Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

  Juliana turned with a cry. “Imprisoned you?”

  Keir examined the chain and bolt that held Raymond to the tree. “Sir Joseph has an interesting power over the minds of the people he influences. Your steward, my lady, believed Sir Joseph to be a demon.”

  Remembering Denys, Juliana didn’t exclaim in surprise.

  “Since your father’s death, he has worked for Sir Joseph—out of fear, I assure you—cheating you out of your due and turning it over, without a murmur, to Sir Joseph.” Keir sighed. “Raymond, I believe ’tis best to chop the bolt out of the wood.”

  “Out of oak?” Juliana cried. “Are you mad? English oak is—”

  “Stout, eh, Juliana?” Raymond’s teeth gleamed, but his grin looked more grim than amused.

  “Impossible to cut when wet or dry,” she replied, exasperated.

  Ignoring her, Raymond advised, “Try not to trim my hair.”

  Keir hefted the ax. “Duck down.”

  As the shiny edge rose, so did Juliana’s fear. The ax hovered above Raymond’s head, descended, bit into the bark around the bolt. Mesmerized, she watched as Keir struggled to remove it from the tough wood and lifted it again. Falling to her knees in an agony of anticipation, she pressed her palms to her eyes.

  It couldn’t detract from the thump of the ax, Keir’s grunts of exertion, Raymond’s indrawn breath when decapitation threatened. “That was close, my friend,” he said, and without volition, Juliana’s hands fell away.

  Keir stood and panted. “Damn short-handled ax. No precision. No stroke behind it.”

  “But ’tis the best of Spain’s fine metals, meant for cutting into armor,” Raymond comforted him. “’Twill make short work of the chain.”

  “Wrong shape for wood,” Keir complained. “I rode to Lofts Castle immediately on my escape. Layamon and the men-at-arms are close behind me. If you would wait until their arrival—”

  “I will not allow them to see me so disgraced,” Raymond said steadily.

  Silence reigned in the clearing as Juliana and Keir absorbed Raymond’s resolution. At last, Keir bowed his head. “As you wish. But cutting off a man’s head is a more serious matter than cutting off his fingers.”

  “You won’t cut off my head,” Raymond said.

  “Aye, and what’s an ear or chunk of scalp?” Keir muttered.

  Raymond obviously saw no sense in encouraging such dismal reflections, and turned the subject. “How did you escape from Lofts?”

  “I convinced the steward he would do well to worry about the devil himself and ignore the rebellious demon.”

  Curiosity unclogged Juliana’s throat. “The devil himself?”

  “Me,” Keir said, and watched with no visible interest when Raymond released a crack of laughter.

  “How did you convince him of that?”

  “He is not an astute man, and Valeska and Dagna had taught me a few of their more impressive tricks.”

  Even Juliana smiled at that.

  “Keir, if you’re through puffing,” Raymond said, “I’d like you to finish me up.”

  Juliana didn’t care for the phrasing, but the conversation had helped her achieve a measure of resignation, and she ducked her head into her hands again. Too, Keir had given her much to think about, and she concentrated on Sir Joseph’s perfidy while the ax pounded and hewed.

  “There!” Raymond announced as the bolt fell. “I told you you could do it.”

  “So you did.” Keir’s triumph wasn’t as boisterous as Raymond’s, and Juliana, while she rejoiced, understood why.

  The oak had been easy when compared with the stout length of chain that bound Raymond’s shackled wrists.

  Juliana expected Raymond to sit, giving in to the exhaustion that had sucked the iron from his soul. But nay—with the release of his neck, he shuffled around the tree so his hands were visible in the moonlight. He called urgently, “Can you see where they connected the chain? I fought hard, and even when they put the coal to my hauberk, I would not cooperate. I hope that marred their work.”

  Keir lifted the chain, examined it with his fingers and stooped to scrutinize it. Juliana saw as Keir drooped and pushed his hair back from his forehead. Steadily he answered, “The cuffs are strong. The weak link in this chain is here”—he rattled it—“close to your hand.”

  “Then swing your ax true,” Raymond answered. “Better you should cut off my head than my hands, for my hands will wreak vengeance on Sir Joseph.”

  “Your head is only good for butting down stone walls,” Keir said wryly. “Sit down. Make fists, and stretch that chain as taut as you can.”

  Raymond obeyed. Keir leaned his rear against the tree, braced his feet and raised the ax. “Wait!” Juliana yelled.

  Keir froze. “My lady?”

  “Why are you doing it like that? You can’t see as well as if you faced him.”

  “It gives me the power I need behind my swing. As for sight”—he lifted the ax again—“there’s not much chain to see, anyway.”

  She wanted to close her eyes against the impact, but a horrible fascination held her. The ax struck the chain squarely, sending sparks as it skidded across a link and caught. The jolt sent Keir spinning away, the ax flying out of his hand. Juliana ducked, but it landed nowhere near her, and Raymond said impatiently, “Try again.”

  Flexing his hands, Keir grimaced at Juliana.

  Her voice trembled as she said, “Wait, Raymond. Keir hurt himself.”

  “I can’t wait,” Raymond insisted. “There are riders approaching.”

  Putting her head to the ground, Juliana listened and heard it—the rumble of hooves. She nodded at Keir, and Keir picked up the ax. Positioning himself with care, he eyed the chain steadily, practiced his blow, then brought the ax down with a mighty clang. The ax sank into the wood. The severed chain whipped the air as Raymond brought his hands around. Keir and Juliana stared at the ax, both held by an unbearable suspense.

  They shuddered when Raymond’s voice broke. “You did it. You did it!” He staggered around the side of the tree, fists raised to the heavens.

  “Your fingers!” Juliana cried. “What happened to your fingers?”

  He stared as if she were mad, then opened his hands.

  His fingers were there, all ten of them.

  Keir lay over on the grass. Juliana put her head between her knees. Raymond laughed, too long and too hard.

  And that was how Valeska and Dagna found them.

  20

  Fixing her gimlet eye on them, Valeska queried, “For this we rode until our old bones ached? To find you making merry?”

  Juliana and Keir lifted their heads and glared; Raymond laughed harder.

  Dagna looked at Valeska with disgust. “Let us go and rescue Margery from Lord Felix.”

  “Felix?” Juliana scrambled to her feet. “Why do you say Felix?”

  “Because this is the road to Moncestus Castle,” Dagna answered.

  Juliana shook her head. “It can’t be. He can’t be in league with—”

  Raymond reached out to her, but the jangle of chains acted like a dash of North Sea water. How much comfort could she derive from him? From a man shackled, body and soul, to old terrors?

  She didn’t see—or pretended not to see—his gesture. Dashing into the woods, she returned on her palfrey, her mouth hard, her chin set. “Let’s ride.”

  Raymond sighed. “Would God I had my destrier.” And remembering, he said to Keir, “I thought the mount Sir Joseph rode appeared familiar.”

  Keir coughed, looking as embarrassed as that iron man could look, and indicated his steed. “Take this one. ’Tis yours, anyway.”

  “’Tis my lady’s,” Raymond corrected, but he mounted immediately, not trusting Juliana to wait for them.

  Valeska slid from the saddle. “I’ll ride with Dagna, Keir can have my stallion, but first—” She presented Raymond with his arms. His long sword, his short sword, and his mace. Reverently, she lifted his shield off the leather straps that
held it and presented it with a flourish.

  Upon the shield stood an upright bear, claw and fang exposed to inspire dread and intimidation. Raymond gazed on the fearsome representation, then rested his hand on Valeska’s head for a brief moment. “Thanks to you, my faithful squire.”

  The moon, sinking toward the horizon, deserted them among the tall trees, then shone its flat light over the ruts and mud that formed the road to Moncestus Castle. Juliana pushed ahead, setting a gallop that left the others jostling for position. Without a word, Raymond set off after her, the war-horse moving with a sweet ease of muscle that made him want to race. He wanted to face the chill, grip sword and shield, ride into battle with a bellow that carried terror on the wind.

  But he couldn’t. Until they rescued Margery, he was the leader, the arbiter of good sense. Renouncing the appetite for warfare and vengeance, he overtook Juliana, cutting her off with ease.

  When she whipped her head around, he rebuked, “We’ll not arrive soon if you fall and break your neck.” To relieve the pressure on his collar, he shifted the bolt and its accompanying hunk of oak in his hand. “Keep a steady pace.”

  She set her chin, but nodded. As her palfrey settled into a slow canter, she said grudgingly, “Good advice.”

  “If hard to follow,” he added, urging Anglais along the road beside her. As the horses picked their way with a steady rhythm, it freed Raymond’s mind to meditate on the fate of Margery. His fingers tightened on the reins, and Anglais leaped forward.

  “Keep a steady pace,” Juliana said, clearly smarting from his reprimand, but he refused to relinquish the hard-won control on himself.

  “As you say, my lady.” He was proud of his steady tone, but Juliana didn’t seem to notice it.

  Her gaze kept sliding to his handful of metal and wood. She began to speak, stopped, then blurted, “Doesn’t the weight of the chain bother you?”

  In sooth, he’d scarcely noticed it. He’d worn heavier shackles for less purpose, but his sideways glance caught her puckered mouth, her grim brow.

  The collar repulsed her.

  Of course. What did he expect? To him, the demeaning collar could be borne as long as liberty accompanied it. For so many days and months in Tunisia, he’d been shackled tight.

  No movement, no freedom. Muscles dissolving, disintegrating. Youth and power lost forever.

  That had driven him mad. That had broken him. Broken him twice—once in a hot dungeon in Tunisia. Once in a cool forest in England.

  He had too many memories of the snivelling creature he had become in Tunisia, and almost no memory of the howling beast he had become in England.

  But Juliana remembered. She wanted security, and the sight of his shackles proved she couldn’t trust him to give it to her.

  He found himself stopped in the middle of the road, his chest heaving, his heart twisting as he tried to deal with the pain. Keir and the women circled around him, and Juliana pressed her horse against his.

  Her cool hands touched his cheeks. She sounded fierce when she asked, “Is it your neck? Your wrists? Did they hurt you inside?”

  Her copper hair, like bits of flame, warmed her pale face. Her eyes gazed at him with such a genuine appearance of concern he believed it for one sweet moment. “Hurt me?”

  “Inside,” she insisted. “Did Sir Joseph and his men—”

  The name jolted him back to reality. Of course she was concerned; she needed him, not as a husband, but as a warrior. “Nay! Not Sir Joseph. He hasn’t hurt me.”

  “Then why do you have such an expression on your face?”

  Her hands tormented him, smoothing his hair, touching his ears, seeking injury where her vision might have failed her. He wished he could move away, but the lash of pleasure bound him. Hoarse with distress, he stammered, “The pain of…of the fetters is not great, but Keir will remove them.”

  Raymond suspected Keir understood more than he would say, for he, too, watched him oddly. “My ax is still back in the tree. I could not retrieve it, and it would do no one any good if I did. The first blow to the chain notched the edge. I hate to think what devastation the second blow wrought.”

  “If there’s any danger, I don’t want you to try and remove them,” Juliana said. “I only thought they must…hurt you.”

  Raymond marvelled at her ability to be polite after the agonies she’d been through and before the struggle she faced. She was a lady, from the tip of her nose to her dainty toes, and he wanted to keep her. He’d never wanted anything so much in his life, nor had he realized his own strength until he smiled politely and said, “I can’t fight like this.”

  “Nay, you would be much impaired,” Dagna agreed. “Try yon peasant hut. They will have an ax.”

  Raymond swerved off the road and pounded on the door. The quaking serf responded to his snapped request for a wood ax and a chopping block, and with ax in hand, Keir again approached Raymond. This time, Raymond knelt beside the chopping block, the bolt dangling off the other side. “Break it close to my head,” Raymond commanded.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Juliana said at the same time.

  “Close,” Raymond demanded, and closed his eyes.

  The ax whistled past his ear; the noise as the chain broke assaulted his hearing, and he shook his head to clear it. Keir was speaking, and Raymond asked, “What? What?”

  “That had better be close enough.” Keir handed the notched ax, together with some coins, to the serf. “I’m not doing it again.”

  Raymond fingered the links that still hung from the iron collar, then tucked them in his chainse where the sight of them would no longer offend his lady. Holding out his left arm, he indicated the chain, half again the length of his hand. “This must go.”

  “Nay!” Juliana cried.

  “Nay,” Keir said.

  “It must go,” Raymond insisted. “It, too, will hinder my fighting.”

  Keir tucked his thumbs into his belt. “With your skills, that is most unlikely. What is likely is the amputation of your hand, which truly would hinder your fighting.” Dismissing the subject, he turned away to his horse.

  Brooding, Raymond weighed the chain, and Juliana said brightly, “’Twill serve to remind you of my claims on you.” She pretended it was a jest, but he felt she’d slapped his face, especially when she added, “Many men claim their wives are a shackle. You have proof.”

  He bent his mind toward this last service he would provide for Juliana. For his wife, the center of that loving, golden circle. The proof that every fairy tale was true.

  Lunacy.

  Juliana’s teeth chattered as Moncestus Castle towered above her. Silent and menacing, it absorbed the early-morning light like a hole dug straight to hell. The crenellated battlements looked like an old man’s teeth, jagged with rot and corruption. She hadn’t realized how much she feared every stone, every turret and gate. In that massive structure, her trust, her faith, her life had been destroyed, and only after much strife had she rebuilt any of it. Now, again, she stood before Moncestus Castle, and she wanted to crumple into a ball and sob.

  But Margery was in there. Had been carried in there last night by Sir Joseph. For Margery, Juliana would storm the battlements single-handedly.

  She didn’t have to do that. Layamon and his men had ridden up not long after their arrival, prepared—nay, anxious—for a siege. But they had no time for a siege, so Raymond told them. A siege meant months of sitting, of waiting for the enemy inside to yield from hunger or thirst. And this enemy held a precious hostage inside.

  Everyone stood just out of arrow range. Raymond remained with Juliana, clad in his hauberk and encased in a warrior’s intensity. As if her mere presence upset his concentration, he paid her little heed, and she jumped when he snapped, “How do we get in?”

  Juliana looked around. He was speaking to her. “Get in?”

  He turned his green eyes on her. “You got out. How do we get in?”

  “Ah.” Swift embarrassment swept her, and she carefully
hoarded the details. “I only escaped from the keep. To escape from the bailey, I just walked across the open drawbridge. ’Twas daylight and I just…walked across.”

  “The drawbridge is closed,” Raymond answered, quite as if he expected her to remedy that.

  She shot him a question as reply. “Where are the patrols on the walls?”

  “I don’t know.” Again he swept the battlements with his gaze. “Very interesting. Very puzzling. I wonder who’s in command.”

  “Not Felix,” she said.

  “Nay. Probably not Felix. So if we get through these walls”—Raymond pointed with his dagger—“you can get us in the keep.”

  “I…aye, most likely I can.” With a droll and horrible humor, she said, “I doubt that way has been plugged.”

  Raymond turned to Valeska and Dagna. “Can you open the drawbridge?”

  Dagna’s blue eyes flashed. Valeska sparkled with life as she announced, “You know we can.”

  Raymond lifted his shield and held it over his head. Keir did the same, and with the women they crept close to the walls.

  Nothing moved. No attempt was made at defense, and the troop stirred and muttered.

  Everyone watched curiously as Keir threaded a rope through the quarrel of a crossbow, tied it into a noose, and shot it high above the vertical stone spikes set into the merlons. The first shot slithered back down the wall, but the second caught a finial, and Keir set the noose with a jerk.

  Still no one stirred on the walls, and the strain of such unusual stillness intimidated the company.

  “Notch your bows,” Raymond called to the men-at-arms. “If you see a head peek over the battlements, shoot it and don’t fail me.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” Layamon said.

  Juliana gaped as the crones grasped the rope and, one after the other, began a nimble ascent of the wall. Raymond and Keir ran back to watch as the old women reached the top and pulled themselves up slowly.

  Nothing.

  The old women disappeared over the edge, then reappeared and waved. Raymond stood, hands on hips, and told Juliana, “If they don’t meet with any patrols—and I don’t understand why they haven’t—they’ll use the rope to enter the gatehouse and lower the drawbridge.”