Castles in the Air

by Christina Dodd

  “What if Sir Joseph attacks them?”

  A smile, obscurely pleased, touched Raymond’s mouth. “He’d better send his mercenaries, for those two women terrify your uncle—and that doesn’t displease me. He will pay for his atrocities.”

  She grasped his arm. “You don’t think he’ll kill Margery?”

  “He tried to kill you.”

  She protested spontaneously. “Nay, say not so.”

  “Did he not? He is rotten with envy.” As he watched the battlements, he asked, “Why do you think he abused you? Why do you think he threatened you?”

  “He never envied me,” she protested hotly. “From the time I was a child, he told me how the greatest woman is less than the lowest man, how the pain of childbirth was God’s punishment for the original sin.”

  “He sneered at you for being a woman.” Raymond nodded. “A woman, his kin, yet set above him by an accident of birth.”

  “My father said”—she wanted to make him understand how impossible this was—“My father said Sir Joseph would care for my lands well, for he was tied to them by blood.”

  “So he did, expecting that someday, somehow, he would have those lands for his own.”

  “The inheritance wasn’t his for the taking should I die and even if my daughters died,” she explained, trying to make clear the easily understood facts. “If there were no legitimate heirs to be found, the lands would revert to the king. You know that.”

  “I do. And so did—does—Sir Joseph. But he was reared during the dark years of King Stephen’s reign, when men made their own laws and no one bade them nay. He could not steal the lands when your father lived—at least, not by force, so he stealthily consulted with Felix until he convinced that weak man to take you as a bride.”

  She could scarcely credit her own hearing. “You think Sir Joseph planned my abduction?” Her voice rose in hopeful disbelief. “Not my father? ’Twas Sir Joseph?”

  “Your father was guilty of no more than being a feeble pawn who said and did as others planned.” Raymond’s distaste for such stupidity rang clear. “He did not conspire against you.”

  In the darkest corners of her soul, she’d been convinced her father had betrayed her. So convinced, she’d been afraid to examine the facts, then bruised herself on the lock she put on the information. Now, now Raymond insisted her father was guiltless of all but rank and total stupidity. “I always knew my father blew hither and yon, hot and cold, according to the opinions of others, but”—she looked toward the walls, and in her estimation, they had shrunk to normal size—“I didn’t want to know he’d deliberately allowed me to be seized.”

  “Such a weight lifted from your shoulders,” Raymond said, teasing.

  She smiled, releasing the lock and allowing the good memories of her father to flood her mind. “Love allows for much.”

  “Too much.”

  He blenched as if he’d sliced himself on his own sharp words, and she knew he was remembering his weakness and mortification at the tree. She would have comforted him with a touch, but his dignity rejected sympathy before it was offered. Instead, she said, “Sir Joseph could have killed me after my father died and taken control through my daughters.”

  “He probably tried, but you are surrounded by loyal servants—and King Henry is firmly in control. If it is proved, the law frowns on the murder of one’s liege.” He turned a cold, still face to her, but his eyes looked right through her. “As you told me once when we were discussing your distaste for the unknown husband the king had picked for you—daughters can be dismissed into a convent, or even found dead of an accident.”

  Anguish struck her, destroying her early exaltation. In a hoarse whisper, she asked, “Who better to arrange such accidents? I put my children at risk.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I am the head of my family, and I failed to control my uncle.”

  “I am the head of your family now, and my failure overshadows yours.” He pointed to the drawbridge. “Look.”

  The drawbridge started down slowly, creaking on its chains, then the weight of the planks took over, and it smashed to the ground. Juliana jerked and blinked, torn from the unassailable pain of obligation by the need for action.

  Raymond winced and started forward. “Don’t go under the portcullis until I say so. If those two women don’t firmly secure it, we could be pierced by the falling steel points launched by our own allies.”

  Layamon laughed in ragged amusement, but Keir refused to move from his place just outside arrow range. “Aye, you test it, Raymond.”

  “It is my duty,” Raymond answered without a smile, and crossed the drawbridge. He met Dagna, who shivered and made a sign back toward the castle—a sign to ward off the evil eye. Her sweet voice carried when she whispered, “’Tis the castle of the damned. There are dead men-at-arms, propped at their stations, and the keep is shut tighter than a drum.”

  Juliana’s men-at-arms murmured and shuffled their feet, infected by Dagna’s solemn warning, but Juliana would not allow them to falter now. She strode toward the drawbridge, her skirts flapping around her ankles, and after a moment of hesitation, all the soldiers marched in, baited by the desire to appear brave in their lady’s eyes.

  “Are they even in there?” Keir asked, and as if in answer an arrow flew past his head and landed in the dirt.

  Raymond pulled Juliana to him and raised his shield over them. As more arrows flew from the keep and everyone ran to the shelter of the stable, he answered, “Aye, they’re in there.”

  Layamon crouched against the wall. “Why didn’t they post a patrol on the walls?”

  “They didn’t think we’d arrive yet, or”—Raymond stroked his stubbled chin—“Sir Joseph hasn’t the control over them he would like. Mercenaries won’t sit out in the cold when there’s a warm fire and cold ale inside.”

  “Money hasn’t the strength loyalty commands.” Keir cast a meaningful glance at Raymond, then supervised the men-at-arms and their dispersal around the keep.

  To Juliana, Raymond said, “Now you must tell me how you escaped three years ago, and why they allowed you to walk out of the bailey.”

  She didn’t want to tell him. Three years ago, few people had comprehended the desperation that drove her to escape through an unthinkable route. When she’d told her father, thinking it would make him believe, make him understand, he’d been repulsed, seeing it as another reason to spurn her.

  If not for Salisbury, the man who’d found her, and his quiet commendation, she might have killed herself for shame. She’d never told anyone, never thought she’d have to tell anyone, but now—“Oh, Margery.” She sighed and checked to see no one stood close. Taking Raymond by the wrist, she tugged him around the corner of the stable and pointed. “See the privy shaft? It leads straight up to the garderobe just off the great hall.”

  Stricken, Raymond stared at the stinking cesspit, then shook his head. With a mockery aimed more at himself than at her, he said, “And I just scrubbed the horse shit from under my nails.”

  Arms and legs splayed, like a spider climbing a rocky web, Juliana ascended the garderobe shaft toward the round of light shining down from above. It probably was the gullet of hell, but right now it looked like the gate of heaven. The fear of once more setting foot in the great hall of Moncestus, the fear of finding her daughter raped, or worse, dragged at her as she climbed the shaft. It pressed her down, made her weight grow and her courage shrink.

  But Raymond kept close behind her, helping her, catching her when she slipped. As she neared the top, he propped her up with his shoulder beneath her rear and his hands cupping her foot. “Jump out as fast as you can,” he advised. “Don’t hesitate to draw your knife. Is it tucked in your sleeve?”

  Peeking down, the sight of him braced against the sides of the tube and the long descent below struck another blow to her spirit. She tried to answer, but her teeth chattered, so she contented herself with an unseen nod.

  “When the fight
begins”—he now sounded like a lord directing a frightened servant—“you are to avoid me and the mercenaries. Do you understand why?”

  It should be easy, but it wasn’t. She had to think about it, grope for the reasoning. “Because you’ll not be able to swing your sword if I stand near.”

  Even when she said it, she hardly knew if it was the truth, but his murmur of assent warmed her. “Then you find Margery.”

  Shivering with equal parts of resolution and terror, she gulped, trying to bring saliva to a suddenly dry throat. “As you say.”

  “You’re to free her if possible. If not, you’re to stand guard over her, protect her in case the battle swings in her direction.” He nudged her upward. “On three,” he said. “One—”

  She inched her arms out of the hole.

  “Two—”

  She grabbed the edge of the seat.

  “Three.”

  He boosted, she pulled, and she found herself lying on her stomach on the slab of stone, half in, half out of the murky shaft. She shot a suspicious glance around the earth closet, but no one stood in its close confines. From the head of the hall, she heard the clank of cups on a wooden trestle table and the rumble of men’s voices. They weren’t close, and, heartened, she slithered the rest of the way out and stood with her hand on her knife as Raymond tried to exit the privy shaft.

  But what was easy for her proved difficult for him. The narrow hole held his broad shoulders hostage, and he struggled to bring out one arm and shoulder, then his head. He worked to free it, his forehead scraping on the pebbled seat, but despite almost-silent curses, he could not.

  And someone approached. She heard the discouraged shuffle, and casting desperate glances at the door, she grasped Raymond’s hand and pulled. He grunted when his head popped out, then groaned as he, too, heard the footsteps.

  Juliana drew her knife and moved to the wall next to the entrance.

  Raymond fought to bring his other shoulder out but knew this would defeat him.

  The blade shook in Juliana’s hand, and she stared with the wide-eyed valor of a squire facing his first blooding.

  “For Margery,” Raymond whispered, and the blade steadied a little.

  A short, ruddy-faced man with a crooked nose stepped through the opening; she lifted the knife and struck at him, then turned the blade at the last moment.

  “Felix!” she screamed in a whisper.

  Felix jumped like a frightened rabbit and drew his knife with a skill Juliana could not match.

  “Felix!” Raymond scrambled to climb out of the wretched hole. “Nay, Felix.”

  Swinging wildly around, Felix watched as Raymond freed himself and set his feet to the floor. “What are you doing here?” the hapless man sputtered. “How did you get here?”

  Raymond reached for the knife, but Felix stumbled back, arms flailing, into the great hall. A burst of raucous laughter from the far end greeted his arrival, and Felix glanced toward the unseen side of the hall with fear and loathing.

  Then he looked back at Raymond, and never had Raymond regretted his own hasty words and blows as he did now. He said quietly, “Felix, you’ll not hold my foolishness against me, now will you?”

  Felix tucked his chin close to his chest and examined Raymond as he would examine a maggot.

  “’Twas cruel on my part to beat a man so much smaller and less skillful than I.” Raymond touched his earring, symbol of his slavery, and found comfort in the indestructible gold. “I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  Felix’s head began to nod to some insistent, belligerent rhythm, and in desperation, Raymond said, “I know Sir Joseph has an influence on weak minds, but you can’t be held responsible for…” Somehow this didn’t sound as conciliatory as he wished, and he blurted, “All that will be forgotten if you throw in your lot with me.”

  Glaring out from under his brows, Felix turned to call the hooting mercenaries.

  Juliana tossed a disgusted glance at Raymond and stepped forward, hands on hips. “Felix, don’t make me sorry I didn’t stab you.”

  “Juliana,” Raymond groaned, but she paid him no heed.

  She pointed to the place before her. “Felix, you get in here right now.”

  Felix wavered, and in her best motherly voice, she insisted, “Right now.”

  To Raymond’s surprise, Felix shuffled into the garderobe, but he stood with his back to the entrance, as far away from Raymond as possible.

  “What have you done with my daughter?” Juliana asked in a furious whisper.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Felix whispered back. “Sir Joseph brought her here, all trussed up, and threw her in the corner, and told me that’s what I should have done with you. Like it was my fault you escaped.”

  Raymond spaced his words with grim vigor. “Have you used Margery ill?”

  Primming his mouth, Felix said, “Nay.” He interrupted Raymond’s sigh of relief with, “I haven’t used her at all. I tell you, I had nothing to do with this.”

  Juliana grasped his arm, her fingers digging into the flesh. “In the name of Saint Wilfrid, Felix, tell me true. Is Margery alive and unharmed?”

  Quite as if she were the stupid one, Felix said, “Aye. I told you, she’s trussed and in the corner. Of course”—he shuffled his feet—“I don’t know how much longer she’ll stay there. The mercenaries are drinking me out of ale and the way Sir Joseph keeps knotting that noose makes me wonder…would he hang her out a window?”

  Juliana started toward the entrance, but Raymond grabbed her elbow and told Felix, “He killed all your men-at-arms. They’re dead at their posts. What do you think he’ll do?”

  Felix’s lower lip trembled. “He said he was my friend, but when I let him in, he ordered my men killed. His mercenaries have been using my serving girls and beating my menservants. Sir Joseph gave me advice before, but—”

  “What kind of friend tells you to abduct your neighbor and force yourself on her?” Raymond snapped.

  “I didn’t get to rape her, and I didn’t kill her,” Felix snapped back. “She didn’t cooperate. Sir Joseph said she’d be glad to spread her legs for me. But she resisted, and I had to hurt her.” His little eyes squinted as he tried to look beyond the words to the truth. “I thought he wanted to help us, but now I suspect—”

  His voice broke. A look of astonishment spread over his face. Staggering, he grunted like a slaughtered hog, and the point of a sword showed through his chest and pointed at them. Raymond’s battle instinct returned with a snap. Shoving Juliana into the corner, he drew his sword.

  Felix hung on the blade for an interminable moment, the light leaving his widened eyes. Juliana cried aloud. The sword left Felix with a jerk, his body collapsed, and they stared right into the frigid blue eyes of Sir Joseph. He clutched his staff in one knobby fist, a dripping sword in the other, and he smiled as he pronounced, “He was a weak vessel, unworthy to be my representative.”

  Raymond’s short sword rose and pointed at Sir Joseph. Sir Joseph pointed his much longer sword at Raymond. His gaze swept Raymond, and he sniffed with every appearance of appreciation. “This reminds me,” he said, “of the stories circulated of your experiences with the tail end of a Tunisian horse.”

  “It’s true,” Raymond agreed, staring at Sir Joseph meaningfully. “I do know the best way to dispose of shit.”

  The bright red of fury spread across Sir Joseph’s veined face, and he said in a shrill voice, “I chained you before, and this time I’ll hang you out to watch you choke with your widow and that brat.”

  Raymond leaped over the top of Felix and into the great hall, but Sir Joseph jumped back with an agility that belied his age. The slash of Raymond’s sword cut his staff down to a stub. Raymond drove at Sir Joseph, hoping to end the battle immediately, but the table crashed as eight partially armed mercenaries swarmed around. Before he could finish Sir Joseph, he found himself facing a battery of weapons held by men whose dishabille told of their unpreparedness.

  “’Tis
th’ berserker,” one man murmured, his fingers touching the fresh scab earned in his previous skirmish with Raymond. “He’s come, just as he promised.”

  With a snarl, Sir Joseph turned on him. “It took half an army to release him, and they’re waiting below to slit your throat, so you’d better swing that mace you’re so proud of and put an end to him.”

  The mercenary, a common soldier, seemed unconvinced. He eyed Raymond with a caution that spoke eloquently of their previous conflict.

  Then Juliana walked out and took her place at Raymond’s side.

  With gasps of pleasure and gap-toothed grins, the mercenaries surveyed her.

  “A woman,” the mace-wielder marvelled. Running his hand through his hair, he said, “An’ no one will tell us nay on this one.”

  A cruel smile curved the mouth of the one mercenary who stood fully armed and at the ready. “See that iron collar around th’ neck of Lord Garderobe? I locked it there, an’ he’ll die wi’ it on.”

  Sir Joseph said, “You put it on under my command, you little piss-cutter, and it is I who will pay you, and pay you well when you have fulfilled your vows to me.” The knight flushed at the reminder, and Sir Joseph leaned toward Raymond. “When your flesh, my lord, is worm’s meat, still that collar will remain to embrace the bones of your neck and weigh your unmanly soul.”

  For Raymond, the reminder of his own destruction served as an agonizing prod. He’d failed to beat these men before. He’d killed his share, but these had come in waves, incited by their captain, and they’d defeated him.

  What would happen if he failed now?

  Answering Raymond’s unspoken question, the knight looked at Juliana as if she were an houri clothed only in the seven veils. “I get her first, lads, then we’ll all have a go, eh?”

  The calm of desperation enveloped Raymond; the calm before the storm. “Juliana?”

  She sounded breathless, disoriented with fear. “Aye?”

  “I’m going to take these arseworms out.” The captain’s chuckle replied, but Raymond paid no attention. “I want you to do as I told you. Do you remember what I told you?”