“Why would Queen Gracelyn provide me with food? To keep up my strength and prolong my suffering?”
“Ah…” Gaius offered the flask again and the younger man accepted. “The Queen does enjoy testing a man’s spirit, but this…” He gestured towards the warrior’s burnt side. “This is long past her point of…eh, pleasure.”
“Then, why…?” The warrior’s voice broke from remembrance of the pain. “She could’ve let you use stitches.”
“She’s concerned for her people. Worried about King William. Westmoorland is thrice the size of Cambridge and his army is more than tripled. And if he attacks…well, you should know. You’re one of his warriors. When he attacks, he spares no one. Even the women and children are slaughtered.”
The warrior frowned. He did know. It was cause for many nightmares. He strongly disagreed with his king’s directive to leave no survivors, but no one disobeyed the king’s orders.
Gaius watched the warrior’s face and nodded. “So, you see. Gracelyn…” He paused with a frown. “If your king is planning an attack, Queen Gracelyn must know. She will not stop—aye, she cannot stop—until her questions are answered.”
Sighing, the warrior closed his eyes. “I have no answers to give her.”
“Hmm. Then, I’m afraid, there is little more I can do for you.”
Marcus, Philippe and the third soldier gathered by the corner fireplace, enjoying the last of its warmth as it died. The warrior couldn’t see them, but he could hear them talking.
“Why doesn’t she put him on the Rack? That would make him talk,” said the third soldier.
“I wish she would,” Marcus growled. “I’d turn the wheel for her, myself.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to kill him. The death of this Knight could cause King William to declare war.” Philippe’s voice was calm; again, his was the voice of reason.
“He came here as a spy, trying to pass himself off as one of our peasants. I’d say that makes him fair game. Besides, the Rack won’t kill him, if he talks soon enough.” Marcus’ voice rose and fell in anger.
“No, but it will cripple him. And ‘tis not our place to question our Queen’s decisions.”
Marcus grumbled in quiet dissent.
Closing his eyes, the warrior sighed. He didn’t know when the Queen would return, or what form her next torture for him would take. He knew he needed to rest, while he was lying down.
He inhaled long, slow breaths through his nose, releasing them through parted lips. It was a relaxation technique he’d learned from his mother. He had used it in his early days of training, when each day’s end left his youthful body so sore he could barely move. He used it now, trying to block the pain from his mind and let his thoughts wander.
The young knight sat in the chair and looked around. He had never seen so many people gathered in one place before. The Great Hall was full. Most of the Nobles from the region were in attendance. All of the Knights of Westmoorland were there, most of them accompanied by their parents and siblings.
His parents and sister were not invited.
He stuck his finger in the collar of his tunic and pulled. The formal attire was tailor-made and the expensive material was amazingly soft against his skin, but he was more accustomed to simpler garments. His regular tunics were not as soft, but at least they gave him room to breathe.
A hand fell on his shoulder and he turned his head as his friend, Gerard, slid into the chair beside him. Tall and broad, with dark wavy hair, brown eyes and a round face, Gerard was a bear of a man in appearance but had the disposition of a court jester.
Gerard grinned. “How’re you doing?”
He knew this was not a casual question. Gerard was aware of his discomfort and he could answer with truthfulness. “Huh. I think I would rather tackle a wild boar, bare-handed.”
Gerard laughed, good-naturedly. “You’ll get used to it.”
The warrior shook his head. “I doubt it.” He looked up as a serving maid placed a platter of food in front of him. She smiled and curtsied and he returned her smile, feeling his face warm as a blush rose to his cheeks. He had seen her earlier that week, in the marketplace. She had been overly friendly, commenting that his eyes were the color of emeralds, and that she liked the contrast between his strong, squared chin and the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled.
Her attention had unnerved him. In the short month since he had joined the Knighthood, the women in town had become increasingly sociable and he wasn’t sure how to handle it.
He dropped his gaze to the food in front of him and his eyes grew wide. The platter was as large as the ones his mother used to serve his whole family, and the food piled on it was more than his family would have had in TWO meals.
He raised his eyes to Gerard. “Am I supposed to eat all of this?”
Gerard laughed. “Of course not. Just eat as much as you want and leave the rest.”
“What will be done with it?”
“It will be thrown out,” Gerard answered with a shrug.
The warrior frowned. “Gluttony and wastefulness. Wonderful.”
Laughing again, Gerard slapped his back. “You’re a knight now, my friend. Things will change for you. And speaking of change…”
He followed his friend’s gaze across the room, to where Queen Gracelyn sat beside King William. She had arrived earlier that day. It was her first visit to Westmoorland, since he became a knight.
“She looks especially beautiful tonight, doesn’t she?” the warrior asked softly.
“Will you approach her, now that you are a knight?”
He dropped his head and closed his eyes. “I can’t. Remember, I told you what King William said.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” Gerard frowned. “It isn’t fair. You’re one of us, now. You EARNED your knighthood, more so than a lot of us did. You’re damned skilled with a sword, or a mace. And in hand-to-hand combat, you’re one of our best. You should have the same privileges we have.”
The young knight sighed. “He is king. He doesn’t have to be fair.”
Chapter Three
THE WARRIOR FELT SLIGHT PRESSURE against his throat and heard the soft click of a lock opening. As he opened his eyes, Queen Gracelyn removed the collar from his neck. Moaning softly in relief, he shrugged his shoulders and turned his head to one side and then the other, stretching muscles that had been immobilized for too long.
The Queen paced to the table across the room. He raised his head to watch her and then looked around the chamber. The three guards were still in the corner by the fireplace, but the fire had died and a chill was again in the air.
Queen Gracelyn returned with a small wooden crate. She turned it over on the table and odd-shaped metal frames tumbled out.
“What are those?” The warrior had never seen anything like them before.
She raised her eyes to his, but gave him no answer. “Armand, your assistance, please.”
“Yes, my Queen.” The third guard joined her at the table and went to work with no instructions. He added a strap around each elbow, further restraining the warrior’s arms. He walked to the other table, returning with an armload of tapered candles and two larger ones, several inches thick.
The Queen began setting the frames up alongside his right arm, starting with his armpit and spacing them an inch or so apart. Frowning, the warrior studied one of the frames.
His breath caught in his throat and his pulse quickened. Now, he understood.
The frame would hold a candle horizontally, only inches above his skin, allowing the melted wax to drip without obstruction.
She finished with his right arm and started with his left. His sides were next and then his inner thighs and calves. She lit a tapered candle by the nearest torch and used it to light the two larger candles. Watching her, the warrior realized
the large candles had two wicks apiece.
Pausing, she raised her eyes to his. Her lips curled upwards, but there was no joy in her smile. “Answer my questions,” she said softly, placing the first candle into the frame at his underarm.
She took another candle from Armand, lighting it by a larger one and placing it in the next frame.
The first drop fell.
Wincing, the warrior inhaled sharply through clenched teeth.
The Queen continued placing a lit candle into each frame, working methodically around his body. Armand rejoined his friends in the corner of the room.
The drops fell slowly at first, making him wait. Each drop was a concentrated point of hot pain. His body flinched with each drop and the slight movement caused the next drop from that candle to fall beside the previous one, not on top.
The pain was tolerable, but the waiting! The ceaselessness, the knowledge that he could do nothing to keep it from worsening.
Nothing, except answer her questions.
And that, he couldn’t do.
Placing the last candle, she folded her arms across her bosoms and met his gaze.
He studied her face. The smile was gone; her lips pressed together into a thin line.
Determination burned in her eyes.
He took a long, slow breath, blowing it out between parted lips. He opened his fists and forced his body to relax, as the speed of the drops increased. He couldn’t keep his skin from quivering with each drop and he couldn’t block the pain from his mind, but he strove to control his reaction to it.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing.
Hot wax landed on his chest, breaking his concentration. Gasping, he opened his eyes.
Queen Gracelyn had one of the large candles in her hand, tipped on its side, as she poured the paraffin wax across his chest and nipples. Depleting its supply, she set the candle down and picked up the other one.
“Why are you here? Answer me!”
“I am here…” he paused, buying time and delaying the tipping of the second candle. “Because my king commanded it.”
She scowled. “That is an insufficient answer and you know it!” She turned the candle over, dumping its molten wax onto his balls.
A strangled cry of pain tore from his throat and he thrashed against his restraints. Several of the candles at his thighs toppled over, their flames touching his skin, and his cry became a roar as the acrid smell of singed hair filled his nostrils.
The Queen blew the fallen candles out and turned away. She stood with her back to him, her hands over her face. Finally, she spun around and leaned over him, staring in his eyes. “Is William going to attack? I must know! You must tell me!”
He looked at her, his breath ragged.
Tears filled her eyes and wet her cheeks.
The candles continued to drip, but the pain mattered little to him. Her pain was what mattered. An ache started deep in his chest.
“I…” He wanted to say I don’t know. But he was a knight, honor-bound to King William. He closed his eyes. “I can’t answer your questions.”
Hearing her leave his side, he opened his eyes and watched her reset the fallen frames and relight their candles. She leaned against the wall, watching him.
He held her gaze until he could no longer stand the pain in her eyes, and then turned his stare to the ceiling and watched the shadows dance with the flickering light from the torches. He didn’t close his eyes; he didn’t want to be caught off-guard a second time.
The candles continued to drip but the wax was building up on his skin, providing a barrier and protecting him from the searing heat.
She stepped away from the wall and picked up the large candles, one in each hand.
Watching her, he caught his breath and prayed she wouldn’t target his balls again. When she moved past his groin and continued to the foot of the table, he had a moment of relief.
She tipped both the candles, pouring the wax onto his feet.
His legs jerked futilely against the chains restraining him and his breath stuck in his throat as the wax ran between his toes and trickled down the bottoms of his feet. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, curling his hands into fists, as he waited for the wax to cool.
Queen Gracelyn set the candles on the table and picked up a small knife. Starting with his right arm and moving around his body, she carefully peeled the wax off his skin, repositioning the frames as she did. Returning to the wall, she crossed her arms over her bosoms and closed her eyes.
The candles burned short and started going out. The Queen raised her head and opened her eyes. “Armand, I need more candles, please.”
“Yes, my Queen.” Armand left his friends and hurried across the room, returning to the table with another armload of candles.
She began replacing the candles around his arms with fresh ones, first his right side and then his left. Pausing, she leaned over him, her eyes boring into his. “I can keep this up all night. And all day. Can you?”
His chest heaving, he searched her eyes. “I guess…” he gulped. “I guess I’ll have to.”
With a cry of frustration, she swept the candles by his right arm off the table and stormed out of the dungeon.
Twisting his neck, the warrior watched her leave, and then turned his eyes on Armand. The soldier stood beside the table, also staring after the Queen, his face an image of surprise.
“Is she done?” Marcus asked, heading for the table with Philippe two steps behind him.
Armand frowned. “It appears so.”
A sneer on his face, Marcus reached for the larger candles. The warrior tensed, but Armand snatched up the candles and blew them out as he carried them to the other table. Scowling, Marcus picked up the frame nearest his hand, intentionally knocking over the frames on either side of it.
Philippe extinguished the fallen candles first, continuing until all of the candles were out.
Marcus spat on the floor. “Damnit, why can’t I have some fun?”
Armand returned, exchanging a glance with Philippe as they placed the frames in the crate and gathered the tapered candles.
“We need to move him and after what happened the last time, I don’t think we should take any chances. Armand, will you go and fetch us some help?” Philippe said softly.
“Yes, sir.” Armand deposited his armload of candles on the other table and left. Philippe carried the box of frames across the room, watching Marcus out of the corner of his eyes. With a disgruntled scoff, the burley guard leaned on the wall, withdrawing a dagger and examining the blade.
Watching him, the warrior frowned. It was his dagger in the guard’s hands.
Armand returned with three soldiers. Marcus stepped up to the table and pressed the dagger in his hand to the warrior’s throat. “One of the soldiers you wounded was my brother. So, try something now,” the guard challenged. “Give me an excuse…”
The warrior held the man’s gaze. Six against one. The odds were against him, but Marcus was the only one with a ready weapon. And if he failed, at least he would die fighting. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, forcing his body to relax, making himself appear as exhausted as he felt. The pressure of the knife on his throat eased.
Even with his eyes closed, he knew the position of everyone in the room: Marcus on his left side, Philippe on his right, two soldiers at the foot of the table and Armand with the last man at the head. After removing the straps, they freed his ankles and a pair of hands held each leg down. They freed his wrists last and he felt hands upon his arms. Before they had a chance to apply pressure, he made his move.
He pulled his left arm down, knocking the dagger out of Marcus’s hand. Simultaneously, he jerked both legs. One soldier lost his grip, falling backwards, and the warrior twisted his body, kicking the
other soldier, while he wrenched his right arm away from Armand and swung his fist at Marcus.
But Marcus had stepped back when he lost the knife and the warrior’s fist sailed through empty air. The guard retaliated, driving his fist into the warrior’s side, into the cauterized wound.
The warrior gasped, rolling onto his back. This gave his enemies time to recover and soon he was securely held by four sets of hands.
Marcus retrieved the dagger and glared at the warrior, his face red with fury. Growling, he punched the warrior in the stomach and then slammed his fist again into the wound.
Black pain swept through the warrior and he fought to remain conscious.
“Get him up,” Marcus commanded.
“Wait,” Philippe spoke. Marcus scowled at him. “I have an idea. I will return.” Philippe dashed out of the dungeon.
Marcus turned his attention back to the captured man on the table. Gripping the dagger, he slid his hand between the warrior’s thighs and pressed the steel against his testicles. “Move and I’ll cut ‘em off.”
Philippe returned after several minutes, carrying a 5-foot wooden pole with a leather loop at one end.
“Ha!” Marcus laughed. “That’s what we use to capture stray dogs. Good thinking, Phil. Treat him like the mongrel he is.”
Keenly aware of his own blade situated to end his manhood, the warrior didn’t resist as Philippe slipped the loop over his head.
“Now, wait a moment,” Philippe cautioned, turning the pole in his hands to tighten the loop. “And then we can move him.”
The warrior closed his eyes. The loop constricted his airways, but he found, if he kept his breaths slow and even, he could still breathe.
“It’s not tight enough! Turn it more!” Marcus demanded.
Philippe turned the pole several more times. The warrior’s eyes flew open and his lips parted, sounds coming from his throat as he struggled in vain to breathe. His vision blurred as his eyes glassed over.
Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior Page 3
