by Speer, Flora
“People of Thury,” Jenia declared, stepping to the edge of the dais and raising her voice once more, “look well at me. You know me because I spent a good portion of my youth here at Thury. I am not Chantal; I am her cousin, Jenia of Gildeley. I regret to tell you that Chantal is dead. She was murdered on the order of Lord Walderon.”
Jenia paused to allow time for the exclamations of shock and grief to die down before she continued. When the hall was quiet enough for her to be heard she spoke again, leaving nothing out, for she felt certain the terrible details would turn any lingering sentiment on Walderon’s behalf into anger against him.
Garit returned to the great hall as Jenia finished her speech. She noticed several of the women touching his arm or patting him on the back, apparently offering words of sympathy and encouragement. Garit bore the outpouring of emotion with his jaw firmly set and his eyes glistening. After a few moments he left the hall.
“You’ve convinced them,” Roarke told Jenia. “My thanks. Holding a castle is much easier when the folk within it are cooperative.”
“I’ve hurt Garit in the process,” Jenia said, stepping off the dais as she spoke. “Excuse me, please, Roarke. I want to speak with him.”
She found him in a far corner of the entry hall, where three doors stood open. One of the doors led to the chapel, and Garit moved inside. Jenia hastened to him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know you did not want to hear the dreadful story told yet again.”
“You had to do it, Jenia. It was the quickest way to gain the allegiance of those people.” He moved a few steps farther into the chapel, gazing at the simple space with the unadorned altar and the round window above it that depicted the sun in the heavenly blue sky. “Did Chantal spend much time in here? I seem to feel her presence.”
“Not when we were children. In those days, we were too busy being naughty to think much about praying. But later, yes, she did come here. After she met you, and while Walderon was trying to make her agree to marry Lord Malin, she was often on her knees before this altar.”
“She hasn’t been in this chapel for more than half a year. I cannot stay here.” Garit turned abruptly and left.
Jenia hurried after him, catching up to him in the entry hall.
“I wish I knew how to comfort you,” she began.
Her words were cut off by the distant sound of a door slamming shut. For a moment Jenia froze where she stood. Then she grabbed at Garit’s arm for support.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered.
“A door closed somewhere,” Garit answered.
“Down there.” Jenia turned to regard the other two doors.
“Where do they lead?” Garit asked. “Do you know?”
“That one,” she said, pointing to the middle door, “leads down a short staircase to a lower level storeroom where extra weapons are kept. But the third door leads to steps that descend even lower, to the castle dungeon.” She shivered as a chill swept over her.
“It’s natural if the thought of a dungeon upsets you,” Garit said. He placed his hand over her fingers still clutching his sleeve and urged her away. “Come back to the great hall where it’s warmer and brighter. I’ll find a cup of wine and some bread and cheese for you. Then, I am going to take a few of my men and investigate the dungeon. It’s possible that Walderon has some innocents in chains down there. Or men loyal to him may have secretly taken refuge there.” Garit’s free hand caressed his sword hilt.
“When you go into the dungeon,” Jenia told him, “I am going with you.”
“Whyever would you want to do that?” Garit asked.
“Because of the sound that slamming door made,” Jenia told him. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that exact, same sound.”
Garit made her sit down in the great hall and eat while he spoke to Roarke and then assembled some of his men. Sanal was nowhere to be seen. When Jenia inquired about her, she was told her aunt was overseeing the preparation of guest rooms for the three nobles who had led their men into Thury to take it without a single death. The same servant informed her that Lord Giles was deciding the order of duty for the sentries who would stand watch during that day and night.
By the time Jenia had swallowed some bread and a cup of wine, Garit and six of his men were ready to inspect the dungeon.
“Elwin and I are going, too,” Roarke told her. “There’s no telling what we’ll discover down there. I wish you would stay behind, but knowing you, I suppose you’ll refuse even a direct order.”
“Indeed, I will,” Jenia responded.
“Very well, then,” he told her. “I will let Garit lead this expedition while I stay with you, in case you need protection.”
“Protection from what?” she scoffed in an attempt to hide the uneasiness she was feeling. “Our men-at-arms and Lord Giles’s squires are all over this castle.”
“Have you forgotten how Thury is riddled with secret passages and peepholes? Who can say what lurks in the dungeon?” Roarke asked in a teasing way that Jenia guessed was intended to convince her not to worry. “Garit is right to question whether we have rooted out all of Walderon’s people,” he added more seriously.
Though Jenia tried to conceal how reluctant she was to descend to the dungeon, she found it increasingly difficult to walk down the stairs with a steady tread and she was very glad to have Roarke beside her. The air grew colder and damper the lower they went, and the taste and smell of the air became ever more familiar.
“I suppose all dungeons smell alike,” she murmured to Roarke as they reached the landing at the first level, where a roughly made table and a single chair marked the warder’s post. Keys hung from hooks set into the stone walls, but the doors to all of the cells on this level were open, except for one.
At Garit’s order a man-at-arms tried several of the keys in the lock until the heavy wooden door creaked open. An emaciated, dirty man cowered within. The slop bucket provided for him was overflowing and the stench that issued from the cell nearly overpowered Jenia.
“Two of you, take him upstairs,” Roarke commanded, stepping forward. “Elwin, go with the men-at-arms. Ask if anyone recognizes this fellow. Try to find out what his crime was. See that he’s bathed and given food and clean clothes, but keep a close watch on him until I join you. We don’t want to turn a violent person loose.”
“Knowing Walderon, the poor soul probably only filched an extra cup of wine,” Garit remarked. Turning to the next set of steps that led to an even lower level, he beckoned to his men. “Come on, Anders and the rest of you. Let’s see what else we can discover. Or who else.”
Jenia let Garit and his men go ahead while she remained close to Roarke until he had finished giving orders to his squire. Her discomfort at the thought of continuing was growing stronger with each passing moment, yet she would not stop.
“This staircase is narrower than the last,” Roarke remarked. The torch he carried sent dark shadows and glaring highlights playing across his sharp features and dark hair, making him appear almost demonic. Yet to Jenia, he represented safety. “I’ll go first. Stay close behind me and keep one hand on my shoulder.”
She followed him down and down those narrow, curving stairs until they came to a landing that was less than half the size of the landing above. One of Garit’s men stuck his torch into a sconce. The blaze from it illuminated the rough stone walls and floor. The masons hadn’t bothered to smooth the stone in this area. Two doors, on opposite sides of the landing, provided the only break in the solid stone.
“This appears to be the lowest level,” Garit said, “unless another staircase lies behind either of those doors.”
Jenia tried to take a deep breath. The coppery smell of old blood mingled with the foul odor of human excrement nearly choked her, so she didn’t see Anders open one of the doors, which was unbarred. But Garit’s exclamation caught her full attention.
“Where do you suppose this passage leads?” Garit stepped nearer to look inside th
e doorway.
“Most likely, to one of the lower tunnels,” Jenia suggested, trying to see around his solid figure. “You know, Garit, I think you may have hit upon a truth when you asked me earlier who has been tending to the outer door to the tunnels. I suppose bodies could be carried out of the dungeon through this doorway without anyone above suspecting what is happening down here.”
“This would certainly make a good secret escape route in time of siege,” Anders remarked. “Who would think of looking in the dungeon for the lord of the castle and his family? Most invaders would seek the nobles in the tower keep and the lord’s chamber.”
“True enough.” Roarke shrugged, dismissing the subject. “What’s behind the second door? Is it unlocked like the first one? I don’t see any hooks for keys.”
“Apparently, no one is inside.” Garit tried the door. It opened easily.
“Perhaps the warder keeps the keys on his person,” Roarke suggested. “From the location, I’d guess only the very worst prisoners are kept down here.”
“Or the most dangerous,” Jenia said. “Roarke, please take your torch in there. Let me see the cell.”
She thought he must have heard the peculiar note in her voice, for he looked hard at her. The sensations of terror and grief were so strong that she felt ill. She wanted to turn and flee, but she could not. Instead, she made herself walk into the cell. Roarke and Garit followed her, Roarke holding his torch high.
“What a place,” Garit muttered. “I pity any poor soul who’s confined in here.”
“Pity me, then,” Jenia said, barely able to speak as the terrible truth burst upon her. “I know this cell. I lived here for half a year. This is where Chantal and I were held. This cell is where Chantal died.”
Chapter 18
“Are you sure?” Roarke asked.
“Here?” Garit stared at Jenia as if he feared she had gone mad.
“Oh, yes. This is where we were held.” Anger and the memory of bloody horror nearly undid her. Bile rose into her throat. Jenia clapped both hands over her mouth and swallowed several times to keep herself from being sick. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, as she fully comprehended Walderon’s perfidy, rage overcame nausea. Furious words tumbled out of her. She couldn’t have stopped herself, but she had no desire to stop, and from somewhere in her swirling thoughts she knew Roarke and Garit would understand the anger that burned in her.
“How dare Walderon do such a thing?” she shrieked. “How dare he have Chantal and me struck on the head, tied up and blindfolded, and then carried all the way from Calean City to Thury, to keep us imprisoned here, in Chantal’s own castle? Oh, if only he were here now and I had a sword!” Her last exclamation echoed off the cold stone walls.
“This was the one place he could keep his prisoners in absolute secrecy, knowing no one would ever find you and Chantal, unless he wanted you found,” Garit said, his voice thick with emotion. “The wretched villain!”
“Walderon will pay,” Roarke said quietly. “Never doubt it.”
His calm promise soothed Jenia as nothing else could have done. Some of her fury receded and she spoke more softly.
“The cell looks smaller by the light from a torch. We never had so much light. Chantal and I could only tell day from night by the faint light that came to us through one, high window.” She pointed to a narrow slit in the stone. “We became so accustomed to the darkness that when our jailors opened the door to push a tray of food in here to us, the flames of their torches blinded us.”
“Chantal, my love,” Garit whispered. “How I wish I had known.”
“How could you know? No one knew. So far as the world was concerned, we had simply vanished.” Jenia began to walk around the tiny chamber. Then she halted and pointed a trembling finger at a dark stain on the floor. “There is where Chantal fell.”
“Just there? That stain was made by her blood?” Garit looked ready to give way to tears.
Jenia, strengthened by her righteous anger, was dry-eyed as she gazed at the spot. Even so, when Garit went to his knees on the bare stone, to whisper a prayer for the peace of Chantal’s spirit, Jenia knelt beside him. Though her head was bowed and her mind was on Chantal, some part of her was aware of the way Roarke was studying the cell inch by inch, waving his torch about so he could see it better.
“There’s no sign that any crime was committed here,” Roarke said after his examination was complete. “Not even the stain is real proof. Walderon’s men cleaned up after themselves rather well.”
“Cleaned up?” Garit stood to face his friend. “Concealed the evidence of a horrible crime, you mean. They had a body to dispose of. What did they do with Chantal? Where did they take her?”
“Perhaps Aunt Sanal knows something,” Jenia suggested.
“We can do nothing more here,” Roarke said. Still holding the torch, he gestured for Jenia and Garit to precede him out the door. “I believe Lady Sanal is in the solar.”
As they headed for the first flight of stairs, Jenia stopped, listening. Roarke halted when she did, and he touched her arm and shook his head to warn her to be quiet. Raising his brows in a silent question he looked toward the men-at-arms. Several of them nodded to indicate they had also heard. Garit was a few steps above them and he continued on his way. Plainly, with his thoughts turned so far inward, he hadn’t noticed the sound the others had heard.
“Someone is down below, in the passage we just opened,” Roarke said, his low voice confirming Jenia’s suspicions. “No one should be there.”
Acting quietly, he chose four of Garit’s men-at-arms to investigate the tunnel with him.
“Stay here with the others,” he whispered to Jenia.
She didn’t protest. An uncontrollable shaking had overtaken her, the result, she knew, of the emotions evoked by returning to the place where the cousin she loved as a sister had died. She sat down abruptly on one of the stone steps. There she waited, watched over by the two remaining men-at-arms, who stood on either side of her with drawn swords, one of them gazing up the stairs and the other watching the open doorway where Roarke and his four companions had disappeared.
Jenia took long, slow breaths and tried to calm herself. At least, she reasoned, part of the mystery that had tormented her was solved. She now knew where she had been for half a year. Knowing provided some relief, but questions still remained.
Where, she asked herself, would Walderon’s men have put Chantal’s body? Certainly not in the family crypt beneath the chapel, for the castle chaplain, a minor mage, would have noticed any disturbance or alteration to the stone tombs and he’d have raised questions about such a violation.
She had just reached this point in her reasoning when Roarke and the men-at-arms returned.
“We found nothing,” Roarke said. “We followed the passageway to the place where it opens into the same tunnel we used earlier today. We found no sign of footprints in the muck that covers the floor of that particular tunnel. I think we must assume no one has been in there for a long time, and that the noise we heard came from some other part of the castle.” He waved a hand to indicate Jenia should ascend the stairs ahead of him.
She did as he wished, telling herself Roarke was undoubtedly correct about the origin of the noise. Returning to her old cell had affected her deeply, so her imagination was starting at every scratch of a rat’s claws on stone, or at a distant echo, just as used to happen when she was imprisoned. No sound emanating from the bowels of the castle could threaten her now. Still, she climbed to the upper level in some haste, wanting to be away from the dampness and cold, and from the paralyzing fear she had once known.
Garit wasn’t in the great hall.
“He’s gone above, to the solar,” one of the maidservants told Jenia when she asked.
She headed for the stairs. Roarke followed her.
“Jenia, please allow me to question Lady Sanal,” he said. “I’ve had some experience at interrogating unwilling informants. Where you are obviously distressed,
I can talk to your aunt without excess emotion.”
“Do you imagine Garit is being unemotional?” she demanded. “If you think I am distressed, consider his state of mind. Garit will very likely threaten to strangle Aunt Sanal if she doesn’t tell him everything he wants to know.”
“All the more reason for you to let me handle this,” Roarke said.
The solar was a pleasant room, the one place in the castle given over to the comfort of women. In years past Chantal’s father had ordered a row of long, narrow windows installed, so there would be adequate light for weaving or embroidery and, in the case of Chantal and Jenia, daylight enough for reading and for the practice of their writing skills. As young girls they had spent hours at a table near those windows, bent over their slates, giggling together behind their hands whenever their tutor looked away. Lady Sanal’s embroidery frame now stood where the table once was. A basket of brightly colored threads and a tray of folded linen rested on the floor beside the frame.
At the moment, Sanal wasn’t busy with her needlework. She was standing with her back against one of the windows while Garit towered over her in a threatening manner. Barely controlled fury was apparent in every line of his body. Defiance was written on Sanal’s face.
“I tell you again, Lord Garit; until very recently I had no certain proof of my husband’s scheming against Chantal. I did know how insistent he was that she must wed Lord Malin,” Sanal declared.
“Those two young women were confined right here, in the dungeon just below us,” Garit informed Sanal in a cold, hard tone that Jenia had never heard from him before. “Do you dare to claim no knowledge of that crime?”
“I dare, because it is true,” Sanal cried. Seeing Jenia and Roarke, she thrust out both hands as if to ward off the large, angry man who faced her. “I have told you already, Walderon never kept me informed about his plans. I’m sure the servants didn’t know who was locked down there, either. I beg you not to frighten them with your fierce questions, as you have tried to frighten me.”
