Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  The bitterness in the word assured Simon of an ally and he hid a smile.

  “The speed of such—festivities -- does not set well with you either?” he asked slyly as he offered the bait.

  “Tis too soon…”

  “Aye,” he agreed. It was like catching fish in a puddle. “Countess Marta is due a proper period of mourning. I thought to persuade Lady Isabeau to delay the deed. It does her no credit to rush.”

  “Nay,” Granya agreed; her head bobbling wildly. “I would help locate your sister, but I do not know where the girl might find herself this morning. Or Lord d’Allyonshire, either.”

  Belatedly, Simon checked his belt for his knives. Should Donovan return, Simon would not let a chance meeting slip away. A well-aimed toss would end the matter soon enough and he could escape away as quietly as he entered. The castle would be in chaos, as everyone would look inside the walls for the assassin.

  A smile quirked his lips as an idea took fruition. What better way to leave Little Izzie vulnerable? She could not deny she had skill with a knife. She would be begging for his protection should events suggest she threw the fatal blade.

  C hapter 24

  If grief had an odor, smoke and death came close. Donovan looked to the sky and sent up a prayer for rain. Heaven’s tears might wash away some of the stench.

  Thanks be to God, the fire had not spread into the fields. Donovan surveyed the blackened shell of what used to be home to a young farmer, his pregnant wife and their two-year old daughter.

  The pointless destruction was enough to anger any reasonable soul. That the young family would not feel the loss of their home stoked Donovan’s wrath. He would see they had justice; it was the only service left he could offer them.

  Would he ever find respite from killing? There would be more before the day finished. He hated death. ‘Twas a pity he inherited the talent for wielding the sword. A pity he excelled at the occupation.

  Surveying again the rows of new seedlings pushing towards the sun, he pondered where his life’s road would have taken him had his father been a farmer rather than distant kin to the king. Donovan remembered the joy his parents shared when Duncan came home from the king’s business. Had his father shared the same distaste for death but merely continued to do what needed to be done?

  The signs of arson and murder were easily read. Beyond using the fire in a poor endeavor to cover the crimes, the culprits made no other attempt at concealment. “You stay and do what is necessary,” he said to four soldiers. “We will be about business.”

  Tracks from the devastation led Donovan and his men to a small inn—or rather the attached stables, as those they followed apparently lacked the funds for more than bedding down with the animals.

  Signaling his men to surround the tumble-down building, Donovan and Carstairs burst through the sagging doors, swords drawn. The air was ripe with the smell of fresh dung. There was a collective gasp from the third stall. And three grimy faces stared at them. “Stand and drop your weapons,” demanded Carstairs.

  “We ain’t got no weapons,” stammered one of the men as they struggled to their feet.

  Four of Donovan’s men entered from a far door and grabbed the three suspects. They dragged the filthy men outside. In the fading daylight, the condition of the three men’s clothes made identification of the cutthroats obvious. Smudges of soot and the scent of smoke clung to them. Guilt stared out of the sunken eyes.

  “We ain’t done nothing,” whined the shortest and dirtiest of the trio

  “Your names!” barked Carstairs. “You don’t look like Bennington men.

  “Why you asking?” blustered the most brazen of the culprits. “We was minding’ our own business, just settling fer the night.

  Donovan coolly ordered his men to bind them and cart the trio back to the site of the carnage. The men left at the cottage had extinguished any remaining fires and respectfully wrapped the bodies in singed linens. The sight of the smallest bundle made Donovan’s blood boil. The child must have been close to Christian’s age.

  “I accuse you of murder. What say you?”

  Even faced with the evidence of their crimes—the footprints, the spatter of blood on a shoe, the scratches the young mother had inflicted while trying to defend herself—they pleaded innocence.

  Their denials only served to fuel Donovan’s disgust. He looked them over with his bile rising at the waste of humanity. Though ragged and sporting fresh bruises from the recent trip back to the cottage, they all appeared to be in good health. According to the innkeeper, they had been at the inn two days and were strangers to the region.

  “I ask you. Why?” Donovan’s voice cut like the sharpest sword. “These poor people had nothing that would temp three able bodied men to murder them.” He felt Carstairs go rigid and knew it was because of his tone. Donovan’s rage was slipping out of control.

  “We w-was at the inn, m-milord.” The shortest of the trio, named Rudy, stuttered. He seemed to be acting as leader over the other much larger men. “Cept when we snared us two hares.”

  “You admit to poaching?” Donovan felt his brows arch. “Am I to believe a man who steals from Bennington lands?”

  “Nay, milord.” Rudy began to sweat at the menace Donovan intentionally directed at them. The small man danced on the balls of his feet. His arms remained bound at his back, an armed man stood on either side.

  “You just said you snared two hares.”

  “But not poachin’ milord. We knows the Earl of Bennington---from the fightin’. He gave us leave to hunt his lands should our travels take us here.”

  “You know the Earl of Bennington?”

  “Aye.” Two heads vigorously bobbed up and down.

  “Doos you know him, my lord?” one of the taller men asked in a quivering voice; obviously not as confident as Rudy.

  “I have heard tales about the man,” Donovan answered non-committally and stared down Carstairs’ snicker.

  “Good man, the earl.” Carstairs interjected. “Heard tales myself. Some said he is covered in ugly scars from not keeping up his guard. Lost half his face to a sword in Normandy—cut the poor devil in half for payment.”

  “A good man,” Rudy agreed. “A just man. Our bellies were kissin’ our backbones -- we was that hungry. The earl would not begrudge us a full belly.”

  Donovan nodded contemplatively. “You are correct. The Earl of Bennington would not begrudge a rabbit or two. But the loss of one of his families is a somewhat different matter.” “We was in the forest,” Rudy repeated desperately. “We heard a wild commotion and run for our lives.”

  “Then explain the smoke on your clothes and hair.” Donovan circled the men and pointed to each detail as he voiced it. “Explain the blood on your trousers and on these shoes.”

  “We skinned the rabbits afor we spitted them o’er the fire; ‘tis a messy business.”

  “And you did not think to save the fur?”

  “’Tis back at the stable,” Rudy countered.

  “Tell me how you acquired the scratches down the side of your face. Did the rabbits put up such a valiant fight?”

  Rudy hunched his shoulder as if the action would hide the bloody marks.

  “And you?” Donovan gestured to the one who had kept quiet throughout his capture and the trek back to the farm. “What is your name?”

  “Sam, milord.” His voice sounded as if he wanted to burst into tears.

  “You are very quiet. Have you nothing to say? I see your hand is wrapped. What of your wound? How did you earn it? Does it pain you?”

  “Just a nasty splinter, milord. Was going to have one of the boys cut it out.”

  “Where did you pick up such a nasty splinter?”

  “I don'na recall.”

  “Carstairs, help the man remember.”

  Sam cowered as Carstairs stepped towards him with a shovel. The handle was broken. As Carstairs hiked the implement to everyone’s view, Sam’s bladder released.

  “Did yo
ur splinter come from this spade? What were you doing with it, Sam?”

  “Just digging, milord.” Tears leaked down the grimy face.

  “What were you digging?”

  “Just roots,” Rudy interrupted loudly, answering for his friend. “Just roots for eatin’ -- and greens. The earl gave permission to forage. Like I told ya. We done nothin’ wrong.”

  Donovan shook his head. “Do you believe Rudy, Carstairs? Do you think they struck up a friendship with the earl in Normandy?”

  Carstairs mirrored Donovan’s headshake. “They may have traveled across the channel but I have my doubts. I am sure they lie about being acquainted with the Earl of Bennington.”

  “How do you know, Carstairs?”

  “Because,” Carstairs stabbed the ground with the broken spade and propped his elbow on the point of the handle. “You would never befriend men who would murder innocent people, my lord.”

  Even brash Rudy’s mouth hung open under the impact of Carstairs’ statement.

  “Now,” Donovan stared in the eyes of the triad. “You will tell me why. Be swift with the truth for your immediate future depends on the words coming from your mouth. What did you hope to find, digging under the corners of Zeke’s cottage?”

  “Gold,” Sam answered on a whimper.

  “Nothing!” Rudy contradicted at the same time before turning on the taller comrade and ordered in a hiss. “Keep your tongue in your mouth.”

  “You di’nat have the brain of a rabbit,” Sam snapped at Rudy. The little man shrunk back as if a blade of grass just took a bite out of him. “I knows we gonna die. I druther die swift than feel the pains of torture. If we tell the tale mayhap the earl will show mercy and git it over.”

  Donovan tipped his chin. “I reward honesty.”

  “Everybody told tales of your travels,” Sam nodded. “They is proud of you. Never trained with a sword myself, but once I thought to offer my arm to your service.”

  “Tell me about the gold.”

  Sam’s head bobbed once, tears glinting in his eyes. “We was going ta find a farmer what could use us in the fields. ‘Tis the season, afta all. Got as far as the inn; rather the innkeeper’s stables. A young baron crossed our road. Said he been rough used, as a villain of a farmer and his two ruffian sons stole his pouch. He knew where his gold was buried but he lacked the muscle to retrieve the coins. Three agin’ one he couldn’t take on. The baron was goin’ to the magistrate and let the law deal with ‘em. Rudy got the idea to beat the law to the gold. He asked if the baron knew where to find the villains. And we went off the help ourselves. They were thieves after all.”

  “An interesting tale,” Donovan prompted. “But it does nothing to explain the murders.

  “We followed the baron’s direction and found a farm just like he said.” Sam swallowed before resuming his confession. “We waited in that little copse of trees and Rudy watched. When, as we thought, one of the sons went down the path, Rudy told Tom to follow and git answers. Answers was all we wanted. We might bruise the thieves up some but that’s all we was going to do. Rudy told me to start diggin’ aroun’ the cottage corners and handed me a shovel he pilfered ‘fore we left the inn…”

  “Continue,” Donovan demanded when Sam’s voice trailed off into silence.

  “I dun what I was told. Snuck around to tha back and started digging.’ Rudy took the front. I heard Rudy get in the door. Heard him laugh. Then I heard him shout real angry like. I put my head down and just kept diggin’. Rudy can be like a wild boar when riled. I moved to the other corner when Rudy come runnin’ and said we was to come back when the flames burnt down. That’s when I smelled smoke. Never seen Rudy like that, jumpy as a frog afire. Took to runnin’ back to the inn, musta’ dropped the shovel then.”

  “Is this true?” Donovan stared at the other two for verification.

  Tom nodded quickly. “I was to git the son who was alone. But he fought me and I hit him too hard. Anyways, he died.”

  Rudy was slower to respond but after a moment under Donovan’s scrutiny, his rebellion deflated and he jerked his chin once.

  “Brave one, you.” Donovan narrowed his eyes in contempt. “Slaughtering a woman heavy with child and her little girl.”

  “A woman?” Sam cried out in distress. “Rudy said ‘t’were an old man and his growed son.” He bent over and puked up his guts on Rudy’s bloodied and muddied shoes.

  “You did not know of the woman and child?” Donovan asked as Sam straightened.

  “Nay, milord.”

  “Tom,” Donovan turned on the third man. “When did you know a woman was in the cottage?”

  Tom licked his lips. His eyes flickered towards Rudy before answering. “I saws her at the door when she waved off her man. Rudy hushed me when I told him we was at the wrong place.”

  “Let me understand this.” Donovan closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to control his rage. “Even though you had reason to believe you were at the wrong farmstead, you still followed Rudy and killed Zeke, an innocent man, his pregnant wife, and little daughter?”

  A quick nod sufficed for Tom’s answer. “Rudy says this was the place the traveler told us about and maybe he lied about it being three men who jumped him. The man who told the tale was a bit puny.”

  “Bah, I’ve heard enough. Murder is murder. Justice must be served. Let it be known that Rudy and Tom will hang this day at the nearest crossroads for their deeds against a man of Bennington, his wife and child.”

  He turned to Sam. “Digging might not be a crime depending on circumstances. You thought to steal from a thief, but stealing is stealing. You say you knew nothing of your companions’ deeds, but that does not make you innocent. ”

  Sam shook beneath Donovan’s glare but he stood as straight as his bindings allowed. “I accept your judgment and pray to My Lord God for forgiveness. I deserve no better.”

  Donovan watched this man maintain what remained of his dignity while waiting for judgment. Even with pants dampened with piss and spattered with puke, Sam somehow found the pride and strength to face his own death.

  “For your crime of digging, you will accompany Zeke and his family to the nearest consecrated ground and dig their graves and pray for their souls. When your work is completed you will be escorted to Bennington Castle. There you will tell your tale of woe to one more suited to pass judgment—Zeke’s grandmother. Tis her loss. If she can find reason to spare your neck, so be it. Should she bid me, you will follow your fellows to hell in a thrice.”

  C hapter 25

  Elated, Simon returned to the cave. With stealth and cunning, he had cleverly breached the heart of his enemy’s lair. Not only had he gained useful intelligence but he had secured an ally in the bosom of the castle. The mighty sword of Donovan could not have done better.

  He had only to feign grief over Marta’s death and Granya had been willing to do anything short of plunging a dagger into Allyonshire’s chest. The old witch would have neither the strength nor the stomach for that deed. Still, she would have her uses.

  The aid of candlelight would speed his forays into the castle, he thought with satisfaction. Next trip he would explore the second tunnel. He settled on one of the large rocks surrounding the outside fire ring and decided to enjoy the lowly brew still remaining with the supplies.

  What was taking Arneau so long? Simon had made his own trip, accomplished much and returned, yet the servant was still away. If Arneau had succeeded, his next foray into the castle would not be through the tunnel.

  He heard a rustling in the trees. Arneau’s round face burst through the leaves as he entered the clearing. The man and his horse were not quiet. When the time came, Arneau would be completely expendable.

  “What of Bennington?” Simon demanded before taking another mouthful of wine.

  “The castle got news before daybreak. The earl took several of his men to investigate a fire on one of his farms. Word has spread that raiders have attacked and he has gone hunting.”

>   “Has the earl returned to Bennington?”

  Arneau could only shake his head. “Nay.”

  Simon tossed the wineskin at Arneau then circled the empty fire pit.

  How can I use this?

  Simon would take advantage of Allyonshire’s early departure. He could return to the castle and strengthen his hold on the old witch. Yes. He liked that idea. Simon’s words came faster as he began issuing orders. “Arneau, you will keep watch on the road between the farm and Bennington. Also, select several hiding places. I need a good line of sight while I remain concealed. When done, get back here and fix me a meal. I want something to eat besides stale bread and cheese.

  “Get going, man,” he growled before turning on his heel.

  By now Donovan had to be leagues away, chasing after those gullible fools, so a return to the castle was possible.

  Strategically, the earl should be disposed of outside the walls of Bennington. If the opportunity to kill Donovan along the road did not come to fruition, Simon would ensure his downfall from within the very heart of the man’s own fortress.

  He found a malicious liking for the idea of taking down a warrior where he should be most protected.

  The idea of slitting Donovan’s throat while he slept appealed.

  C hapter 26

  Donovan sighed as he shifted on his saddle. He wondered when he had grown so tired? Had the road ever felt so long? When had he worried about anything but the next battle?

  In the matter of warfare, things were as sharp as the point of a blade, as final as the slash of a sword. How was it then, that he now offered mercy where on the battlefield none would be due?

  “Regrets?” queried Carstairs.

  “About?” Donovan asked cryptically. He winced. Not just at the verbal echo of his thoughts but that his friend should maneuver his beast next to his without him knowing. He had lost his battle-ready awareness—a fatal flaw? He couldn’t afford to reveal any of his self-doubts, even to his most trusted friend and man-at-arms.