Falconburg Divided (The Falconburg Series Book 1)

by Sarah Waldock

  “Lord Gyrfalon,” she murmured. “I am …. charmed to make your acquaintance.”

  His visible eyebrow raised in supercilious surprise at her cultured accents; with her torn bodice bespattered with the blood of her dead assailant her attempts at civility seemed incongruous. The corner of his mouth twitched with rare amusement at the girl’s boldness.

  “How flattering to be recognised,” he mused. His voice, though quiet, was redolent with the menace of the sound of a steel blade drawn from its sheath. “But you have the advantage of me, girl. I do not like that. What is your name?”

  He checked his black horse as it tossed its head impatiently; Annis noted that muscles like steel held the mettlesome beast with seeming effortless grace. She swallowed but kept her chin up.

  “My name is Lady Annis Haldane of Highkeep, daughter of its custodian, Lord Peter Haldane,” she answered him fair. “I do apologise, my lord, for not being dressed suitably to receive an illustrious visitor; you see I was not expecting you.”

  Gyrfalon stared at this conventional inanity and gave her a suspicious look. Annis knew her dimple was popping in and out as she contained an incongruous mirth over her ridiculous comment; and the warlord noticed. The eyebrow went up again and he scowled, unsure how to take such deliberate flippancy. He dismounted, throwing the rein to an underling who stood close by the horse’s head to hold it still. He strode over to Annis.

  “And what,” purred the black garbed figure, “is the lady Annis Haldane of Highkeep doing abroad at this hour of the morning and unattended?”

  Annis swallowed again, bit her lip and dropped her gaze. Her chin was raised roughly by Gyrfalon’s riding crop. He stared at her thoughtfully.

  “Riding to meet a lover?” He queried. She snorted derisively. The eyebrow twitched upward. “Well as you say, you are not dressed for that anyway … A runaway then?” He asked softly, and read the truth in her defiant eyes. “Well well! To run implies cowardice – which I despise – but your spirited stance against poor Solly gives that the lie. And,” a sneer flashed briefly across the bronzed face, “You know my name but show little outward fear. A paradox.”

  Annis sniffed.

  “To judge by stereotype is orthodoxy; which will leave many a paradox; and a fine pair o’doxies they be,” she could not resist the word play even in a potentially desperate situation. “If you will but take your whip from my throat, my lord, I might just feel civil enough to answer your question,” she added tartly.

  The corner of his mouth twitched at the impudence of her first comment; and at the second he stared.

  “Do you rebuke me?” He asked, amazed.

  “If the rebuke is meet, accept it,” she snapped, looking down her small straight nose. His assumption that such tactics would intimidate her irritated her beyond the fear engendered by his reputation.

  There was a gasp from those men who had joined Gyrfalon in the grove. Gyrfalon glowered for a moment; then threw back his head and laughed, withdrawing the whip from under the girl’s chin and thrusting it back in his belt.

  “Just a snip of a girl,” he roared, “but with more balls than the lot of you!”

  “Excuse me, my lord,” interrupted Annis, “whilst that may have been intended for a backhanded compliment, may I say I have never before been accused of possessing male accoutrements.”

  Her comment amused the warlord.

  “You are no blushing violet, either,” he remarked. “So, what am I to do with you, Lady Annis of Highkeep? Mayhap your loving father Lord Peter will pay well for your safe return?”

  Annis shrugged.

  “T’is a moot point, Lord Gyrfalon,” she said carefully. “I may be some use to him as an instrument of alliance. It is, after all, apparently the lot of a woman to be bought and sold for the commodity of a small and insignificant region of flesh, be that many times for a street whore or as a singular transaction if she be a lady.” She considered briefly with a frown. “Though the price is higher in the latter case, the rent might in normal circumstances be expected to cover the use of more internal organs for nine month periods.” Her voice held scarcely concealed bitterness over these prospects.

  Gyrfalon grinned maliciously.

  “So do we have a loving bridegroom who might also pay for his pretty bride, do we?” he asked

  Annis swallowed.

  “My Lord Gyrfalon,” she spoke carefully and with what she fondly hoped was dignity, “I am a skilled herbalist and healer. As such I could be of more use to you and your men than the small amount of gold you might extract from either my father or his choice of husband for me. They would seek aid from the Church first for my …betrothed has … cronies,” she chose the word with care, “high in the Church.” Her young voice was filled with scorn.

  He paused, surprised.

  “You sound as though you scorn the Church – yet you wear a crucifix.” He accused, gazing upon her cross with loathing.

  “I believe in God, my lord,” she answered him evenly. “But I also know that corruption gnaws deep at the roots of the Church, filling those venal churchmen who seek only power and advancement with the temptations of peculation and chicanery. Such creatures as Lord Marfey are hypocrites who use their supposed devotions to bribe the corruptible into turning a blind eye to any perfidy!” Her voice rang clear in condemnation. “I had rather marry the Devil himself; who is at least an honest villain!” She finished, shocking herself at her own temerity.

  Gyrfalon’s laugh rang out again.

  “And am I an honest villain too, then, girl?” He asked, still chuckling.

  She regarded him thoughtfully.

  “If the stories are true,” she said carefully, “I’d say, if nothing else, you have, um, more balls than most of them.”

  There was a moment’s stunned silence; then the warlord shook with silent laughter.

  “Why, I do believe you might be the most amusing hostage I have ever held,” he said. “I will indeed hold you ransom; but I may yet decide to double cross your father and keep you and the money both!”

  He turned from her, his cloak swirling behind him as he vaulted lightly into his saddle; and made an imperious sign that she should mount Rowan and ride with his company. Annis remounted easily.

  “Pass me my bag, fellow,” she said to one of the soldiers.

  He goggled.

  “My Lord?” he asked Gyrfalon.

  “What be in it?” the warlord demanded.

  “Certain herbs that I planned to make into common simples to peddle,” said Annis, “as it be a waste to leave here after mine efforts; that may also give proof to my words that I be a competent healer, and be used to aid your men. You have not felt it necessary to take my knife; there is nothing dangerous in my bag not even herbs that may be poison in large quantity. I had not yet gathered monkshood for a rub against rheumatism though an I work for you I would suggest you permit me to do so in the future. In the pack on my saddle are but my clothes which I will be needing.”

  “Hand her the bag,” said Gyrfalon. “We shall see how good a healer she be.”

  So it was that Annis found herself riding back to Gyrfalon’s castle. He had not had her tied; there was a sufficiency of men to make it obviously futile to attempt an escape. It was a fine day for a ride, and under other circumstances might have been enjoyable. Annis however was wondering whether she was out of the frying pan and into the fire; or whether this new development might somehow come out to her advantage. One thing she regretted was that her father would learn her direction and would be bound to act – one way or another.

  It was not a far ride to the castle; the wood stood on the borders of the lands of Lord Gyrfalon and Peter Haldane and made a rather uncertain boundary. They emerged from the woods not far from the warlord’s castle, that it was said he had taken by force from its previous occupant who had been hanged from the walls. Annis knew not whether such were true or not; but she had heard no good tales of the previous occupant as a lord, though she had nothin
g against him save that he was a harsh taskmaster and accounted a hard man; as many a lord of the northern marches might be for the uncertainty of the living with the wild northern barons beyond them and brigandage rife across the country. She looked up at her new dwelling place with some interest.

  The warlord’s castle rose, gaunt and mournful, a sheer black crag piercing the mist that rose sullenly from the marsh that lay on three sides of the keep. Towers thrust aggressively upwards, darkening the rich cerulean blue of the late afternoon sky by their ominous presence. Ravens croaking on the embrasures made the vision almost too melodramatic.

  Annis felt a gurgle of merriment rising, and could not entirely suppress it. Her laugh escaped as a snort and a gurgle.

  Gyrfalon rounded on her.

  “What is so funny?” He demanded.

  Annis bit the inside of her mouth to bring herself under control; but her eyes still danced.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” she managed “But it is so….so….suitable!” And she dissolved again into gurgles of mirth. “So very much what one should expect as the castle of a bold bad baron!”

  Gyrfalon’s mouth twitched.

  “I thought so when I took it from its previous owner,” he said dryly. Annis hiccoughed once or twice and brought her laughter under control.

  When they reached the village which sprawled untidily at the foot of the castle, Annis’ amusement was wiped from her face. Dispirited peasants worked fearfully, leaping out of the way of the cavalcade as Gyrfalon and his men rode through the rude collection of huts; and their lacklustre eyes were cast down for fear of giving offence to any of the armed men. Annis drew her brows together in disapproval. This was fearful submission, not respect. She would have to do something. The girl noted that at least the village church had been left standing; a poor enough building, made of wattle and daub like the houses and barns, but still possessing its bell and proudly erect crucifix on the small steeple. Presumably Gyrfalon had left this as a sop to keep the peasants working; it was one thing at least. And she need not fear that a country priest would be tarred with the same brush as some of the cynical city ecclesiasts. Annis determined that she would do all she could to help the unfortunate peasants here.

  The cavalcade swept on across the bridge that spanned the moat which was in truth merely a continuation of the marshy mere into which the castle’s natural rocky foundation thrust. Within the outer walls, it was less forbidding: the courtyard was full of bustle and life. The keep was a large squat building, hunched sullenly against the rear wall. Around the walls were the customary wattle and daub outbuildings, between which people moved on their daily tasks. Gyrfalon looked around and picked out a leather clad warrior, beckoning imperiously. As the warrior approached, Annis saw that it was a woman, battle-hardened and competent looking, her blondish hair cut as short as a man’s. Gyrfalon spoke.

  “Elissa. This here,” he swept his hand towards Annis, “is the Lady Annis. She is to be permitted free range of the castle and its environs,”

  “Free range, Lord Gyrfalon?” Elissa queried, surprised. He grinned.

  “You think I grow soft in my old age?” He asked jocularly. Elissa swallowed and shook her head rapidly.

  “Just clarifying, my lord,” she said hastily.

  He laughed harshly.

  “It is my whim that she have free range,” he repeated. “I rely on you to see to all her wants and needs, Elissa, and protect her from unnecessary insults. Oh,” he added, smiling mirthlessly, “and kill her if she tries to escape.”

  The woman bowed her head.

  “Yes, Lord Gyrfalon,” she acquiesced.

  Gyrfalon rode forward, leaving Annis face to face with the female warrior, who was appraising her, evidently not delighted at the prospects of seeing to the needs of some gentlewoman. It was quite plain that she expected the girl to require something between a wetnurse and a tiring maid. Annis smiled coolly.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Elissa,” she said firmly. “My primary needs after I have settled into my involuntary accommodation will be your aid in maintaining my fitness – and lessons in swordplay. My skills are indeed basic; and it will aid towards making the protection part of your duties less onerous. I presume I am to go with you this time and not see to mine own horse.”

  She dismounted as Elissa blinked; and looked around for a stablehand. Gyrfalon was unashamedly listening; and Elissa turned to him.

  “My lord, is this girl for real?” She asked bluntly. Gyrfalon gave Annis a quizzical look.

  “She knows the rudiments of swordplay,” he told the astonished warrior. “She killed Solly when he would have – amused himself – with her. If it amuses you to bring her on I shall not prohibit it. It may,” he added dryly, “keep her out of trouble. Be careful, Elissa – I suspect our hostage has a propensity for being trouble.”

  Elissa re-avaluated the young girl. A ghost of a smile touched Annis’ lips.

  “Lord Gyrfalon is quite correct in some ways,” she remarked. “Except that I never go looking for trouble. It just crops up unawares like a cheeky stablehand.”

  Gyrfalon’s good eye glinted.

  “Be wary, wench,” he said softly. “I believe you just compared me to a cheeky stablehand.”

  Annis blinked.

  “I was not,” she said, looking down her nose, “at the time necessarily thinking of you, lord Gyrfalon, as trouble. Actually, right now you are more in the nature of a good angel.” She smiled brightly at him.

  “By all the devils in hell, girl, you know how to turn an insult!” Gyrfalon roared.

  Annis let her gaze become limpid, though her heart hammered at the temerity of the risks she was taking in playing such games with him.

  “You will not want me then, lord, to put you in my prayers?” Her dimple twitched in and out despite her apprehension. Dangerous the game might be, playing word games: but it was fun, sheer fun! At last she had met one who appreciated her dry understated wit, recognising it for what it was, one who could appreciate irony and deliberate choices of words! Besides, her games seemed to please him; and Annis knew well that her only chance lay in pleasing the volatile warlord. She scorned to take the path of appeasement and grovelling; and had she but known it, to do so would have earned nothing but contempt, as indeed would gentle womanly compliance and civility. As it was he grunted a half laugh.

  “I would fain prefer curses to prayers and blessings, girl. And when you have visited the turret room that shall be your prison, you will come to my apartment. Let us see what healing skills you really have.” His mouth sneered as he swung down from his horse, handing the rein to an underling as he strode away.

  Chapter 2

  Annis wondered whether being assigned a turret room might be a good omen; for her chosen chamber in her erstwhile home had been high in a turret. The room to which she was taken differed little from her previous home; it was sparse, but Annis herself was an austere little person and saw no lack in the very basic furnishings with which she was provided. The view from the window across the marsh was decoration enough to her mind; the bleak beauty of God’s creation, constantly enlivened by the abundant wildlife that the rich if sometimes noisome waters supported. As she watched there was a vivid flash of turquoise blue that was a kingfisher diving; and a heron flapped lazily by.

  That she had passed Gyrfalon’s apartments on the way up Annis knew, for Elissa had indicated the warlord’s door; Annis judged that he held a room two floors below hers as well perhaps as a room or rooms within the body of the keep. She had not long until she might test her surmise; Elissa gave her enough time to lay down her pack and see to the more pressing of her bodily discomforts at the garderobe and quickly change into an untorn gown before hustling her back down the precipitate winding stairs. Annis felt happier however; not being in need of emptying her bladder was heartening and so was a clean gown, a soft woad-dyed blue gown of linsey-woolsey. The linen-wool mix was suitable for the warm day though she had warmer gowns too; if on
ly that she might sell the odd gown if she was down on her luck. This gown was finer in cut too to the unbleached workaday gown, and had bands of blue and gold-coloured damasked silk binding the neck and bodice, and laid in stripes down the seams and in a broad band of purflage about an inch above the hem. It looked well on her, and Annis knew it. Elissa gave her a look of some brief envy for the fineness of the gown – she was female enough to admire beautiful clothes though she had chosen a warrior’s path – ere she knocked on the heavy oaken door and nodded to the girl.

  “I’ll wait out here – to see you back or to bury your carcase,” she told Annis laconically. Annis gave her a curt nod and went in.

  Gyrfalon’s room was as sparsely furnished as Annis’ turret. It indeed occupied the situation the girl had surmised, but the circular turret opened through an arch into a big square room with a large window onto the courtyard and arrow slits in the curved wall that had an angle to overlook the side gate. In the far corner a bed stood, heaped with furs; a huge oaken table dominated the centre of the main part of the room. There were a few chests stood by the walls, mostly iron bound with intricate locks; and a great high backed chair across which the warlord had thrown his cloak. There was as yet no fire in the wide grate and no hangings to keep out the draught that would come with winter. The only spot of colour was in the maps lying on the table, weighted down under smooth river stones.

  Gyrfalon looked up as Annis came in and his one eye glinted unkindly.

  “Ah, healer.” His voice was dangerously soft and held a note of sarcasm. “I would like your opinion of this.”

  With a sudden movement the warlord had removed his steel helm to display the dreadful ravaged mess that had been the left side of his face. The eye stared lifeless, sightless, whitely dull within a seething mass of livid scars; some weeping, some raw and angry, all repellent in their obvious agony.