“Stop,” Grace cried. “Harm a hair on Suannoch’s head and I will fight you every step of the way.”
Godefroy laughed. “Titus here will tie her up with your puny steward and your other servants in the buttery. The dogs have been taken care of, the men-at-arms drugged, your brother and cousin out of the way. Our horses await. Get your cloak.”
Rodrick tried unsuccessfully to cover his ears with his hands, desperate to assuage the insistent pounding. He lifted his head, gagging as the world blurred around him. He managed to raise up on one elbow, transfixed by the bright red pool on the white ground. Someone had shoved a knife up his nose. He coughed, spitting up more blood.
No, not a knife—a fist. Gingerly, he touched a finger to his nose, instantly regretting it as pain flared again. He was fyking cold. His teeth were chattering, but at least the pounding had stopped.
Pounding? Sounding like—horses. Galloping away.
He had to get inside, get warm. Had to find out what had happened. Who were these men? The voice—the last thing he recalled hearing—nagged at him.
He scrambled to his knees, resting his forehead against the wood of the stable. The stable. Dieu! Bronson was inside.
He put his eye to the crack, careful not to touch his nose to the rough wood. His cousin was still there. Hadn’t moved. Was he dead? Rodrick wasn’t sure how long he’d lain on the cold hard ground, but for certain he’d be incapable of opening the stable door with his frozen fingers.
He braced himself on all fours, then bent one knee, planting his foot on the ground. He’d lost feeling in his toes and hoped when he tried to stand his legs wouldn’t fail him. Bending the other knee, he came slowly to his feet, his fingernails digging into the rough wood.
Panting hard, he levered his body away from the wood, then let go, ridiculously elated when he didn’t fall over. As the fog in his head cleared, dread gripped his vitals. Swan and Grace were alone in the house, apart from servants. Someone had made sure of it. His greater fear was for his sister. Her name echoed over and over in his head.
Forcing his frigid body to move, he staggered to the house, pushing the door open with his shoulder, relieved when it gave way, apparently unbarred. He slammed it shut and fell to his knees, hands tucked under his armpits, arms folded across his trembling body.
He scanned the hallway. Empty. But the pounding had begun again. Someone was shouting.
Using the door for support, he came slowly to his feet and listened.
“Help! Help!”
Swan!
He moved towards the buttery, holding on to the wall. The shouts grew louder. He tried to assure Swan he was coming to her aid, but sounds refused to emerge from his raw throat.
Someone inside was kicking the door. With trembling fingers, he turned the key in the lock. The banging and shouting ceased.
Not knowing what to expect, he opened the door slowly. Swan and her maid sat back to back, tied together, Lucia’s feet wedged against a barrel, pushing back against her door-kicking mistress. Swan’s knees were bent. Her gown had slipped around her thighs. The abject fear left her face when she saw him, but then her lip trembled as tears welled. “Rodrick, you’re alive, but what have they done to your nose? Untie me quickly. They’ve taken Grace.”
He swayed on his feet, unable to take his eyes off Swan’s bared legs.
Who? Why? Where have they taken her?
“There’s a carving knife in the pantry, milord.”
Tybaut!
Dragging his gaze away from Swan, trying to make sense of what she’d said, it dawned on him the steward and Jolly and the scullery lads were bound together, crammed in the tight space amid the barrels. The cook was sobbing, her face redder than a beetroot.
“A knife, milord. In the pantry.”
He shook the fog from his head, feeling blessed warmth creep back into his limbs. He crossed the hall, retrieved the knife from the pantry and returned to hunker down beside Swan and saw through the rope.
The room tilted when he got up too quickly, so he passed the knife to Lucia. “Cut them loose.”
The maid knelt quickly to slice through the men’s bonds.
He pulled Swan into his arms, savoring her warmth. “Who has taken Grace?” To his own ears he sounded like a drunkard.
“It was Godefroy de Cullène,” Lucia declared. “He wants to force your father to change sides and support William’s claim to the throne.”
“He is mad,” Swan whispered, her voice hoarse. “William doesn’t want the throne.”
Rodrick’s instinct was to leap on his horse and go after Grace, but his cousin—
“Tybaut. Milord Bronson is in the stable, badly injured. I need your help to open the door.”
He avoided Swan’s eyes, unwilling to voice his belief her brother was dead.
“Aye. The lads and I will get it open,” the steward reassured him, scrambling to his feet. “I blame myself, milord. I should never have allowed them onto the estate.”
Rodrick gritted his teeth as the steward rushed off. “Your nose is broken, my love,” Swan murmured. “I don’t know how to set it.”
“With your permission, milord, I do,” Lucia said. “I learned from my grandmother, who was taught by your grandmother, Countess Carys.”
The maid placed her warm fingers on his nose, barely touching. It was almost pleasant until she suddenly pressed hard. Pain arrowed into his head. But then it was gone. His nose felt better.
“The bruising will take a while to disappear, but it will heal now.”
Rodrick thanked the saints for the healing skills passed on since his grandmother’s time. If Bronson still lived, he would need this young woman’s help.
A Dark Shadow
The scullery lads put their shoulders to the stable door and rushed in, followed by Tybaut. “There he is,” the steward shouted. “Turn him.”
“No,” Lucia yelled as she hurried in with Swan. “Wait. You might injure him further.”
Swan fell to her knees at her brother’s side, sobbing. “Bronson,” she breathed, afraid to touch him. “You cannot die.”
Rodrick knelt beside her, his arm around her shoulder.
Bronson’s hair was matted with blood. Lucia ran her hands over the back of his head. “There is a swelling here,” she said. “But he lives. They struck him with a heavy object. We must be careful how we turn him. Judging by the bloodied straw beneath him, he has obviously suffered a grievous wound. If it’s his belly—”
Swan shuddered. “Jolly is bringing the dwale,” she murmured.
Lucia shook her head. “We won’t need it until he awakens. Then the drug will calm him and aid his healing.”
The men positioned themselves to turn their master onto his back. Only Rodrick’s strong hand gripping hers prevented Swan from swooning. A blade had sliced through his tunic and penetrated deep into his chest. Blood oozed from the torn flesh.
“Fetch his cloak and wrap it around his lower body while I examine the wound,” the maidservant said. “We must warm him up, though the chill may have helped control the bleeding.”
She peered at the deep gash that ran from one armpit to the other. “He’s lucky it wasn’t lower,” she observed. “The fabric of his tunic has adhered to the torn skin, and I am afraid to remove it.”
“What can I do?” Swan asked, feeling completely useless.
“Put your hands on either side of the wound and slowly press the edges of his tunic together. We’ll try to close the wound this way, then pad it with linens.”
Tybaut dispatched one of the lads to get cloths from Jolly.
Swan flexed her cold fingers then put her hands on her brother’s chest, carefully pushing the edges of the gash together. Bile rose in her throat as more blood oozed from the wound. She uttered a prayer of thanks he hadn’t awakened from his stupor.
“Let me,” Rodrick whispered.
“No,” Swan replied. “I must do this for my brother. Where are the men-at-arms? And the dogs? This was a
carefully planned attack. You have to organize a search for Grace.”
Rodrick stood. “No need to search. There is only one place Godefroy will have taken her—Cullène Hall. We’ll send one of Edwin’s birds to Ellesmere to inform my father. He is closer and can be there before us. At least they didn’t hobble our horses.”
Swan gagged, sickened by the thought they might have maimed her beloved horse.
Rodrick hurried away, passing the scullery lad returning laden with linens. “Cook says there’s more if we need them.”
Lucia rummaged through and pulled out an old bedsheet. She folded it into a long pad. “Keep pushing the edges together, milady, then slowly withdraw as I press down harder.”
Swan again thanked God for the presence of this servant who might yet save her brother’s life. She wished Rodrick still knelt at her side, but was heartsick for him and his fear for his sister. Lucia too must be wretched at the loss of her mistress, yet she tended Bronson calmly and carefully.
The day had begun with great promise. But a dark shadow had been cast over the celebration of the birth of the Light of the World.
Rodrick released the pigeon into the frigid air. “Godspeed, little bird.” He would have preferred to impart the dire news to his parents in person, but time was of the essence.
Hastening back to the stable, he caught sight of three of Shelfhoc’s men-at-arms walking towards the house from the direction of the barracks, one soldier bearing the weight of a dog dangling lifeless in his arms. His heart plummeted. Surely it hadn’t been necessary to kill Bendik and Becca.
His spirits lifted when he saw Becca loping behind the men, shaking her head. Beyond her came more soldiers.
He hurried towards the man carrying Bendik. “Is the dog dead?”
The soldier looked half asleep. “Nay, my lord. Drugged. The lot of us. Must have been something in the soup brought from the kitchens.”
Rodrick lifted Bendik into his arms. To his relief, the hound raised his head, his eyes glazed. “Good dog.”
As if understanding his words, Bendik wriggled out of his grip, stood shakily on all fours and shook himself, yawning widely.
“Aye,” the soldier continued. “But how they drugged the dogs is a mystery. What were they after?”
Rodrick gritted his teeth. “They’ve taken my sister.”
The man’s jaw dropped as he straightened his shoulders. “We’ll find her, milord. On my honor, I swear it.”
“First we must see to your new master. He is badly wounded.”
The men followed him into the stable where Tybaut and the lads had Bronson propped up, his head drooped forward. Lucia was wrapping linens around his chest while Swan held his long hair out of the way. Her eyes widened with relief when she saw the men-at-arms.
As if sensing their new master’s distress, both dogs lay down on either side of him, looking expectantly at his caregivers.
“You kept his tunic on,” Rodrick said with surprise.
“Lucia thinks it’s better to do so until we can stop the bleeding. He is still warm—a good omen. It’ll take strength to lift him.”
Rodrick knelt beside Bronson. “The men were drugged, but seem to be recovering. The dogs too. At least the blood hasn’t seeped through the bandages yet.”
“Let’s hope moving him doesn’t worsen matters,” Swan replied.
“Wait,” Tybaut suddenly declared. “I have an idea.”
He hurried off in the direction of the house, taking two lads with him.
Minutes later the three trooped back, the boys yoked 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 contraption 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 be able to 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 the body of 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.
Embroidery Silks
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. 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 will strangle Godefroy with my bare hands for this.”
Swan wished with all her heart he didn’t have to leave. “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 the 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 that grew every which way.”
Swan rolled her eyes. “That’s not much help.”
Rodrick put his arm around her waist. “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, Suannoch FitzRam, you will be taking care of all my wants and needs for the rest of our lives.”
She blushed when the hard maleness pressed to her mons sent desire skittering up her legs.
He pulled away and mounted his horse. “Go inside.”
She shook her head and stared at the horizon long after 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.
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.
He’d thought he was naked, but he was still clothed.
“At least the bleeding has stopped, thank goodness.”
Forbidden Page 12
