Oh God the pain! He couldn’t move, it took everything from him including, his will to live. His mind screamed, kill me, over and over until there seemed no end to the echo of the words inside his head. He needed someone to end his agony. It was not just his head, but every part of him. He could smell charred meat, burnt hair, and he knew it was himself. He could feel the pain through the existing pain. He was burning. No, he was already burned, already knew the pain, the panic and desperation.
Damien was leaving him. Cyrille didn’t know where he was. He just knew his brother was leaving him here to die, alone. Fear came and wrapped its tentacles around the pain, interwove with it, until they were one and the same. He knew he was going to die from the moment they cut his eye from him, but he did not think he would die without his brother. They were free now, yet Damien was leaving him. Why couldn’t he just stay a few minutes? There was so much pain, he could not survive any longer. Just a few minutes. Stay brother. Stay. Repeated itself in his mind, but he could not speak. He begged and pleaded, but no one heard, as no one heard his screams, or knew of the pain, and now the fear.
Damien was gone. He felt the emptiness inside himself. Was he dead? Yes, he knew he was dead because he felt the loneliness. It fed the fear, until tremors took over. Cyrille did not feel the pain, only fear. Then he saw him. On the platform, the flames eating away at him. Already Damien sagged against the ropes as they burned through, and then his body was falling, disappearing into the flames. No! It’s me. It’s me. Don’t hurt him. It’s me. Me!
Cyrille sat up in bed. His body was drenched in sweat, and tremors took over, the covers clutched in his hands, hugging them desperately to his chest, as he dragged in great gulps of air. He couldn’t move, he was safe at Scotts Manor with his brother. Yet he felt the fear and pain all over again, as he huddled in the middle of his bed, the blankets pulled protectively around him, as if they were a cocoon that could keep the reality of his past out. He did not like the fear, he could live with the pain that was left to him, but the fear that woke him each time he lay his head down and left him a quivering coward, was hard to accept. He had suffered and he had survived, but he relived it each time he closed his eyes seeking rest. There is no rest for the wicked.
Anger flooded him as he tried to bring himself back under control. Flinging the covers off, he climbed from the bed, his back and leg screaming at him, as it did constantly throughout the day and night. He was no man, just a frightened, worthless child. He grabbed the candle next to the bed and flung it across the room. It gave him no satisfaction, so he grabbed the little table and flung it as well. It crashed into the wall splintering, but that, as he well knew, did not chase away the nightmarish fear and pain that was imbedded in his soul.
He pulled his dark cloak on and grabbed his dark hood, slipping it on over his head, before he left his chamber. Despite the late hour he moved along in the shadows, blending with them, the concealing thickness brought him some level of comfort. Out in the courtyard, he looked at the silhouette of the new wall that now surrounded Scotts Manor. It was a double layer wall, the inner taller and stronger than the outer, although the outer was not small by any means. Damien had a family to protect now, and he worked months to see it through to completion. Soon the King would be at the gates, demanding Damien’s head, for not answering his summons to bring his army to fight in the King’s next war.
Cyrille’s eyes fell on the dark shape standing on the wall, and Cyrille knew it was Damien. Stiffly he climbed the steps, and made his way to him.
~ ~ ~
Damien knew by the shuffle of the approaching stride it was Cyrille who was seeking his company this late at night. He did not turn from the landscape laid out before him as Cyrille came to stand beside him. From the corner of his eye he saw his brother remove the hood. Who did he think he would encounter so late at night? It was not worth the risk for his brother. Everyone here knew Cyrille was badly scarred, but most still only saw the man in his hood. There reaction would always be the same as everyone else’s, horror.
“It’s time,” Damien said, without looking his way.
He heard Cyrille sigh.
“Don’t tell me where you go. I think it is safest for Keri if I do not know.”
He watched Cyrille turn to him, but still Damien did not look at his brother.
“I think the King would stop at nothing to find out her location, and make sure she was dead alongside me. I think he would wait until I knew she was dead, before he killed me.”
“Do you think you have angered him to that extent?” Cyrille asked, in the whisper that did not strain his damaged voice.
“We have served the King a long time. How many lives have I taken because they have angered the King?”
“They were not all innocent,” Cyrille said, in defense of his brother. Loyal to the end, that was Cyrille, Damien thought.
“But some were.”
Silence fell between the two brothers, as they stood side by side. How many times had they done just that? How many times had they cheated death together? This time was different, Damien could feel it. Too much had changed, and for the first time in his life, Damien ignored the orders of his king. His actions would not go unpunished.
“Remember when we took the Lesley twins down to the pond?” Cyrille asked with a deep chuckle.
A feeling of peaceful melancholy blanketed Damien at the memory. The two girls had been their first, ironic they were identical twins for the two brothers, though n
ot born the same year, were as identical as two could be. “There father found us coming back, and Christen assured him nothing happened, while Christy wanted him to kill me.”
“It was Christen who wanted you dead. Christy was my girl, and apparently I did a better job than you, since she wanted to save me,” Cyrille clarified.
“It was the three of us against Christen, otherwise I think I would have died that day.”
“And their father was so angry Christen tried to be deceitful, he sent her off to a convent.”
“The girls always loved you,” Damien said but, felt like kicking himself afterward. Cyrille had been the kind, charming one the girls flocked to. He never had a cold night in his bed, because no woman could withstand his brother’s charms. Now he couldn’t pay the lowliest whore to climb into his brother’s bed.
“Because I wasn’t grumpy like you.”
“I was not grumpy,” Damien declared, thankful his cruel comment hadn’t sent Cyrille away in anger. “I just had a lot to plan for. We were to be the strongest knights of the King after all.”
“You were always going to be the strongest of the King’s men. I was going to follow you to court, and plow all the pretty maidens.”
Damien laughed because that was how their early years played out. “You almost ended up tied down when Lord Oscar found you plowing his daughter.”
“Lucky for me, several of the other men in the barracks came forward to tell how they were there first.”
“You always had an angel sitting upon your shoulder.”
“Not always,” Cyrille replied.
Damien turned toward his brother. “Always Cyrille, or you would not be standing here with me now. You would not be able to take my family to safety.”
“I don’t want to leave you brother,” Cyrille said, and Damien heard the fear in the words.
Damien studied his brother before him. He was so scarred, so broken, Damien wanted to be able to protect him forever, but now he was a danger to him. If Richard came for him and found Cyrille, he would kill him as surely as he would kill Keri. All because Damien loved them.
“We will never leave each other Cyrille. We will always be a part of each other. Not even death can take us from each other, but I need you more than ever. You must do what I cannot do.”
“I know.”
Silence fell between them and Damien knew he could depend on Cyrille to take Keri far away from Scotts Manor, and the danger she was in if they stayed.
“How long am I to stay away?” Cyrille asked.
“Never return here,” Damien said, with near panic in his voice. Cyrille studied him silently. “We have fought alongside the King’s men. If the first army he sends does not succeed, he will send a larger army.”
“Has the extra months been worth it?”
“It has not just been the extra months. It’s about the rest of my life. I wanted to spend it with Keri, not in some desert, or taking a country I care nothing for.” Damien shrugged, “I may have survived this war, but maybe not the next, or the one after that. I have found my peace here, and I will die for it, that is all that is left to do.”
~ ~ ~
Keri pulled her horse to a stop and watched Cyrille’s back as he continued a couple of more paces, before he realized she stopped, and her children on their ponies on either side of her did the same. Realizing his companions had stopped, he turned his horse around. Keri would never forget the terror this man invoked in her upon their first meeting, The-man-in-the-hood. Now she felt sympathy for him, the awkward way he sat his horse to accommodate his bad leg, and the stiffness that always was a part of him. But her sympathy was not enough to save him from the wrath she was getting ready to unleash on him, if he balked.
She was unable to tell what he was thinking with the hood on his face, not that he was easy to read without it. She nudged her horse the two paces to come alongside him. “We have to find Roland and Garrick,” she declared with defiance.
“Your husband has told you to leave, and you told him you would,” he declared, his voice was whispered, but she heard the irritation.
“I did not lie to Damien. We are not at Scotts Manor are we?” she asked, with her own irritation. “We are going to gather more forces, and return to help protect our home.”
“I cannot allow it.”
Keri straightened to her full height in her saddle. “I do not care what you will allow. I fought for my old home when you came to destroy it, why would I not fight for Scotts Manor?”
“You were not victorious at Langley.”
“No, but we gave you a good fight, so it stands to reason we can give the King a good fight.”
“We are not going to give the King any fight,” Cyrille declared, stressing the “we”. He studied her for a minute, before reaching out to take her horse’s bridle, and begin to lead her. Nimbly, she swung a leg over and slid to the ground.
“Then take my children to safety and I will do this.”
“I will not!” he yelled, his voice raspy, and she watched him swallow several times, knowing he was trying to avoid the cough that always accompanied raising his voice.
“Do what you want and I will take care of them too.” She couldn’t help the pride that swelled in her chest when her son Kennet slid from his pony, and went to his younger sister, Waverly, and helped her to the ground.
“I cannot,” he ground out.
Keri heard unlimited stories from Damien about the kind of man Cyrille once was. She knew he was no longer the patient, easy going man, but she also knew he loved his brother, and would not raise a hand to hurt her. Cyrille had also grown close to Waverly, who besides herself, never shrank from his mangled face.
“Then I guess you have no choice but to go with me,” Keri declared, her hands on her hips, her head tilted back to look up at the man still on his horse. He was quite the intimidating figure on his giant horse, with the hood covering his face, as he looked down on her. She couldn’t tell for sure, but it felt as if he glared.
He looked down on her for what seemed to be several minutes, before relenting. “Fine!” He yanked his horse around, and rode several paces away to turn and watch, as she settled her children back on their ponies, and remounted.
“Since you are so wise, where do we go to find these extra forces?” Cyrille asked her, leaning toward her so she could hear him.
Keri dreaded that question. Her biggest plan was to get Cyrille on her side, he would know people. He fought with them, and surely he could raise some forces. She shrugged as she stared at him.
“You are the most irritating woman.” He grew silent for a moment. “We will go to Kinsey, the Countess may have news of her husband’s whereabouts.”
“What if he is fighting with the King?”
“Then we should be very grateful.” He turned his horse and moved away quickly, leaving the other three to follow behind.
~ ~ ~
The night was a serene one as Cyrille propped himself against the fallen tree. It made the perfect wind break for their little camp. Tomorrow they would arrive at Kinsey, and Cyrille wished more than anything this journey would not come to an end. He felt blasphemous with the thoughts that distracted him during the day, and kept him awake tonight, when all he wanted to do was sleep and forget his stiff body for that short time. It was Keri, she was much too close to him. Her shoulder rubbed his so she could benefit from the tree as well, as she mended Kennett’s cloak. The touch was a perfectly innocent one, but Cyrille had a hard time joining the woman who enflamed him, and his brother’s wife, into one. How long had it been since he benefited from a woman?
All day he watched her hips sway with her horse, how she cared for her children. Earlier she unbound her hair, brushed it to retie, and all he could think of was running his hands through it. It lay loosely about her shoulders now, the fresh smell of it even after all day of travel, intrigued him. He forced himself not to lean closer. The children lay on the other side of the fire, fast asleep after a long d
ay.
“What did you mean by we can be thankful if Garrick is fighting with Richard.”
Cyrille turned and looked down at her, and quickly looked away. He could forget he looked the way he did when he was next to her, especially the way she looked up into his face, with open interest in what he had to say, not disgust. “Surely you know in what capacity Garrick serves the King.” Cyrille was careful to keep his voice at the tone that made him sound like a normal person.
“In the same as Damien I assumed.”
“He is the King’s assassin. Anyone who threatens the crown, Garrick can find and kill without having to send an army.”
“Is that not why you and Damien fight, to keep the crown safe?”
“Damien and I fight, Garrick is the one that is sent to kill a lord quietly, while he sleeps in his bed. If the King still has use for the lord, he will send Garrick to kill the lord’s loved one, to make him fall into line. That is the difference between us and Garrick.”
He watched Keri swallow as she digested the information. She had such a delicate neck, he wondered what it would taste like if he were to run his tongue over it.
“Would the King see Damien as a threat, because he did not go to some stupid war?” The fire jumped in her brown eyes, and he admired her spirit.
“The King has thought Damien a threat since he took the crown.”
“Do you think he will send Garrick to kill Damien?”
“We think it likely, or more likely, he will be sent to make Damien comply.”
“You think he will be sent to kill me?”
Cyrille nodded, “The King killed Roland’s wife for much the same reason.” He watched the reality of the entire situation wash over her face.
“We have to go back,” Keri said rising.
Cyrille took her by the arm and pulled her back down, nearly into his lap. “We cannot. I promised Damien.”
“You will just have to break that promise,” she replied, his grip a little tighter than needed, as he held her still.
Angie Arms - Flames series 04 Page 5
