by Eli Easton
“The lord’s table,” Cook ordered. “’E’s the only one gets this dish.”
As Christian made his way to the stairs, he was tempted. In his bodice was a pouch, and in the pouch was deadly nightshade. Sir Andrew, who’d taught him archery, had taught Christian to recognize the plant. It was sometimes used on arrow tips, but you had to be very careful to avoid getting it in cuts or letting it linger on your hands. Christian had never used it thus. But he’d seen the plant as he and William crossed the mountains, and he’d picked a good quantity. He could crush the leaves into a paste, and the paste….
Christian had hoped to be able to slip it into Lord Somerfield’s food or drink, and now he considered the bowl of food in his hands. But there was no way to know for certain who would eat from the bowl, perhaps even Lady Elaine. He dared not risk it.
If he were to use the nightshade, he would have to put it in Somerfield’s cup. But Somerfield was a cautious man with many enemies. He had an older male servant who stood behind his chair and poured his wine and filled his plate. No other had leave to be near the lord while he was dining.
Lord Somerfield’s private rooms were in the northwest tower, but they were also guarded. Christian had not dared to go there. But his options for accomplishing his goal were dwindling, and his week was nearly up. The longer Christian stayed in the castle, the more likely it was that someone would discover his secret, or that William would decide to take matters into his own hands and appear to request an audience.
Christian entered the dining hall with the bowl of sausages and mushrooms. He set it on the lord’s table, placing it close to Lord Somerfield. Christian raised his eyes coyly. Somerfield was watching him, his mouth greasy as he chewed. Christian allowed his eyes to heat and linger for a moment. Then he lowered them and started to back away.
“You, wench,” Somerfield ordered. “Come ’ere.”
It had been five days, and William had gone from being beside himself to a resigned calm more times than he could count. Christian had sent him a message two days ago, through a young tanner’s apprentice he’d hired to seek out William in the foothills. Christian had merely written that all was well. He’d gotten a serving position in the castle and was pleased to have the work.
It was a harmless missive that, if caught, would mean little to anyone else, and it was rare that the serving class could read and write. But Christian’s message was clear—he was proceeding as planned. He would not have used the word “pleased” if things were awry. But then again, Christian could merely be trying to keep William from doing anything rash. Which was exactly what William wanted to do.
Christian was endangering himself every minute he was in that castle. What William didn’t know was how careful he was being. He could only hope and pray. Still, he’d agreed to give Christian a week, and he forced himself to be true to that. A week and no more. If Christian was not back in two days’ time, there would be hell to pay.
Twice, William had ridden Tristan to within sight of the castle, watching for any signs of alarm. There were none. The market traffic rode in and out of the bailey’s walls as usual. There were no signs of smoke or increased activity.
By the Virgin, it was the longest, most torturous week of his life! William would much rather roar into battle and take on an army than wait, helpless. The Lion ached to feel blood on his claws. He was thirsty for it.
It was nearly dark on the fifth day when he saw the tanner’s boy approaching the foothills on an ancient donkey. William hastened from his camp to meet him.
“Here, sir. From the lady.” The boy held out a folded letter. William gave the boy a farthing and took it.
From the lady? Was it from Elaine? William hastened to read it.
Beloved,
I wish I could see you. I can picture you waiting to sweep me away at midnight on your horse, at the mill that lies outside the bailey, perhaps. Tonight I will dream on it.
William closed his eyes, the missive clenched in his fist. Tonight. Christian had written coyly, but the message was clear. For whatever reason, Christian wanted to leave the castle tonight, and he wanted William to come for him. William did not pray oft, but now he sent forth a most urgent prayer: let Christian do nothing too dangerous between now and then. Let him be safe.
William would give anything—only let Christian and Elaine be safe.
Chapter 16
Christian approached the two heavily armored guards at the door to Lord Somerfield’s tower. His heart thumped ominously against his ribs. Sweat trickled down his back inside the gown. He was not afraid of Lord Somerfield, but he was afraid of the importance of this moment—that he’d finally gotten his chance—and he was anxious to do the job quickly and well and be away before he was caught.
If he was caught, it would mean his head.
But, as Sir Robert had taught him, valor comes not from being unafraid; it comes from the determination to proceed despite fear. And Christian was very determined. He’d been granted a rare opportunity to get close to Lord Somerfield. The next hour could decide everything. He would not fail.
The guards looked Christian up and down lewdly, despite the fact he’d borrowed a cloak from one of the other servants and it revealed precious little of his shape.
“Here comes the bearded oyster,” said the younger one with an ugly leer.
“Be quiet,” growled the other.
This man seemed to have a bit more maturity, so Christian addressed him. “Lord Somerfield requested my presence tonight.”
The guard studied Christian for a long moment, and coldly too, as if he was suspicious.
“Let me search ’er,” the youngest urged.
Christian pretended to be unmoved by the comment, though a search would be the death of him, and not just because of the anatomy the groping hands would be able to feel under his clothes.
“Nay. His lordship’ll have our heads if we touch his wenches. Up with ye.” He unbolted the door to the tower and opened it wide. “The door’s at the top of the stairs.”
Christian curtsied, eyes downcast, and slipped through the door.
When it closed behind him, he sagged with relief. He had bound his dagger against his inner thigh. He was alone on the stairs leading up to Lord Somerfield’s rooms, so he took the risk of reaching up under his gown and removing the dagger, which he then placed inside one long sleeve. There. Far better.
His pulse sounded like battle drums in his ears. Christian continued upward. He tapped on the door at the top of the stairs, and Somerfield bid him enter.
The door opened onto Lord Somerfield’s bedchamber. Somerfield was alone. A fire burned in the hearth, making the room warm and rank. Somerfield wore only a heavy linen shirt and hose as he lounged in a chair by the fire. His legs were outspread and parted like a debauched satyr.
Christian’s mouth went dry. The dagger seemed to burn at his wrist. He slipped off his cloak and let it fall by the door.
“Evening, pretty,” Somerfield purred. He looked Christian up and down, but didn’t bother to rise. “You look nervous, wench. A virgin’s coyness doesn’t suit you.”
Christian forced a seductive smile. “’Tis shyness. I only hope I can please you, my lord.”
Somerfield grunted. “Come here and take my cock in your mouth. That will please me well enow.” He spread his legs a little farther and pushed the linen shirt to one side. The outline of his stiffening member was evident in his hose, even though his belly nearly overshadowed it.
The lazy swine.
Christian lowered his eyes modestly and bit at his lower lip. “I will, my lord, but may I not first have a kiss?”
He kept his eyes downcast, glad for once for the easy heating of his cheeks. They were flushed now from the pounding of his blood in fear and, increasingly, anger. But he hoped Lord Somerfield would take it for arousal. After a moment the man heaved himself to his feet.
“Want a bit of courting, eh?” Somerfield sounded a little more interested and a little more
dangerous.
Christian looked up into Somerfield’s eyes and managed not to wince at the reek of him, and then Somerfield grasped him with both hands, pulled him in hard, and mashed down his mouth on Christian’s.
Christian gasped, an involuntary noise of disgust and surprise, but Somerfield took it as encouragement. He thrust his tongue into Christian’s mouth. He tasted sour, like the intestines dish had smelled, but worse, bitter and stale. His tongue was pointed and poking, like an eel. Christian wrapped his arms around Somerfield’s neck and set to work with nimble fingers, untying the sleeve of his gown and slipping out the dagger. Somerfield’s hands began to wander upward on Christian’s bodice. His “breasts” would in no way pass inspection.
Christian broke the kiss. “Touch my cunt,” he said baldly. He tried to look lovestruck and dazed with passion.
Somerfield grunted in approval and attacked Christian’s mouth again. His hands changed course—thank God—and he began to gather the material at Christian’s thighs, pulling up the gown. Christian had to fight not to gag on the wretched man’s tongue.
Wait. Wait.
And then one of Somerfield’s hands was under the gown, groping at the hose on Christian’s thigh.
“You wear much clothing,” Somerfield complained against Christian’s mouth. Christian barely heard him, his blood was roaring so loudly in his ears.
Wait.
And now both hands were under the gown, under the gown where the fabric would keep them trapped, if only for a moment. One hand slid to Christian’s arse while the other pushed between his legs.
Now!
Christian sensed the moment Somerfield felt his cock and balls, bound in the bandaging. His eyes flew open, and in that instant, Christian did three things. With his left hand, he pulled hard against the back of Somerfield’s neck, keeping them locked in the kiss, he turned the right side of his body out slightly, and with his right hand, he thrust the dagger with all his might into Somerfield’s chest, his blade finding a path between two ribs.
Somerfield jerked and screamed, his eyes staring with shocked, horrified understanding into Christian’s. But the scream was muffled in Christian’s mouth. Somerfield tried to pull away, but Christian held him firm, both with the hand on his neck and with the dagger impaling his body. The man struggled for what felt like an eternity, but was probably less than a minute. As the life in his eyes began to fade, Christian broke the kiss.
“For Lady Elaine, from her brother, Sir William,” he whispered into Somerfield’s face. And he was almost positive the man heard him, just before his gaze went glassy. Christian felt nothing but an icy rage at the man for having so abused those in his charge—rage and a tremendous relief that he’d accomplished the deed.
It was done. Somerfield’s lifeless body was limp and terribly heavy in Christian’s arms. Christian became aware of the blood that still pulsed and oozed, soaking into his gown. He released the dagger and moved to catch the body. Struggling, he dragged it to the bed. He laid it on the floor whilst he turned down the bed linens. He wiped his bloody hands on the sheets where it would not show and then squatted. Panting with exertion, Christian managed to lift the body into the bed and cover it up. He laid the head on a pillow, turned from the door. With any luck, the fact that Somerfield was a corpse and not merely asleep would not be discovered till morning.
Christian removed his bloodstained gown. He found a basin of water in the room and washed. He used his gown to wipe the blood off the floor, hoping to delay discovery as long as possible, and then stuffed the gore-covered fabric into a wooden chest. When he was done, he found one of Somerfield’s fresh shirts and put it on over his hose. He put back on the borrowed cloak and closed it up to his neck, hiding some specks of crimson that dotted the bottom of the white wimple.
Christian steeled himself for the trip back down the stairs, willing the cold rage to leave his face and trying to replace it with a saucy, sated confidence. He closed his eyes and thought of William, of smiling flirtatiously at William in the firelight. His hands calmed and his face relaxed. He tugged the cloak more tightly about himself and descended.
William packed up camp as soon as he’d read Christian’s letter. He waited for full dark and then rode toward the castle. The path was only dimly illuminated by the quarter moon, but he found the mill easily enough by following the stream. It was close to the castle walls but surrounded by woods. He waited, his thoughts bouncing around like a wild bird in a cage.
Christian was leaving the castle early. Perhaps he’d learned something that made it imperative they move quickly. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps Elaine would be traveling, and they could waylay her retinue in the mountains. Perhaps Christian had been discovered and had to flee.
Perhaps, perhaps….
It didn’t matter. All William prayed for now was that Christian would get out of the castle safe and be here soon, in his arms. That would do for the moment. Only that. Only let Christian be safe. William didn’t know why he felt so anxious, but he did. He prayed Christian had not done, and would not do, anything too foolhardy. But right now the hope felt false.
The night seemed to pass at a leaden pace. It felt like a lifetime before William heard a soft noise from the forest. A dark shadow came down the path to the mill. Christian!
He was dressed in a linen shirt William didn’t recognize, his own hose, and his shoes. He appeared unharmed. William strode to him in three steps and pulled Christian into his arms. He clasped Christian’s body tightly, feeling the rapid thudding of Christian’s heart against his own. Burying his face into Christian’s neck, he smelled the rank sweat of fear—and blood.
“Are you all right?” William asked harshly, pulling back to give Christian’s arms and torso a quick inspection.
“Yes, but let’s move quickly. I want to get farther from the castle.”
“What’s wrong?”
“When we’re farther away, I beg you.”
William heard the urgency in Christian’s voice and heeded it. He mounted Tristan and pulled Christian up behind him. They made their way through the woods and then back on the path to the foothills.
William looked behind them but saw no riders coming from the castle and no signs of alarm.
“Do you think you were followed?” he asked.
Christian glanced back. “I pray not. Ride on.”
They rode as quickly as William could push Tristan with two riders. When the castle vanished from sight, he spoke again.
“What happened? Tell me.”
Christian had his hands on William’s waist, and now he grasped him tighter. “Let’s wait until we’re back at the camp. Better yet, let’s ride on and make camp farther up the mountain. You have Livermore?”
“Aye, he’s at the camp with Sir Swiftfoot. But—”
“Please.”
“Are Elaine and the children safe?”
“Yes. They’re safe. I swear it.”
With this, William dropped his questioning, though he was afire to know. Clearly Christian had been found out and had to flee. But there was something more, something he wasn’t saying. They rode on for another hour before reaching the camp. Christian jumped down and untied the two horses. With Christian mounted on Livermore, and Sir Swiftfoot in tow, they continued on up the mountain.
“This is far enough,” Christian finally said in a weary voice after another hour of riding. They left the path and headed into the woods a ways before stopping. As they tied their horses, William could no longer hold his tongue.
“By my sword, tell me what happened, Christian. I smell blood on you. Whose is it? Did someone find you out?”
Christian shook his head. “’Tis Lord Somerfield’s blood. He’s dead.”
“What?” William whispered. He felt suddenly weak with horror.
Christian ran a nervous hand through his hair. “I had the opportunity. I was sent to serve him alone in his rooms, so I used my dagger, and I killed him. I pray it will be dawn before he is found, but i
t’s best we get as far from the castle as possible. Perhaps we should ride back to Kendal, or, better yet, south to St. Bees.”
“You….” William could not believe it, neither the fact nor the arrogant disregard of danger implicit in such an action. “You murdered Lord Somerfield in his rooms? And they know it was you?”
Christian winced. “They know my face. They do not know my identity. But no, I can never show my face there again. You cannot be seen to travel with me. When you return.”
“What?” William was filled with a confused rage at Christian for doing this, for taking William’s revenge into his own hands, for risking his own neck so baldly. And he felt an overwhelming fear for what might have happened. It was the worst, most sickening feeling he’d ever known.
“You could have been killed,” he said in a dead voice. “You should by all rights have been killed, Christian. I can’t—”
Christian grabbed William’s arms and shook him hard. “William, breathe. Listen to me. I was not caught, and I was not killed. Think on it! You know the only way to free Elaine from Somerfield was his death, and you were unlikely to be able to achieve that, being known, being her brother. There is nothing holding her now. She’s a widow. In a few weeks’ time, you can go to the castle and tell them you want to take Elaine and the children home to visit your father, and there will be none to oppose it. Elaine’s children are both girls, not Somerfield’s heirs. His family will not try overly hard to keep her. It is done.”
William pulled away from Christian stiffly. “You had this planned when you went in. You swore false to me.”
Christian shook his head helplessly. “I thought… I knew that if I got the chance, I would take it, but I did not truly expect to get the chance to be alone with him. And once I was inside, I could see that any other option was hopeless. Elaine is well guarded. We would never have been able to steal her away. And Somerfield—he would never have fought you in single combat, William. He was too old and too debauched. He would have had you killed if you’d challenged him.”
