by Maren Smith
Sure enough, between two wide-eyed maids cringing away from the livid Frenchman, Mallory spotted a familiar meal tray laden with a bowl of thin chicken broth and two thick slices of black bread. On the surrounding tables, there were garlic, onions and leeks as well as bowls of fruits—oranges, currants, figs and raisins. A thick meat pottage was bubbling over the fire while no less than two dozen plucked pheasants were being spitted for roasting.
"Look at all this food.” Mallory pointed to her tray. “Why am I still eating broth when we've got all this other stuff?"
With a brusque motion, the cook gestured to the bowl with his ladle. “Cela, c'est votre soupe."
"I don't want to eat that anymore. It's all grease. I need more than greasy broth to eat."
"J'ai prepare cela pour vous. Mangez-en mangez-le."
"I don't want that.” Mallory protested. “I want what everyone else is having. And there's no reason to shout at me!"
The cook shook his ladle at the tray again, then at her, his voice rising. “Sors de ma cuisine!"
Hands on her hips, she began to shout back. “I'm not leaving this kitchen until you start giving me what everyone else gets!"
"Embettante espèce de femelle, partout and toujous sous pieds."
"Bread and broth. Bread and broth! It's always bread and broth!” Mallory spread her arms to encompass the kitchen. “There's tons of food in here: lamb, pork, beef, eggs, onions."
"Ingrate!"
"From now on, breakfast will be fruit and eggs or oatmeal,” Mallory declared, holding up her finger.
"Bouillon!"
She held up two fingers. “Lunch will be soup and a salad with cheese, chicken and bacon bits."
"Tu n'apprécies jamais mes efforts. Je finasserai pour des cochons avant de rechauffer quoi que ce soit pour toi! Crève, je m'ou fous!"
"Dinner,” she bellowed, matching him volume for volume and holding up a third finger, “will be exactly what everyone else is having! I don't think I'm being unreasonable here!"
He threw his ladle on the floor and stomped on it. “Mes talents considerables sont gaspiées sous ces conditions horribles!"
"And it wouldn't kill you to throw in dessert once in a while!"
The cook turned an apoplectic shade of red. He bent backward, shaking both fists in the air as he shouted, “Je t'enverrai ton dessert!"
Mallory grabbed an orange from the table and darted out the door just as a bowl of spice pudding hit the wall behind her. The sound of breaking crockery followed her all the way down the hall.
By sheer accident, she discovered a small library stacked nearly to the ceiling with old manuscripts, loose parchments and books of all sizes, shapes and thicknesses. One dusty volume in particular caught her eye. It was full of a mixture of drawings, art and architectural designs. Since there were no chairs, Mallory carefully knelt on the floor to spare her tender bottom the pain of having to sit and flipped through the thick parchment pages while she peeled and ate her orange.
Afterward a passing maid led her to the Great Hall, which was, Mallory discovered, where all the good rooms were located. Like Varden's study, and a bright gold and white ball room where she ran her fingers over the taut strings of a gold-gilded harp and played a strained chorus of Pop Goes the Weasel on the spinet, which badly needed tuning.
There was a hall with eight huge double doors, each securely locked and elaborately carved with slightly similar battle scenes. This hall connected to a second, narrower corridor that ran left to right. To the right, a small door took her out of the castle and down six large steps into the sunshine that bathed this private section of the courtyard. Three soldiers were seated on a wooden bench at the entrance of the main courtyard, eating their dinners. They looked up when they saw her. She waved; they watched her.
A small square structure attached to the bailey wall directly across from her. The entrance to Cadhla's prison system, it was obviously still in use since a man was seated at the desk just inside. He looked up from his ledger when she came in, then immediately stood up.
"Your Grace,” he said, politely. He was fully armed, as well as armored. Grey tinged his mustache and beard. “May I help you?"
"Just looking.” She smiled, even as her eyes were drawn to the only other door—an iron gate, really, locked from the outside at the bottom of a narrow flight of stone steps. Two men were stationed on the other side, armored, but not armed, looking back at her through the bars.
"Are there people down there?” she asked, thumbing toward the door.
The man came out from behind his desk, standing between her and the gate. “This is not the proper place for a lady, Your Grace. Shall I summon an escort for you?"
"No, no. That won't be necessary.” She heard what sounded like a very distant cough as she backed out the door, the heat of the sunshine warming her shoulders again. “Sorry to have disturbed you."
He touched the rim of his helmet. “Always a pleasure, Your Grace."
Mallory returned to the castle. This time, choosing the left wing of the corridor, she followed a flight of stairs down to a narrow door with hinges that squeaked when she pushed it open. The room beyond was completely empty. The wall lamps here had long since been removed and the only light was provided by a series of narrow windows along the far wall. A huge round grate with a hinged iron hatch was set in the middle of the floor. She had just found the dungeon.
The obviously unused dungeon, which was locked and much too dark to see into.
Remembering that she had seen several candles in the main Hall, Mallory picked up her skirts and hurried to fetch one. On the way back, however, she took a wrong turn and ended up in another strange hall. At least thirty feet in length, the entire right side was lined with arched windows overlooking the garden. On her left, nestled in narrow nooks every eight feet or so, a freestanding suit of armor, each with a different shield and emblem, waited a silent vigil over her trespassing.
Out of curiosity, Mallory lifted one of the faceplates. What would it have been like to wear one? By the weight of the faceplate alone, very heavy.
At the very end of the hall, a pair of large double doors opened into a vast conference room. A huge map of Great Britain—incredibly outdated to her way of thinking—covered one entire wall from floor to ceiling. The map was dissected into different colored territories, with Varden's taking up a sizeable area at the top left where England and Scotland joined, and similarly colored smaller sections scattered throughout Europe.
Books were stacked on every available chair, some open, most closed and a few fallen on the floor in neglected piles that had slid half under each of the three long tables that stretched the room from end to end. Papers overflowed every flat surface on the tables, stacked upon all but one chair, stuffed between pages in some of the books. Though the fireplace was cold, a near empty glass of whiskey and a single burning candle had been set nearby.
Mallory wandered over to take a closer look. Curious, she opened a book near the candle. It was a ledger of names, admissions and rejections, recorded casualties and injuries, and successful graduations from the Field.
She picked up a loose sheet of parchment and tipped it to catch the light. A letter of sorts. Roughly half of the words were misspelled and, after stumbling through what appeared to be a progress report that listed the number of soldiers currently in training, the number on the waiting list and a damage tally accrued due to ‘dire circumstances across the border,’ she put the letter back where she found it. Obviously, proper spelling had yet to find its niche in the English language.
"Snooping?"
Mallory jumped, guiltily snatching her hands back from the document even as she turned to confront Varden's younger brother. There was no doubt in her mind that Godfrey was the man leaning propped against one shoulder in the doorway. The family resemblance was uncanny. His hair was longer, but the same color blonde, tied back from his face with a single black ribbon. His eyes were a slightly different shade of blue. He had a lean
er build, and stood perhaps an inch or two shorter than Varden. But aside from these, the only glaring difference Mallory could see lay in their clothes: Varden wore items favorable to the conditions of the Training Field; Godfrey was dressed in a gentleman's finery, his dark blue doublet matched his pants and hose. And when he smiled at her, laugh lines appeared around his mouth and eyes.
It was easy to see how Claire might have been tempted.
"I have missed you,” Godfrey said as he stepped in to the room. A shiver of apprehension trickled down her back as he closed the door behind him and then moved towards her. He stopped less than an arm's length away and reached out to touch her hair, twirling the captured lock around his finger.
"Don't.” Mallory took her hair from his hand. She stepped back, but he followed her, closing the distance with a larger step of his own.
"Don't,” he echoed, slightly mocking, still smiling. “Don't what, don't touch you? You used to like the way I touched you."
He smiled again, a winning, charming smile that left her uneasy. “After all those months at court I've almost forgotten how truly lovely you are. A painter's muse just waiting for a brush, canvas and the proper lighting."
Mallory took a deep breath. This was it; the opportunity to fix the first of Claire's many wrongs. She wondered if there was a correct way to break up with the lover she never took in order to be faithful to the husband she never married. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Claire is gone, and I don't want to pick up where the two of you left off."
At first Godfrey didn't move. Then, very slightly, he tipped his head to one side. “I beg your pardon?"
"I have decided to remain loyal to Varden, even if he never accepts me for who I am."
"Loyal to Varden.” His eyes hardened. Mallory took another step back and bumped into a chair. A book fell from it to the floor with a bang that echoed throughout the shadowy chamber. “You needn't play games with me, my pearl. If you fear being caught, I assure you Varden will not be back for hours yet. No one else will disturb us."
"No one will disturb us, because we aren't going to do anything that needs disturbing.” Mallory lifted her chin, sounding much more confident than she felt. Though his manner seemed so carefully unthreatening, the intensity of his hardened stare felt ... wrong. She took another step back and this time bumped into the wall.
Godfrey followed without hesitation. He leaned over her, bracing his arm against the wall next to her head. “You must know I will provide well for you. Your every desire shall be painstakingly fulfilled: money, a place at court, a fancy townhouse and no one to protest should you invite a gentleman home for an hour, or an evening."
"Please go away.” When he brought his mouth to hers, Mallory quickly turned her head aside. “You're too close."
His breath caressed her neck and ear. “I think I am not close enough."
"Leave me alone,” she said, but her voice quavered and he did not take her seriously. She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back against the wall. The map crinkled at her back; Godfrey loomed over her.
"You are not insane and I don't appreciate being made a fool of.” He cupped her breast. “The time to fear the consequences of our commitment has long since gone."
Mallory immediately slapped his hand. “My commitment is not to you."
His smile vanished and his expression turned as hard as the stone at her back. She stiffened when his hand came to rest at her throat, his fingers stroking the smoothness of her skin. Again, he tried to kiss her, but she twisted and turned her head as far as she could in the other direction. She pushed away from the wall, and he slammed her back against it.
His sigh seemed more like a growl. “My pearl, you are in this all the way to your pretty little chin. And lest you forget, your sins already outweigh mine."
"Let go of me,” Mallory said, trembling, but Godfrey slammed her violently against the wall yet again. His hand came to rest at her throat.
"Be careful,” Godfrey whispered against her cheek. “Or I might have to carry a tale or two to my dear brother. Remember your son, poor little Caleb. What would happen, I wonder, should Varden ever discover the extent of your crimes. Your neck won't be the first noblewoman's to ever feel the headman's axe."
The smell of his whiskey-laden breath turned her stomach, but Mallory only had to breathe it once. Then Godfrey squeezed, and she could not breathe at all. She gasped vainly for air, her hands clawing at his.
"It displeases me that I am forced to punish you,” Godfrey said, ignoring her struggles. “But you should feel honored I give you this second chance to make amends."
He kissed her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as she suffocated. She raked his arms with her nails, desperately gasping for air. Her chest began to ache. Her heart pounded at her ribs, thundering in her ears.
The darkness of the room seemed to close in around her. Mallory let go of his arm and grabbed for a book on the table beside her, something heavy that she could hit him with. Her fingers knocked a stack of papers to the floor, scattering them around their feet.. It was the last sound she heard, and Godfrey's face the last she saw, as the darkness conquered her completely.
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Chapter Nine
It was all Varden could do to stand without swaying. It was past midnight, and he was exhausted. But he was also a duke, and weakness was never allowed. So, with one hand on his hip and the other on the pommel of his sword, he glared daggers at Claire's armoire and wished that he'd been born a peasant.
He had spent five hours riding between each of the three villages within the borders of his property. Candlewick had been a hornet's nest of panicked activity by the time he arrived; too late to do anything more but ask questions. Two farms had been set on fire. Most of the livestock had been taken, the food store emptied and the fields torched. One woman had been assaulted. On the other farm, a father and son were badly beaten for trying to protect a neighboring woman from the same fate. In Barton-Under-the-Hill, a man had been hanged.
According to eyewitness accounts, the raiders were Scots. So, Varden posted sentries at each town and at various points along the border until morning when he would be better able to track them. It was going to be a long night for everyone and an even longer day tomorrow.
Now, all Varden wanted was to relax in the privacy of his own room. To sit peacefully before the fire with a warm drink and nothing to do but close his eyes and sleep. He hadn't even been given the chance to remove his muddy boots before Kenton had informed him of this disaster.
Disaster? Ha! For whatever lunatic reason, his wife was sitting in her armoire and refused to come out.
"She wanted to explore, she said.” Grete wrung her apron between her hands. “Then she came back and crawled in there. I have tried everything to bring her out, but she will not even speak to me."
Varden was in no mood for this. He pounded his fist against the door and waited. His fingers drummed impatiently on his sword hilt. When no response was forthcoming, he pounded again. “Claire?"
Still no response. He tugged on the latch.
Grete told him the obvious. “She has somehow barred it from the inside."
"How could she possibly—” He tugged at the latch again, but the door didn't budge.
The lady's companion shook her head. “I am at a loss to understand it."
Varden bent to press his ear against the door. “Are you sure she's even in there?"
"I watched her crawl into the thing, Your Grace. She seemed terribly upset.” When Varden turned his black glare on her, Grete backed quickly away and repeated, “She said she wanted to go exploring!"
"Why weren't you with her?"
"The Dowager—"
"The Dowager does not give the orders here!” Varden roared. “I do! Tomorrow you will pack your things and collect your wages. You are leaving."
"No!” The armoire shouted.
Varden rounded on it, his face darkening as
his temper rose. “Don't you contradict me, Madame. I—” His mouth snapped shut and he beat his fist against the door again. “I am not going to yell at you through the bloody door. Get out here!"
"This is my room. You get out!"
In a fit of temper, Varden grabbed the latch and shook it vigorously. The door barely budged. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. He would not lose his temper. He wouldn't yell. He wouldn't even break down the door, drag her out by her feet and shake her until her teeth rattled. No matter how tempted he was. “Claire, ma petite folle, you are my wife. You made a vow to honor and to obey your husband. To date, you haven't done either very well."
"She's my only friend. If you send her away, I'll have to break in another one."
"Friend?” Varden turned his head to look at Grete, who was staring at the door in shock. When she noticed him watching, she flushed guiltily. Varden snorted. “That's what I thought. Wait outside."
With a bobbing curtsy, Grete did as she was bade and they were left alone.
Now what? Varden heard a muffled sniffling. He squatted in front of the doors and pressed his ear to the crack between them as he listened. “Claire?"
"Oh, go away."
There was no doubt about it. She was crying. So much for sleep. Varden almost swore. He banged his head twice against the door, then sighed.
Even knowing the door wouldn't open, he tried the latch again. “Please open the door, mon âme. I want to go to bed sometime before sunrise."
There was silence and then a soft scraping sound before the door creaked open just a sliver. She peered out at him with one red-rimmed eye. “How is your going to bed contingent upon my not sitting in the closet?"
"It is contingent on the happiness and well-being of my household."
She actually laughed at that, then sniffed again. “No wonder you're grumpy all the time. Sleep deprivation will do that."
