“Should I send for more?”
He returned her smile, shaking his head and yawning again.
Queen Gracelyn stood, setting the plate on the table and picking up the blanket. She waited until the warrior was again lying down and then spread the blanket over him.
“I would offer you more comfortable accommodations, but…you are my enemy. And tomorrow, you will answer my questions.” At her words, his smile vanished. It pained him to be called her enemy, yet he couldn’t deny its truth. She ran her fingers through his hair. “But for tonight, sleep well, my Warrior.”
The Queen left and the guards followed her, closing the door behind them. He was alone again, but not in darkness. The small fire continued to give light and warmth.
He drifted to sleep with a full stomach, an empty groin and a heavy heart.
Chapter Five
THE WARRIOR AWOKE WHEN THE three men entered the dungeon, closing the door behind them. He listened as they shuffled across the dirt floor, the slurred words of their conversation echoing against the walls. One of them laughed and another shushed him, and then began laughing himself.
The warrior continued to lie still. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, but his gut told him it wasn’t morning and these three were up to no good.
He cursed himself for leaving his hands behind his back. His exhausted body and full stomach had lulled him to sleep and he had let his guard down. His muscles tensed and he waited as the men circled him.
Striking out with his legs, he knocked one of the men down. With his legs still up in the air, he bucked his body, pulling his hands under his ass. The chain scratched the backs of his thighs, but he got his hands in front and then rolled, quickly on his feet.
He glanced around, taking a small step back and slightly bending his knees. The man he’d knocked down was on his hands and knees. His face was unfamiliar; the warrior didn’t know him.
The second man was directly in front of him, another unfamiliar face.
The third man, standing between the two and several feet back, was a face he knew, only too well. It was Marcus.
The second man charged. Clasping his hands together, the warrior slugged the man’s jaw. The impact spun the stranger around and the warrior stepped forward, separating his shackled hands and wrapping the chain around the stranger’s neck.
Gagging from the warrior’s stranglehold, the stranger curled the fingers of one hand around the chain, trying to pull it away from his throat. With his other hand, he clawed at the warrior’s head and face.
The warrior arched his back, pulling his face out of the man’s reach and tightening the chain around the man’s neck.
A huge fist slammed into the warrior’s side, into his wound. It was Marcus, standing beside him. He roared in pain, but didn’t give any slack to the man he held in front of him. He twisted his torso, trying to swing the man around for protection, but the guard stepped to the side and struck again.
Marcus’ fist slammed into the side of his lower back and then again into his wound. The combination knocked the breath out of the warrior and he lost his grip on the man in front of him. The stranger slid to the floor and rolled away, coughing.
The warrior spun to face Marcus and the guard quickly backed away, watching him warily. The first man was again standing and Marcus scowled at him.
“He can’t get both of us, Donny. Get him!” Marcus ordered.
Donny’s fearful eyes widened. “Maybe not, but he can get one of us. You get him.”
Shifting his gaze between the men, the warrior was assessing the danger they posed when suddenly, the second man charged from the shadows. Bellowing angrily, the man drove his fist into the warrior’s face.
The blow knocked the warrior off balance, spinning him around. He stumbled on the chain between his ankles and went down, face-first beside the fireplace.
At that point, the warrior knew he would lose the fight. It was only a matter of time. His shackled ankles would prove too great a hindrance. But giving up was not in his nature. He would fight, as long as there was breath in his body.
His eyes searched the immediate are for something—anything—he could use. A log was sticking out of the fire, several inches in diameter, with only one end burning. As he reached for the end of it, he felt a fist in his side. His reach fell short and his hand landed in the cinders. He closed his fist, ignoring the painful heat, and rolled over, slinging his handful of cinders and ash into the face of his assailant.
Marcus fell back, cursing and wiping his hands over his face. “Nathan, get the son of a bitch!”
Nathan, the second man, rushed forward, swinging his foot. The toe of his boot landed in the warrior’s ribcage and he felt a sharp pain. He rolled onto his side, as Nathan drew back to kick him again. He grabbed the oncoming boot and shoved it up and away from him. Nathan staggered backwards.
Snatching the end of the log and pulling it from the fire, the warrior scrambled to his feet and faced the three men.
Marcus retreated a step and spat on the floor, his face red and his eyes narrowed. “Donny, there’s a pole over by the door. Go get it,” he said softly.
The warrior shifted his gaze between Marcus and Nathan, holding the log in front of him. The flame on the end of it was weak and flickering.
Nathan edged away from Marcus, widening the gap between them until the warrior had to turn his head slightly each time he changed focus from one man to the other.
Donny approached from the side, carrying the dog-catching pole.
“You know how to use it?” Marcus questioned him.
Without responding, Donny darted in, tossing the loop towards the warrior’s head. It was a clumsy attempt and the warrior dodged it easily. Swinging the log as though it were a sword, he knocked the pole out of Donny’s hands. The flame on the end of the log wavered and almost died, but then flared back to life.
“Donny, you are useless,” Marcus growled. “Give the pole to Nathan.”
Eyeing him warily, Donny ran forward and snatched at the pole. The warrior took a step forward, thrusting the log in Donny’s direction. Donny cringed back, as Nathan lunged in and grabbed the pole.
Nathan and Marcus both advanced, widening the gap between them, as Donny fell back, watching.
The warrior knew what they were doing. He also knew there was little he could do to stop them. They were separating to the point that one of them could come at him from behind. He couldn’t ignore Marcus, but Nathan had the pole. If the man succeeded in getting the loop over his head…
Nathan rushed in and the warrior turned in that direction, swinging the log in front of him. Marcus immediately surged forward, forcing the warrior to whirl around, again swinging the log.
The flame wavered and died.
He could still use the log as a club. He swung it at Marcus, but as he did, he overstepped and tripped over the chain. Marcus dodged the log and then moved in, delivering a blow to the side of the warrior’s face.
The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He spat out the blood, struggling to his feet, as he felt the leather loop from the pole drop over his head.
He faced Nathan. The man was turning the pole, twisting the loop tighter around his neck. The warrior threw the log to the side and grabbed the pole. He rammed it forward, shoving it into Nathan’s chest, and then jerked it back, trying to pull it out of Nathan’s hands. Nathan held on.
Ramming the pole forward again, a sharp crack sounded in the air behind him and an intense stinging crossed his back. He glanced over his shoulder.
Marcus held an eight-foot long whip in his hand. With a sneer, he expertly twirled the whip’s tail in the air.
The warrior turned his attention back to Nathan. The whip could cause him pain, but the leather noose tightening around his neck could kill him.
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br /> Marcus cracked the whip again, streaking it down his back. His scream of pain and rage echoed in the chamber, as he tried again to wrench the pole away from Nathan. The whip cracked a third time and he felt its pain, but focused his attention on Nathan. He began twisting the pole in the opposite direction.
Nathan started losing his grip.
Suddenly, the warrior felt Marcus’ arms encircle his chest in a vice-like hold. He was the taller of the two men, but only by a couple of inches and the guard outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. Marcus squeezed him, and again he felt a sharp pain in his side. His grip on the pole loosened and Nathan began turning it again.
The loop tightened around his neck, pressing against his throat. Between it and the guard’s hold around his chest, he couldn’t get his breath.
Damnit, he couldn’t fight if he couldn’t breathe! He squirmed, turning loose of the pole and clawing at the guard’s arms. His pulse was beginning to pound in his ears. His eyes watered.
There was blood on his hands; he had drawn blood on the guard’s arms. Marcus grunted and loosed his grip with one arm, and then the other. The warrior gulped in air, as much as the leather around his neck allowed. But then Marcus repositioned his arms around the warrior, trapping the warrior’s arms at his sides.
“Donny, come here.”
Nathan’s voice seemed to come from a great distance away. He watched through blurring eyesight as Donny crept up beside Nathan.
Nathan handed him the pole. “Hold it. That’s all you gotta do. Just hold it.”
Nathan advanced on the warrior, his hands balled into fists and his eyes intense.
The warrior tried to swallow, wincing. His throat was raw. One eye was swelling and his lip was busted. His face hurt, his back hurt and his side hurt. The loop was gone from his neck but breathing was still difficult. Every breath brought stabbing pain from his ribs. He was familiar with this type of pain and knew what it meant.
Cracked and broken ribs.
He was on his knees, his hands shackled behind him, around one of the legs of the table. A strap crossed his upper back and came up under his arms, the ends secured to the table behind him, holding him upright. The strap chaffed his armpits and he pressed his knees into the floor to lift himself and relieve the pressure.
He gasped, surprised by a dozen points of stabbing pain from his knees.
Looking down, he saw that small bits of broken pottery littered the area around his knees. And he realized the table had been moved. He was now less than a yard away from the fireplace.
He could hear the men talking behind him. He turned his head to find them at the other end of the table, near the door.
Suddenly, Donny backed away from the other two, raising his hands as if in defense. “No.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t want any part of this. I…I think I should go…”
“You wanna leave?” Marcus charged Donny, slamming him into the wall. “Then, go, you yellow-bellied chicken shit mama’s boy. But keep your trap shut, you hear? Don’t say nothin’, to nobody, or I’ll come after you!”
Marcus released the man and Donny fled out the door, leaving it open. Nathan headed for the door.
“You leaving too?” Marcus roared.
“No.” Nathan closed the door and faced Marcus, his face calm and his eyes hard. “But what’s it matter if he runs his mouth? You said the Queen didn’t care if we were down here.”
“She don’t care,” Marcus growled. “Tough man here won’t answer her questions. She’s tired of playin’ with him. Her Highness said,” he paused, wiping his hand across his lips as though saying the title had caused an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “She told me to see what I could do. She said we could kill him, for all she cares.”
The warrior’s breath caught in his throat and his heart pounded.
“Is that what you want to do?” Nathan asked, his tone impassive. “You want to kill him?”
“I want him to suffer. I don’t care if he lives or dies. I just want him to suffer,” Marcus answered angrily.
“Okay, then.” Nathan shrugged. “Let’s figure out how to make him suffer.”
The warrior leaned his head against the table leg and closed his eyes. Marcus and Nathan were behind him. He could hear the murmur of their voices, but couldn’t follow their conversation. He heard one of the men leave the chamber and the table moved slightly as the remaining man leaned against it.
His entire body hurt. His eye was now swollen shut. Sharp pain in his sides reminded him to keep his breaths shallow. His legs trembled and his knees ached from the shards of pottery pressing into his skin.
But his heart hurt worst of all.
Had Marcus spoken the truth? Had she tired of him, taken her sexual pleasures and then delivered him into the hands of the guard?
He couldn’t believe it, yet there was a mustard seed of doubt. After all, she had said he was her enemy and he would answer her questions in the morning.
No! His heart argued. She’d called him Her warrior. Hers! And she’d said he could sleep until morning…
Her warrior. Did it mean anything to her? Or was he just another Knight of Westmoorland, a face among many faces she saw on her monthly visits there? Did she even remember him?
The door opened behind him and in a dark corner of his mind, the warrior wondered if it was the Queen, coming to check on Marcus’ progress.
It was Nathan, his arms laden with firewood. He dumped it beside the fireplace and looked at Marcus. “You sure you wanna do this?”
The table moved again as Marcus stood up. “Why? You gonna chicken out on me, now?”
Nathan crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed the warrior, his eyes black as night. “Hell, no. Just checking…”
Marcus barreled past the other man. Going to the fireplace, he stoked the fire.
The heat from the fire soon drove the two men to the other side of the dungeon. They cracked the door open and stood there, talking and laughing.
But for the warrior, there was no escape. Less than a yard from the fireplace, the heat was oppressive. His body temperature was rising, driven up by the blazing fire. His eyes burned and his head pounded. The heated air seared his nostrils. The smell of singed hair, from his chest, thighs and groin, filled his nose.
He heard the sound of shuffling feet and Marcus and Nathan stopped beside him.
“See what I mean?” Nathan asked the guard. “The hot air will damage his lungs and he’ll die soon. We need to avoid that, if you really want him to suffer.”
Marcus spat on the floor. “What can we do about it?”
Nathan frowned thoughtfully. “Hmm. We need…we need a sack.” His eyes searched the room. “Like a gunnysack. A wet one. We’ll put it over his head. It’ll cool the air he breathes, keep him alive longer.”
The guard nodded. “Okay. I know what we can use. I’ll be right back.” He rushed from the chamber.
The warrior looked at Nathan. Nathan leaned against the wall, meeting the warrior’s gaze steadily. The man was only slightly inebriated, but his eyes gleamed from an inner fire.
The warrior licked his lips, tasting blood again from his split bottom lip. “Why are you doing this?” He could grasp the guard’s motivations, but this man had no reason to hate him so.
Nathan shrugged. “Why not?” He yawned. “Got nothing better to do, tonight.”
“The Queen—”
“The Queen doesn’t give a damn. You heard Marcus. We can do what we want, so…why not?” His lips curled up in something that might pass for a smile, in a distorted world.
Marcus ran back into the chamber, a grungy bag clasped in his fist. “My laundry sack,” he said with a sneer.
Nathan pushed himself away from the wall. “Let me see it.” He took the bag from Marcus and scow
led. “I said wet, you idiot. Wet!”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you said. We’ll get it wet.” He dropped the bag on the floor, undid the front of his pants, and began pissing on it.
Nathan slapped the guard on the back with a short laugh. “Remind me to stay on your good side.” He joined Marcus in dousing the sack with urine. When they were done, Marcus picked it up and turned around.
The warrior tensed. “I vow, Marcus, I will stick a dagger in your gut and watch you bleed out like a pig.” His eyes blazed with fury, but his voice was deathly calm.
Marcus met his gaze and he saw a trace of fear register in the guard’s bloodshot eyes. But he quickly covered it with laughter. “Yeah, I’d like to see you try.” Marcus shoved the sack over the warrior’s head.
The stench of urine and sweat and soiled clothes surrounded the warrior, taking his breath away. He involuntarily gasped, instantly wishing he hadn’t. The taste of the odors filled his mouth, gagging him. He coughed, which only made matters worse.
But at least, the air that entered his lungs was now damp and cooler.
Sweat covered his body. It stung in his wounds: the cuts on his nipples from the metal clamps, the stripes on his thighs, groin and abdomen from the single-tail whip.
All wounds inflicted by the Queen’s hand.
Sweat ran down his legs, into the scratches and cuts on his knees. Sometimes he moved, unable to stand the pottery shards grinding into his flesh. Each time, more shards found fresh skin to torture.
Sweat trickled down his back, stinging in the cuts from the whip Marcus had wielded earlier.
The Queen didn’t inflict these pains upon him, but were they done with her knowledge and consent?
As he stared into the darkness of the sack, this question gnawed at him. He dropped his head and let his body sag. His weight hung from the strap, chaffing his underarms, but he was almost past the point of caring.
Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior Page 6
