Minutes later the three trooped back, the boys pulling like a pair of horses between the traces of a low two wheeled cart. “We use this to move barrels and other heavy objects,” Tybaut explained, smiling proudly.
“Good thinking,” Rodrick said. “It’s wide enough, and low enough we won’t have to lift him high.”
“It’s a rustic creation made by one of the tenant farmers and the wheels aren’t perfectly round. It won’t be comfortable trundling along the frozen ground.”
Rodrick refrained from mentioning Bronson hadn’t yet awakened from his stupor and likely wouldn’t feel anything. “We’ll not get him up the stairs to his bed.”
Swan came to her feet. “I’ll prepare my pallet in the solar.”
Hugging her arms, Grace paced in the chilly windowless attic atop Cullène Hall. Her fingers and toes were still frozen from the long ride. For the first few miles she’d tried hard not to lean against Godefroy’s giant accomplice, but common sense had forced her to benefit from his warmth. Clinging to his broad back also improved her chances of staying on the galloping horse.
Godefroy had evidently taken over the master’s chamber, and the giant had carried her over his shoulder to the top of the house and dumped her unceremoniously onto the pallet bed. It was the first time she had set foot in the cramped room tucked beneath the thatching. There was no fire, not even a grate. The only recourse was to climb under the one meager blanket Godefroy had provided.
She curled up on the musty pallet, drawing the blanket to her chin, determined not to cry. Once she started, she might never stop. Her mind raced through the dire possibilities of what had happened to Bronson and Rodrick. The pain she’d experienced earlier in the day had been a premonition Rodrick had been hurt, but she didn’t believe him dead. Her heart and her gut would have sensed if he was no longer of this world.
But Bronson?
She squeezed her eyes tight to shut out the persistent image of the black-winged angel sitting atop a monolith. She’d never had any doubt Bronson was the naked man of her dream. Had the dark angel been the harbinger of his death? Perhaps her sinful longings had brought the wrath of God down on both their heads.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Swan clung to Rodrick as they stood gazing at Bronson, hoping for some sign of wakefulness. Her brother had moaned only once while being lifted off the cart onto the pallet earlier in the afternoon. She stared at him, remembering good and bad times growing up. He’d always been her protector.
“He looks helpless,” she whispered to Rodrick.
He tightened his grip on her waist. “He’s strong, and there is no sign of fever.”
As if to confound his words, a flush spread across Bronson’s face and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Lucia came forward. “I was hoping this wouldn’t happen.” She looked at Swan nervously. “He’s shaking. It’s not a good sign.”
Rodrick shifted his weight. “I regret having to leave you, Swan, but I must ride on to Cullène Hall. Papa will have received the message by now and is probably ready to get underway. I want to strangle Godefroy with my bare hands for this.”
Swan wished with all her heart he didn’t have to leave. If her brother died— “You must go. Rescue your sister and bring her back safely. Mayhap if she is here, Bronson might—”
Rodrick kissed her forehead when the words stuck in her throat. “I will take some of the men with me, but you will still be protected. I doubt if the conspirators will return.”
Lucia looked up from her task of applying damp linens to Bronson’s face. “Perhaps this will help, my lord. When I lived at Cullène Hall, cursed place that it is—”
She made the sign of her Savior across her body.
“—the servants often spoke of a passageway into the house from the surrounding fields. I was never in it, but some boasted of escaping to go to the village without their master’s knowledge. A harsh taskmaster was Victor de Cullène, and that Steward of his, well—”
Rodrick held up a hand. “Yes, yes, Lucia. How can I locate the entry to this passageway?”
The maidservant bit her lower lip. “Mostly they were deep into their cups on their return, but I seem to recall something of a big tree growing every which way.”
Swan rolled her eyes. “That’s not much help.”
Rodrick pulled her to his body. “It’s better than nothing. Thank you, Lucia.”
The maid smiled and Swan regretted having made light of her information. “Yes, thank you, Lucia. What would we have done without your help?”
“Get your cloak, Swan,” Rodrick whispered. “Bid me adieu in the courtyard.”
Lucia touched her hand. “I will watch over him while you go. Godspeed, milord Rodrick. Bring my mistress back safely.”
Swan retrieved her cloak from the floor where she had hurled it upon first entering the solar and Rodrick draped it over her shoulders, then donned his own. They hurried outside, where the men-at-arms waited with his horse.
He drew her close and folded his cloak around her. “I cannot kiss you as I would wish with the men watching.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat as he pecked a kiss on her lips. “Hurry back. Be careful with your nose. It looks painful. I should have taken better care of you.”
He smiled, grinding his hips against her. “The cold will numb the discomfort. Besides, you, Suannoch FitzRam, will be taking care of all my wants and needs for the rest of our lives.”
She blushed as the hard maleness he pressed against her sent desire skittering up her legs.
He pulled away and mounted his horse. “Go inside.”
She shook her head and remained staring at the horizon for long minutes until he had ridden out of sight.
Bronson stood trembling by the monolith, still naked, but some sharp-toothed creature had slithered inside his chest and was eating his flesh. A horse had trampled his head.
The naked woman—he was sure it was Grace—still held out her hands in welcome.
But he shook his head. “I’m too hot,” he rasped, his throat parched.
“Drink this.”
He sipped liquid, though it wasn’t Grace who had spoken. Broth maybe. How can there be broth out here by the Standing Stones?
Grace opened her arms wider, revealing lovely breasts. Mayhap if he suckled, he might feel better. He groaned, reaching to ease the ache at his groin.
I’m still clothed.
But he was naked.
“At least the bleeding has stopped, thank goodness.”
Who is bleeding?
“I’m not bleeding, I’m burning.”
Grace kept smiling. Why was she smiling when he was being consumed by fire?
“We can consider sewing the wound closed now. I’ll get the dwale from Jolly and a few men to help.”
“Jolly. Jolly. Jolly.”
There’s nothing jolly about the pain in my chest. Perhaps my heart is broken.
“Dwale?”
“For the pain, brother.”
Swan? What’s Swan doing at the monolith?
He peeled open one eye. “Swan.”
“Hush, Bronson. You’ve been injured.”
He closed his eye. This was too confusing. He wanted Grace, not Swan. But Grace was disappearing, drawn away by—
He struggled to sit up. “The youth with the dagger! Help her.”
“Lie down, Bronson. You’ll reopen the wound.”
As the fires of hell blazed through his body he stared at the faces surrounding him. Grace wasn’t among them. He lay down and slipped back into the dream, hoping to find her there.
Jolly bustled in with the potel of dwale, her face drawn and redder than usual. Swan hoped the strain of the tragedy didn’t prove too much for the elderly Cook.
She accepted the drug with trembling hands. “I’m nervous with dwale.”
“You needn’t worry about my dwale,” Jolly reassured her, somewhat belligerently. “The recipe is one Countess Carys handed down, God Rest Her Soul.
The present Countess Peridotte swears by it—saved her life.”
“I can attest to it,” Lucia confirmed, reaching to take the corked potel from Swan. “We’ve used it at Ellesmere for years. Just the right amount of hemlock. Not enough to be poisonous, but sufficient to induce sleep.”
“But he hasn’t fully awakened yet,” Swan protested. “Only mumbled about being too hot.”
“But he sat up, my lady. And he sipped a bit of broth, a sure sign he’ll soon be awake. We should embark on the stitching now.”
The maidservant looked to the doorway as four burly men-at-arms entered, stamping the snow off their feet. “Good. We’ll need them to hold him down if he comes to.”
“I’ve no kitgut for sewing,” Jolly complained. “You ladies used the last weeks ago for strings on the rebec. Tybaut will have to get one of the tenant farmers to slaughter a sheep.”
“A sheep?” Swan asked, wishing she’d paid more attention to such matters. She’d left the healing up to her mother and older sisters. She remembered Jolly’s disapproving look when she’d insisted on having the rebec restrung for Bronson’s arrival.
“Aye,” Jolly replied. “We make kitgut out of a sheep’s intestines, but it takes a while.”
She thrust a handful of embroidery silks at Lucia, then wiped both pudgy hands on her apron. “I’ve waxed these. All I’ve got to offer.”
Swan wavered between laughing and screaming hysterically—her well-muscled brother stitched up with embroidery silks. She would never ply a needle again.
Jolly stamped her foot. “Saints preserve me. I forgot the oil of roses and honey.”
“What’s that for?” Swan asked.
“For the poor man’s broken head. We’ll need to shave off his hair.”
“Absolutely not!” Swan shouted, closer than ever to hysteria. “It’s bad enough he has to suffer being sewn up with embroidery silk. We are not cutting off his hair.”
Jolly glared, but remained in the solar.
“Me and the lads’ll fetch a trestle table from the Hall,” one soldier said. “Raise up the pallet from the floor. Make it easier to do the job.”
“Of course,” Swan replied, nervously wringing her hands. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Dread had robbed her of her wits.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Seated on his horse atop the rampart ditch surrounding Cullène Hall, Gallien de Montbryce, Third Earl of Ellesmere, now understood the anger and dread that must have knotted the belly of his grandfather when he received word his daughter, Rhoni had been taken by brigands.
Fortunately, Rhoni had been rescued by the man she’d eventually married, Ronan MacLachlainn, who’d beheaded the leader of the villains with one swift stroke of his sword. Gallien fully intended to mete out the same punishment to Godefroy de Cullène. He cursed the day he’d ever agreed to Grace’s marriage, knowing intimately the pain of a catastrophic union.
Ronan had been in time to save Rhoni from the humiliation of rape. Gallien prayed for the same for his precious daughter. If Godefroy had defiled her, he would choose a slower and more painful death for the wretch.
He pushed aside the dire possibility. Only clear thinking and decisive action would save Grace. “We’d have no difficulty overwhelming them if we attack,” he said to Bravecoeur, the captain of his guard mounted beside him. “But that would place my daughter’s life in peril.”
“But if he kills her, he will have no hold over you,” Bravecoeur replied.
Gallien shifted his weight in the saddle, his body tense. “Men such as Godefroy are cut from the same cloth as Eustace. Inflicting pain is what they excel at. If he thinks he cannot persuade me to his cause, he is as likely to kill her for spite.”
“And we must bear in mind—”
Bravecoeur stopped abruptly at the sound of horses approaching. He wheeled his mount, stood up in the stirrups and shaded his eyes. “It’s milord Rodrick and his men.”
Gallien was immensely relieved to see his son. His face was bruised and battered, but fury burned in his eyes. They reached over and clasped arms. “Looks like you had an argument with a wall.”
Rodrick grimaced, touching his nose carefully. “Aye, but I was the lucky one. Bronson lies near death, his chest slashed open.”
Gallien clenched his jaw, bereft that the cousin he barely knew, but who had impressed him as a man of honor and intelligence should lose his life to one such as Godefroy. “We will avenge him, and Grace.”
Rodrick nodded. “What’s the plan?”
“We were discussing the possibilities,” Bravecoeur replied.
“Grace’s maidservant told me there is a hidden passageway into the house, but the only detail she recalled was the entry is near a tree that grows every which way.”
“An oak,” Gallien declared. “An oak grows in every way.”
They scanned the surrounding area. Rodrick pointed to a grove of shrubs in a dip not far from the side of house. “There, in the midst of those bushes.”
Gallien narrowed his eyes. A lone oak, wider around the gnarled trunk than two men could span, dominated the undergrowth, its bare rugged branches reaching to a large wide-spreading crown, stark against the white sky. “I’d wager it’s been there longer than the house,” he said.
Rodrick dismounted. “I’ll investigate. Lucia believes only the servants are aware of the passage, but it may have been discovered and filled in.”
“I’ll come with you,” Bravecoeur said. “If we stay behind the bushes for as long as possible, we won’t be spotted from the house.”
Gallien was uneasy. “It’s strange they have no guards posted outside as far as I can see.”
Rodrick scanned the area again. “There’s only the one small window on that side in any case, and Tybaut told of a mere handful in the group posing as mummers.”
Men-at-arms came forward to lead their horses back over the rampart. Gallien remained atop the fortification and watched his son and his captain lope across the ridge until they were out of sight of the front of the house. Then they crouched down and disappeared into the ditch.
Grace tightened the blanket around her shoulders and leaned her ear against the door. She’d heard faint voices before, but now it was strangely quiet. Had Godefroy gone off somewhere? She’d not seen him since they arrived and no one had brought her food or drink.
She scurried away from the door when a loud footfall sounded on the stairs below.
The giant?
Wood scraped against metal, followed by a clunk as what she assumed was a bar was dropped to the floor. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears when the door banged open wide. Godefroy stood on the threshold, the giant at his side. Fear closed her throat.
“Don’t worry, I’m not interested in having you,” Godefroy sneered, his nose in the air. “Titus, however, may be hard to restrain if negotiations don’t go our way. He likes a challenge.”
“Negotiations?” she murmured, keeping her eyes off the giant, hoping she didn’t look as terrified as she felt.
“Your dear Papa is on the rampart.”
Papa!
She stiffened her shoulders. “My father will never negotiate with the likes of you, Godefroy.”
“Then you will die, maman dear.”
He strode forward to grasp her arm.
She flinched away.
He held out his hand. “You can come willingly, or I’ll have Titus carry you like a sack of grain. Your choice.”
“I will go with you, but I won’t take your hand,” she declared.
His sneering smile sickened her, but he gave a mock bow and ushered her through the doorway. “Let’s assure the Earl of your presence. You’ll need the blanket. It’s cold out.”
The trapdoor wasn’t hard to uncover amid the hawthorn bushes. “The prickly shrubbery has kept even the snow away,” Rodrick quipped.
Bravecoeur snickered, braced his legs, looping his hand under the rough rope handle and pulled hard. It creaked open. Bravecoeur pressed two fingers over his n
ostrils. “What a stench!”
Rodrick shrugged. “Can’t smell a thing. One advantage of a broken nose.”
They peered into the blackness beyond the two or three worn wooden rungs of a ladder that led into the ground. “Narrow,” the soldier remarked, “but we should squeeze through.”
“Looks well used,” Rodrick remarked. “I hope not by Godefroy.”
Bravecoeur shook his head. “Can’t see a reason for the master to sneak in and out of the house.”
Rodrick unbuckled his scabbard and laid it on the ground. “I hate to leave my sword here, but it will be more of a nuisance.” He patted the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his waist.
Ellesmere’s Captain hesitated a moment, then removed his sword, and followed Rodrick down the ladder.
They were forced to crouch as they walked in complete darkness, flinching and dodging as they were poked and scratched by the occasional tree root. “If this is a route for servants, I doubt the other end will come out in the main part of the house,” Rodrick whispered.
“Right,” his companion grunted, sounding out of breath. “I’ll be happy to reach the other end. I hate tight spaces.”
“Mayhap animals use this too,” Rodrick replied, not wanting to dwell on thoughts of what might have lived and died in this tunnel.
He bumped into the ladder in the pitch black, glad he’d held his hands out in front of his body. He looked up. Half a dozen steps loomed in the meager chink of light escaping from the edges of a closed trap door.
He climbed slowly, braced his thighs against the ladder, then pushed the door with both hands. It resisted as though something stood on top of it. Nothing for it but to shove harder and hope whatever it was didn’t tip over with a bang.
It opened further when he put his shoulder to it. He peered through the crack into a tiny buttery, lit by a narrow window. Seeing nothing but a few barrels, he shoved the door open a little further, then scrambled out, amused to see a small cask permanently affixed to the door.
Crouching, he beckoned Bravecoeur who also chuckled at the cask lying on its side. “I’d say the servants have gone to a deal of trouble to conceal this,” he said.
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