If he left, what would become of the princess?
I don’t care, he told himself firmly as he forced his feet to move again.
He made it three steps before the disturbing thoughts returned. Cal knew what was happening to Bethany now. Prince Féderic had come to the dungeon and taken her away for the night. “To have their wedding night before she’s beheaded,” he had said to Cal as he had hoisted her limp body to his shoulder.
How many times had Cal’s sister, Catrina, endure the same treatment? How many times had her masters forced themselves on her to make her what she had become?
Whatever the princess’ faults and crimes, she doesn’t deserve this treatment. No one did.
Cal swallowed the frustration making its way up from his gut before turning back to the castle. He might die for the choice he had just made, but it was better than living a long life with the guilt of leaving a woman behind to be raped and beheaded. Besides, his escape would be more likely to succeed if he had a few provisions.
Cal slipped back into the castle, using a narrow door which led directly to a set of stairs that wound up to the highest levels. He ran up them as fast as he could, his breath coming in gasps by the time he reached the top-most level of the castle where his quarters were. He stole down the hallway and into his room where he scooped up a spare cloak and flung in over his shoulders before kneeling beside his bed and digging amongst the numerous boxes and chests. He found the small one he wanted tucked behind a trunk of seldom-used summer clothing. He pulled the key out from its hiding place and quickly opened the chest. Mostly he stored documents in this chest relating to his search for his sister, but he also kept a small bag of coins tucked under the papers.
His day-to-day life seldom required money. Therefore, most of the wealth he had procured over the last decade or so of being a knight in the king’s good graces was kept with a banker in the city. He wouldn’t be able to get it now, but at least this little bag of gold would allow him to bribe the guards at the gates. He grabbed a few coins from the bag and hid them in his boot, letting them slide until they rested uncomfortably against his ankle.
Though he wanted to grab a few other items from his room, he didn’t know how long the guard would be unconscious. He didn’t have time to pack up silly memories. He had his chainmail on his back and his own weapons were beyond his reach—likely stored in the king’s own chambers. What else did he actually need?
Cal hurried of his room and raced back to the narrow stairwell. Though the slaves often used it as the fastest way from one level to another, it was abandoned at this late hour. He reached the level where the royal family kept their chambers and entered the corridor. Unlike his own level, this hallway was brightly lit. It made it easier for the royal family to have “guests” in the middle of the night.
The knight slipped up to the corner and peered around the edge, happy to see that Prince Féderic had dismissed his guards; evidently, he didn’t want any more witnesses than necessary to his indiscretion. Wolfric would not be happy if he heard his son had taken a prisoner from the dungeon, whatever the reason.
Cal slipped up to the prince’s door and cringed as he heard the cries of the princess. In one swift motion, he slipped into the room and drew his borrowed sword. As he expected, he found Féderic on top of the princess, oblivious to Cal’s sudden entrance. Cal grabbed the prince by the hair, pulling him off his victim while his other hand brought the sword down onto Féderic’s back. The sword, while dull from improper care, opened the prince’s back until Cal thought he caught a glimpse of bone. Without immediate care, Féderic would bleed out within minutes.
Cal didn’t feel any remorse.
He glanced up to look at Bethany. The skirting of her dress was torn and her legs were bare to the world. He quickly pulled his gaze up to her face, which was red and streaked with rivers of tears that had made tracks across her temples toward her hair line. Her elaborate braids were mussed and half torn out. Cal spotted a quiver in her bottom lip and knew she was about to break.
“Come,” he ordered softly but firmly, hoping movement would keep her from falling apart. He couldn’t get them to safety if she didn’t hold it together.
Strangely enough, it had a different effect. The princess suddenly looked peaceful as she lowered her head onto the feather-down mattress and sighed. She was giving up, he realized.
“What’re you doing?” he demanded as he grabbed her shoulder and propelled her off the bed.
He saw fresh tears begin to make new streaks down her cheeks, but he chose not to worry about how she perceived his rough treatment. He needed to keep them moving. He could apologize and coddle the princess once they were safe.
“We have to run.”
She followed him, but he suspected her mind wasn’t in control. She moved like someone sleep walking.
At least she’s moving, he told himself as he poked his head out the door to make sure no one had heard the clamor.
The hallway was clear.
They scurried toward the slave’s stairwell, but before they could make it, Cal glanced back to find Bethany leaning against the wall and staring at her hand. Her small fingers were covered in blood. It took him a second to realize where the blood had come from. The blood was the result of her recent trauma. It would heal with time. Cal pushed his focus to her face.
Her bottom lip was quivering again. He clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed her against the wall.
“Listen to me, Ann,” her ordered, out of habit using the name she had given when she was slave. “You are alive. The bleeding has stopped. Hold it together and we BOTH live.”
Cal was surprised to watch her nod mutely. He hadn’t expected his admonition to have any effect on her muddled brain. She was still crying, but she was doing it quietly. Cal took her arm and dragged her toward the stairwell. Seconds late they arrived in the bailey, near the stables. He hauled her to the stables and pushed her toward a corner.
“Stay here. If someone finds you, scream. As loud as you can,” he ordered.
He wasn’t sure if she would be able to handle being left alone for a few minutes, but it would be safer for her in the dark corner than in the stables where the workers slept.
He didn’t wait to see how she would respond, but slipped into the long building. He jogged to Éimhin’s stable, grabbing his saddle and bridle as he passed.
“Sorry, boy. Wish I had time to groom you,” he whispered to his horse, who nuzzled him affectionately.
Cal saddled his horse in record time and led him out of the stable to the sound of the worker’s loud snores. On the way out, Cal grabbed an extra blanket.
Bethany was still hiding in the little corner. When she emerged, he draped the blanket over her shoulders before hoisting her up to Éimhin’s back. His war horse was one of the largest he had ever seen. There was no way she would manage the climb herself. At least not in her current state.
Cal didn’t have the time or inclination to worry about her terror; he mounted his steady horse, wrapped an arm around her tense body, and urged Éimhin forward in the direction of the lesser-used back gate. At the gate, he spotted the single guard and tossed him the bag of coins.
Just as he expected, it was a guard known for taking bribes. The man didn’t even look up. Instead he flung open the iron gate, just large enough for a single horse, and closed it behind them. It was a long, dark journey to the other side. Wolfric’s castle walls were thick as well as tall.
A few minutes later, they emerged from the tunnel. Cal kicked his horse into a canter as they crossed the wide swath of land between the walls and the beginning of the city of Tolad.
As they entered the narrow streets, Cal breathed a sigh of relief.
They were through the worst.
Chapter Two
Lyolf rolled over, yet again. He normally slept soundly from the minute his head hit the pillow to whenever he needed to wake. It was his father’s recent remark that kept him awake. Usually the snubs from his fam
ily didn’t bother him, but today was different and he couldn’t figure out why. Throughout his life he had endured the comments about his black hair and rounded nose—features no one else in the family had. Both his parents had been blondes and all their children looked just like them; except for Lyolf. He was the black sheep of the family.
But this was business as usual for him. He had been allowing his younger brothers to precede him since he first started joining the adults at the dinner table. So why was Wolfric’s recent comment about his odd looks keeping him awake?
Lyolf sat up, pushing the heavy covers away from his body.
He slipped his feet into his boots, shivering as the cold leather touched his bare feet. He grabbed the wool sweater he wore when he spent days in his small room. In the privacy of his own room he didn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances. Warmth was much more important and, despite the miniature size of his room, his fire was often barely adequate.
Garbed in the pants he wore yesterday and his warm sweater, he emerged from his room and glanced around. Something was wrong, though he couldn’t figure out what. Surely it wasn’t just his father’s snide remark that had kept him awake. Then he realized the real cause of his anxiety.
Sir Caldry.
The scarred knight was a fierce man, prone to make even the bravest of warriors quake in their boots. He was also the only person who treated Lyolf like others treated his siblings. And he was currently residing in the castle dungeons.
Lyolf swallowed the bile rising in his throat. What was his father thinking? Could he really believe Cal, of all people, would set their weapons depot on fire? The man wasn’t that daft! He knew the risk of fire within the bailey. Cal wouldn’t light a candle to see by if he thought it would risk the castle.
And what was this about Cal being Bethany’s lover? Ridiculous! Lyolf was one of the few people who knew just how much Cal hated the princess. Lyolf wanted to go to his father and explain it all, but he couldn’t explain why Cal hated Bethany without revealing how Cal hated all people of noble blood.
The knight had revealed his true feelings to Lyolf once because he felt Lyolf shared similar feelings toward the royal family. Some strong alcohol had also helped to loosen his tongue. Granted, Cal had been right. To some extent, Lyolf did share his distaste and distrust of the royal family.
It would be foolish of him to think his odd looks were a matter of chance. No, Lyolf knew his mother had had an affair. He even had a suspicion as to who his real father was. All this, combined with the way his family handled the situation, produced a certain disdain for them.
Lyolf trudged forward, his arms wrapped around his chest to conserve heat. Even in the height of summer, the mountain city of Tolad was cool. Now, being the middle of November, it was downright glacial. Lyolf marched onward, letting his feet take him where they chose. He was walking in an effort to numb his mind enough to sleep. He didn’t want to think about Cal’s fate or his dissatisfaction with his own life.
Without planning on it, Lyolf found his way to the door of his oldest brother’s room. Prince Féderic, heir apparent and fiancé to Princess Bethany. His brother didn’t deserve her.
Lyolf hadn’t spent much time with the captive princess, but what he saw in her he liked. She was fire and dry wood and strong wind, ready to sweep through the strongest city and reduce it to rubble. Any man caught in her path would have a hard time standing against her. Even as a prisoner of war, she swept through the castle, dominating all those in her path. Lyolf had often seen her put his mother and sister in their places with a mere glance or soft comment.
He didn’t want to see her die, but the facts were the facts. Whether Cal had helped her or not, she had most assuredly set fire to the weapons depot. She had to pay for her crimes.
Lyolf looked down at his feet and noticed a dark liquid seeping slowly from beneath his brother’s door. He glanced around, wondering where Féderic’s guards had run off to. A sense of fear and dread welled up in Lyolf before he even realized what he was looking at—blood.
Without knocking, the bastard prince flung the door open. He spotted his brother lying on his stomach, his back flayed open, and a pool of blood growing across the floor. Lyolf didn’t stop to think; he fell to his knees while grabbing a fist full of the blankets hanging from his brother’s bed. He wadded up the blanket and pressed it against his brothers back before placing his hand against Féderic’s neck. A pulse fluttered against his finger.
He’s alive! thought Lyolf. “Help,” he shouted over his shoulder as loud as he could. “Help!”
From a distance he heard a door open and footsteps resound toward him. A second later Cedric, one of his younger brothers, rushed into the room. At the site of their oldest brother lying prone on the floor with blood quickly soaking up the blanket, Cedric froze his eyes growing wide.
“Cedric…look at me!” snapped Lyolf when his brother continued to stare at the blood.
The young man’s eyes jerked to Lyolf’s face.
“Go get the healer. As fast as you can!”
Cedric jerked his head down in a nod before racing away.
It felt like an eternity passed before he heard the fast, urgent tread of his brother and the slower steps of the old healer. Finally, the two entered the room. Cedric dropped to the floor beside Lyolf, the healer’s case still clutched in his hands. Fenrir was slower to lower himself to the ground, though Lyolf suspected it was due to old age than a lack of urgency.
“In my bag, Cedric, get me the gray case.”
The young prince obeyed instantly, his hand shaking as he handed the healer the requested item.
“We need to get the king,” said Lyolf.
Cedric was about to jump to his feet and obey when Fenrir stopped him. “Wait. Not till I have him stable. They will be no help to him now. Lyolf, go to the door and stop anyone from entering. Cedric will help me.”
Lyolf hesitated a moment, his hands still pressing the blanket into the wound to stem the bleeding.
“You have to remove the blanket if I’m to sew up the wound,” the healer said, answering Lyolf’s unspoken concerns.
He nodded once before releasing the pressure and going to the door to stand guard. Their commotion was beginning to draw attention. He spotted his sister at the far end of the hallway coming toward them. She was wrapped in a warm shawl, her feet clad in knitted slippers.
“What’s going…?”
Her questions turned into a scream as she spotted her brother’s limp body and the healer furiously working over the long gash that ran from just below his right shoulder blade to his left hip. Lyolf grabbed her by the shoulder with one hand while the other came down to slap her across the face. The slap left a small streak of Féderic’s blood on her cheek. He would pay for that later, his sister would make sure of it, but Fenrir did not need her hysterics.
“That’s not helping. Either go back to your room or stay silent,” he ordered.
Though she did obey, her scream had awakened the rest of the castle. Within minutes, Lyolf had the entire family clamoring to get in.
“Fenrir said no one is to enter. Remain silent,” Lyolf said, repeating himself so often that he finally pulled Féderic’s door shut.
Before he could get the door fully closed, his father stormed up to him, demanding to know what was going on.
“Féderic is badly wounded. Fenrir is with him, but he says no one is to enter until Féderic is stable.”
“Get out of my way,” commanded Wolfric.
“No father. The healer,” and Lyolf emphasized the man’s title, “says no one is to enter.”
Wolfric glared down at his son, anger turning his face red. After a long confrontation, Wolfric sighed. “Tell me what happened.”
Lyolf tried to hide his relief as he told his father how he had stumbled upon the wounded prince. Wolfric asked detailed questions while Rulfric, another of Wolfric’s many sons, joined them. Rulfric was just two years younger than Lyolf and looked every bit li
ke his parents as Féderic and Cedric. They began discussing who the attacker could be as they waited for the healer to allow them to enter.
It was a far shorter wait than Lyolf had expected. About fifteen minutes later, Cedric opened the door, his face smeared with blood and his eyes wide with shock.
“Just a few,” Cedric said as he opened the door just enough for one person to enter at a time. Wolfric slipped in, followed by Rulfric and Lyolf.
Féderic still lay on the floor, the long gash expertly stitched up with an odorous poultice smeared across it. Lyolf glanced at his father, whose weather-beaten face had turned a disturbing shade of white. Wolfric wasn’t one to show fear or anxiety. In fact, Lyolf had grown up wondering if the king ever even felt these emotions. Now, though, Lyolf realized Wolfric knew what it was to be afraid.
Despite the fact his eldest son had recently endured a frightening fall from his horse, resulting in months of recovery, Wolfric never considered losing his heir. Now he was having to face the harsh truth that Féderic just might die. What would he do?
Lyolf tried to drag his mind away from these sobering thoughts. Despite being the second oldest son, he knew his father would never consider him a potential heir. Lyolf almost felt tempted to confront his parents on the issue. He was tired of living the life of the bastard without the actual title. If Wolfric acknowledged his parentage he would be treated just as he was, but he would also gained the freedom of not being a prince.
Tempting. Very tempting.
Lyolf dragged his mind back to the conversation at hand.
“I’ve closed the wound, but he’s a lost a lot of blood,” Fenrir was saying.
“Will he make it?” asked the king
“I can’t be sure. It’s up to him now.”
Before the king could respond, they heard a murmur from the floor. Each one dropped to their knees as fast as they could. Féderic’s eyes fluttered open and a groan escaped his lips. Fenrir scooted around until he came into Féderic’s line of sight.
The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy Page 30
