To Those Who Never Knew (A Monksblood Bible Novel Book 1)

by Isabella Anton

“Take them both to the dungeon! And close those gates. Last we saw, the Brotherhood was right on our trail!” Tristan’s orders were swiftly carried out, blood already drying into the crevices of his chainmail.

  Bowen slid from his horse and taking the unconscious girl over his shoulder, headed towards the dungeons. There was hardly anyone else down there except for those unfortunate few who were looters or lined for the hangman’s noose.

  The structure was colder than any other part of the castle. The high stone walls smelt of salt and damp, and rats ran along the corridors, picking at anything they could scrape up for food. Little light crept in, just a speck from the top of the grating where a small gap also let some air move throughout the stale place.

  Bowen took her to one of the vacant rooms and stripped her of her blood splattered clothes and undergarments, an action he had seasoned well in the past year but now felt wrong in his hands. He threw her into a wooden armchair that had held many a prisoner in the same manner, strapping her wrists and ankles down as tight as he could.

  The room was indistinguishably large, its stone walls caked with moss growing from its fractures where the seams had fallen away. Bowen could see mollusks and other sea creatures embedded within, along with the smell of salt air that brushed against the woman’s goose-pimpled skin. A worn wooden door was shut tight behind him. In the corner was a large table, knives and other instruments strewn across its surface.

  Taking off his leather gauntlets and chainmail he rolled up his sleeves, grabbed the bucket of stagnant water that always sat in the corner of the room, and threw the contents onto her.

  She woke, the ice cold water pushing her breath out.

  It took her a minute for her to figure out where she was. And when brave enough, finally spoke. The sounds she uttered were uninterpretable (which wasn’t just the result of her chattering teeth) and when she looked down to her naked body her eyes grew wide.

  “Now,” Bowen was just inches away from her face, “what does the Brotherhood have planned?”

  She said nothing, just the same string of incomprehensible sounds. They were nothing like the languages he had heard and the only thing he could think was that she was taking the piss out of him, holding out. Swiftly he brought his hand up and slapped her hard across the face with the back of it, her cheek discoloring with the force.

  “I said, what do you have planned?”

  Just tell me, he pleaded internally. Bowen took advantage of her bound hands and feet, her abdomen free of any obstructions. With a strong arm he punched her in the stomach and she crumpled inward.

  “No one can hold out forever. You will talk.” He looked down to where he had struck her and saw the tarnished color of her side.

  You shouldn’t have to go through this, please… say something.

  “Ah, I think I’ve broken some of your ribs. Sorry. Not very good at holding back when it comes to insurgents.”

  Her broken cries pierced the air. She dared to make eye contact with him, their pale greenness overlaid with fear, rightly so, but for a second he thought he saw something else. Defiance? Rage?

  Why had she been in the orb?

  He continued for hours, the sun coming and going behind the clouds. All he wanted was something, anything, so that he could stop. He had never had this problem before. The chair’s past occupants were easy, they had given up information after the third hit. But with her… Even in the eye of danger, she held a persistence, a stubbornness that no one else had matched. Sweat dripped down his back, his nerves frayed as he turned and went to the table to pick up a small blade, its wooden handle softening with the heat of his palm.

  “Do you know why it is I hunt down you miserable pieces of shit?”

  She made no answer. Her head now hung down, her whole figure shaking.

  “It’s because you killed my family. My wife. My children.” He brought the knife’s edge to her right collar bone. With hesitant effort he pressed the blade across her skin, deep enough to draw blood. She cried out, first in pain and then with enthusiasm, as if the louder she was, the more likely someone would come to her aid. Bowen brought his fist to her face, knocking her unconscious for only a second. When she woke he bunched her hair in his hand and pulled her face closer to his. He could feel her shake in terror, or maybe it was his own hand that shook?

  “I will find out what I need to know,” he whispered. He brought the knife down to her thigh then stopped, the sound of his name being shouted outside the room stilling his hand. A second later the door slammed open. Standing in its liminal space was Master Lewis, Healer of Llansteffan Castle and an Elder of the Order of The Forest, with Tristan close behind.

  “What are you doing, for God’s sake?” He was an ancient man, his light-blue robes hiding his frail frame, yet he easily rushed into the room and knelt by the woman’s side, checking to see if she was still alive.

  Bowen quickly released his grip on her. “We needed to extract information and this Brotherhood spy–” he defended, his face flushed with his previous actions.

  “This ‘Brotherhood spy’, as you call her, is none of the sort!” Master Lewis checked her other injuries, making sure there was no internal bleeding that needed immediate attention.

  Bowen looked to the captain for confirmation.

  “It’s true. When I told Master Lewis of what had happened and that we brought a strange woman back with us, he almost turned me into a flea for being so dense.”

  Bowen looked back to the broken woman covered in blood, nakedly restrained to the chair. Her hair hung dirty in her face, not letting anyone see her eyes. His stance faltered and putting his weight on his forearms, stood supported by the nearby table. The knife slid from his fingers.

  “But you told me she was a spy.” His voice was curt, but his mind reeled with the actions he had performed on her, his eyes pleading with Tristan.

  “I said she may be a spy. You took liberties of your own volition and decided to torture the poor thing.”

  He knew the captain wasn’t trying to cover his own arse, just stating the fact that he had acted too hastily.

  No, this can’t be right. I wouldn’t… She has to be one of them. “She ran for the trees, Tristan. Towards the Brotherhood! Have you ever seen a normal person do that? She must be working with them, why else would she seek refuge near them?”

  “I can answer that.” Both men turned to the master. “Because she knew not of whom they were.”

  “Knew not whom–” Bowen moved closer to him, anger bubbling to the surface. “How could she not? Everyone in the kingdom knows who they are, and you say she does not?”

  Master Lewis held his ground against Bowen’s threatening advancement, his answer short. “Yes.”

  Bowen made to close the space between them. His eyes black with rage, more at himself than anyone else.

  I hurt her!

  The captain intervened before Bowen could take out his frustrations any further. “I think we should let Master Lewis explain before you go beating him to a pulp.”

  Bowen flinched at the jab but acquiesced and stepped back to the table, giving them a wide enough birth.

  “Thank you, captain. Now, as I was about to say: she ran towards the trees because it was the safest place at the time. No argument there. If she had stayed where she was she would have become a casualty of the attack, and so taking refuge under the protection of the woods would have been the safest option. She has no ties with the Brotherhood.”

  Master Lewis’ point-blank statement made both Tristan and Bowen’s interests pique.

  “And why, pray tell, do you solidly believe she is not a spy?” the captain asked. Both men were unprepared for the answer they received.

  “Because she is not of our time.”

  They could all but stand there, their mouths open in shock.

  Master Lewis continued as if he had just to
ld them that supper was ready, not that this woman had bent time to get there. “As the Brotherhood has their ways of prophecy, so do we. As you know, just sixty-eight years prior, the war between King Edward I and Llywelyn ap Gruffudd led to the abolition of the Welsh monarchy, yet one survived. As a babe, Gwenllian the Last was assumed to have been captured and imprisoned in a nunnery in Lincolnshire, but what they had not accounted for was that she would grow to become the most powerful Exalted Witch. Before her disappearance from this world, she foretold that a witch would be born in the years to come, in a time unimaginable…”

  Master Lewis stopped speaking, caught up in his memories until Tristan brought him back to the present.

  “Yes… yes, where was I? Ah, the High Elders believed it untrue, magic is possible, but time travel…” he shook his head in shame. “We never understood why such a person was needed, but when the Brotherhood appeared, we knew sooner or later, they would arrive to bring us our salvation.”

  Bowen and Tristan said nothing, amazed. Magic was such a common practice, yes, but this? This was nonsense.

  “You jest!” Bowen could not believe what he was hearing, that such a tale were true...

  “I would never. If you want proof I will give it. We have records, every one of which has mention of another Exalted Witch from a different world coming to save us.” He pointed at the girl to emphasize his next words. “She is our savior.”

  They all stood in silent contemplation over the matter.

  What if it is true?

  “Does the Brotherhood know of this legend?” Tristan stood there, a serious look in his eyes, calculating what their next move would be.

  Yes! The orb! I saw it. I saw her in their orb!

  “They must or they would not have coveted that orb last night. You did not see it Tristan, but I saw her,” he nodded towards the woman in the chair, “face as clear as day in it.”

  “What?” Master Lewis slapped the word out. “Where did you see this?” He was too anxious, his face looking more ancient with worry in the slowly coming night. It had been a long day and it seemed as if it would carry on.

  Bowen held fast, his defense ready on his tongue. If he really did just defile an Exalted Witch, he was in big trouble from the High Elders.

  But then why didn’t she use her power on me?

  “Last night when I was fighting with Finch,” he spat his brother’s name. “They were circled around a blue orb and she was pictured within it. I made the connection when I first saw her,” he lied, “but the event slipped my mind until now. It is why I thought she was working with them.”

  “Fool! You should have waited,” Master Lewis bellowed and then rushed for the door. “Both of you, follow me. We must inform the High Elders of this at once!”

  “Should we not untie her first?” Tristan looked at the battered woman, her face hung down in unconscious shame.

  “We will send for Haf and Elain. They will see that she is cleaned up and taken to new quarters.” Master Lewis struggled to keep open the heavy wooden door, his arms shaking in protest. “God help us and pray that she will listen to what we have to say after being treated as such.”

  With that, they all scurried out of the room.

  XIII.

  My eyes snapped open and for a split second I thought I was back in my dorm. But then the pain hit me and a strange sound came unbidden from my mouth as the memories flooded back. Instinctively I tried to move, only for my limbs to be weighed down by heavy sheets and my panic rose. The space was dark except for a small glimmer of light that pooled through the cracks in the curtains that surrounded the four-poster bed I was lying in, indicating that more than just a few hours had passed.

  I untangled myself from the sheets and ripped back the tapestried curtains. Pain shot up my side and I had to steady myself as my feet met with a thick rug that was large enough for the bed to sit comfortably on.

  I looked down at the pristine smock I was wearing. No longer was I covered in dirt and blood. Tentatively, I felt the base of my neck where that man had cut me, my fingers meeting soft stitching, coming away smeared in blood. I retched, the bile almost coming up.

  Oh God, oh God. Where am I?

  My eyes focused on the room and I began to identify various objects around me. The door was to my left and next to it, a tall wardrobe, the wood heavy against the white stuccoed wall. A small trunk sat at the base of my bed, acting as a makeshift seat in the small, but cozy, space. Across from me was a large fireplace, wood already crackling and giving off the fragrances of camomile and sage. Several slitted windows let in streams of sunlight, dust-moats dancing in the air. To my right, a wooden partition screen with intricate vines decorating it was positioned between a doorway and the wall, and when I peeked through its holes I found a bathroom with a copper tub sunk low onto the stone floor. A small fireplace, big enough to hold a jug, was lit, its wood smoldering, bringing more warmth to the room. A small stool and, what I believed was supposed to be a floor-length mirror, took up the other corner of the space.

  Despite the intimacy to the room, my body shook, remembering the place I had been locked in before.

  A small knock sounded on the door behind me and I whirled around, running back to the safe enclosure of the bed. Seconds later the door creaked open, letting in the cold.

  It was the two men from before, followed by another who looked to be well over the age of being able to walk without assistance. His white hair and beard fell tangled into one another, creating a mane-like style—his tone reprimanding as they spoke in hushed tones. He wore pale blue robes, bordering on gray that encompassed his frail-looking body.

  My breathing went ragged, panic quickly sucking out the air. Oh God, they’re going to kill me! The man who had been my torturer directed a pained gaze in my direction and spoke again.

  “Please,” I interrupted. “I don’t know what you want from me.” Traitorous tears started to escape my eyes. “I don’t understand…”

  The older man snapped at him. Their voices lowered in an attempt to keep me from hearing their conversation. Not that it did anything. I still couldn’t understand the incoherent twang to their words, the mashed up language an inaudible mix to my ears. I took a stab in the dark and pleaded with them.

  “I’m sorry, please, I don’t know any Welsh…” All three stopped and stared intently at me. The silent tension went on for so long my body went stiff and I pulled the covers over me in an unsuccessful attempt to hide myself.

  The blonde man went to a low table next to my bed I hadn’t seen. I cringed back in a desperate attempt to put as much distance between him and me. He saw my panic and as slow as molasses, took the jug that was sitting on the low table and poured out a red liquid.

  He held the glass to me, my hand hesitant as I took it from him. I couldn’t stand the sight of the pigment, my lips never touching the stuff.

  They kept their gaze on me, silence a thick blanket in the air. It was only broken when the old man spoke again to the other two. The brown-haired man looked frustrated, agitated, as he ran his hand through his beard and paced the small space. A split second later, his fist struck the wardrobe with a loud bang as he angrily retorted something back to the other two, causing me to jump and spill the contents of the glass onto the floor. They didn’t seem too concerned with the man’s outburst. Instead, the old man pulled out a pouch and slowly closed the difference between us. He held up his hand indicating everything was alright, his eyes unwavering.

  I didn’t move as he took a pinch of something out of the pouch and sprinkled it onto my head, reciting unfamiliar Latin. The words rung throughout the room and pricked my senses. They had a meditative rhythm that both relaxed and frightened me. If anything, I felt like Wendy, pixie dust drenching me as gold specks shone in the light and settled on my head. But this was no flying magic, I could feel as the dust settled onto my head, seeping into every pore. The
world tipped as if I were caught with a bout of vertigo, and the two men in the back started arguing again.

  This time, I could make out every word.

  “There. Are you happy now, Tristan? She can understand every word we are speaking!” The brown-haired man’s agitation rose further while Tristan was calm and standing firm in place.

  “Bowen, do not think for a moment I did not consider every outcome of this. It had to happen. Master Lewis said–”

  “Oh so now we are sympathetic to Master Lewis’ practice? You just told me you thought he was crazy!”

  I was frozen in shock as their words rang through the room, clear as day. My eyes flicked to the old man. He looked hurt by the insult but took no direct offense to the utterance.

  “I said he was crazy, not imbecilic. If he thinks this is the best way to get her to understand, then we must take it. Do you understand?” Tristan said this as a command. The one named Bowen looked at me and spat his next words.

  “Yes. Captain.” He turned and stalked out the room.

  The captain walked over to where Master Lewis and I were, his whole form emanating a sadness that was at odds to the situation. “I’m very sorry that all of this is happening to you.” It was the first time someone directly spoke to me. Directly apologized. I didn’t have the strength to do or say anything.

  “She needs to get some rest and a meal. Haf and Elian will be in with food and clothes,” he directed at me. Even at his advanced age the old man was able to bend over and check my eyes, looking for some sign that I was present. I flinched, his hand coming to rest on my own. “Do not worry, child, we will not harm you anymore.” He looked at the red spot staining the white cotton I wore. “I will fix that. Our magic couldn’t heal it all the way and it seems you’ve already torn the stitching.”

  Tristan picked up my glass from the floor, replacing it on the table. “Is there anything I can do?”

  They both looked to me, waiting for an answer.

  “Water…” I croaked out, my head still spinning.