Carolyne Cathey (38 page)

"At the time
you begged grief for a wife long dead, that you weren't ready.  So I gave you a
year to heal.  But, 'twould seem your grief is ended, you are ready to wed
after all.  I am here to set the date."

"King
Edward, you promised me a favor."

"Ah, so I
did.  Which favor do you choose?  Not to wed Lady Mellisande?"

Hope flared in
her breast, that same hope that reflected in Kyle's eyes.

"Or, for me
not to take this wench to London as a castle whore?"  Edward plunged his
dagger into the lamb.

Eleanor's hopes
plunged with the stab.

The meat sizzled.

Bile burned her throat.

The king gripped
his food and sawed off a large portion of soft meat.  The severed lump fell off
his trencher onto the table.  Red juices oozed onto the linen.

"Of course,
there is only one choice a loyal knight could make.  For certain you would never
opt for a landless peasant of unknown parentage, over my cousin.  Who knows, I
might have saved you from marriage to your own sister.  So, Kyle, which favor
do you choose?"

Eleanor held her
breath in wait for Kyle's answer.

"I'll
wed--"

"Halt!  Out
of my way!"

Eleanor jerked
her attention to the commotion.

A furious Brigham
stood planted in front of the dais with men she knew not by his side.  A few
looked as if they hadn't washed since birth.  One seemed as a giant, his face
mutilated by old scars.  And they all stared at her as might ravenous wolves.

She froze, in
wonder what Brigham planned.

King Edward
shifted in his seat.  "I erred.  I had thought protocol to be remiss. 'Tis
non-existent, as wretched as in that God-forsaken Wales.  What is the meaning
of this outburst, Brigham?"

"'Tis not
Kyle's child."

Eleanor felt so
stricken with apprehension she could only watch, and wait.

The king twirled
his goblet between his fingers.  "'Tis true?  And how do you know this,
Brigham?  Did you crawl up into her womb and examine the tiny features?  You
would have had to carry a torch to be certain.  Nay.  I do not think 'tis
possible."

Brigham gestured
down the line of frightened men.  "She has lain with these, and more.  Any
could have fathered her child."

"Are you
certain you don't attempt a trick, Brigham?  What is your proof?"

Brigham crossed
his arms on his chest.  "These men will tell of her lurid escapades."

The king
stretched.  "As exciting as the tales might be, I choose not to be
bothered during my meal.  But I must say, when I came to visit I never dreamt
I'd be treated to such drama.  Not even my minstrels and acrobats can best such
a show." 

"But, my
lord, they will tell you how--"

"Enough,
Brigham.  Her experience only assures her talents for pleasuring men at the
London courts.  Now, take your place at table."  King Edward lifted his
goblet past her view, for her neck had turned to wood as had her body, then he
set the chalice again on the table.

"You
slut!"  The vehemence of Kyle's rage slammed her out of her stupor. 
"You whore!"

Her gaze collided
with Kyle's hatred.  He believed Brigham?  Nay, surely he only sought to
protect her.

"Get out! 
You think to give the king the pox?  To spread your filth to his grace?  Then
to his Queen?  Nay, whore!"

A tremble shook
her body as doubt wormed past her trust.  She stared at his distorted face, the
face she had kissed, caressed, loved, adored.  No love shone from the depths of
his eyes now, only revenge, revulsion, the final judgment.  Her heart died.

He scanned the
hall.  "Jerrod!  Come here!"

King Edward
shoved to his feet.  "Kyle, I'll take her with me."

"Nay, King
Edward.  'Tis too great a risk.  She might be diseased.  Jerrod!  I want this
slut so far away by this next night that no one will ever find this vermin.  Do
you understand?"  He spun to face her.  "Don't you ever come back.  I
never want to see you again.  Never!"  He motioned to Sir Jerrod. 
"Take her.  Get her out of here!"

Sir Jerrod held
out his hand, his face twisted in compassion.

Kyle believed
Brigham!  He hated her!  A pain, hot, fierce, stabbed her chest.  So, her heart
wasn't dead after all, but would die a slow death.  Nay, he but grasped the
excuse to remove her from the King’s wrath - forever.  And yet, his tone
reverberated hatred.  Eleanor pushed to a stand and forced her feet past Kyle,
Lady Mellisande, and around the end of the table.  Sir Jerrod took hold of her
arm and guided her off the dais, through the silent crowd.

"Well now,
Kyle.  Let's continue with our meal.  My meat has grown cold.  Carver, bring
another course."

She walked past
the center hearth, but no warmth did she feel.  Knights stepped aside and made
a leper's path to the entry door.

"How soon
should we set the date for the ceremony?  Would a fortnight be too hasty?  Nay,
I think not."

"But, I
might already be diseased, my king.  'Twould not be fair to Lady
Mellisande."

"I'll have
my doctor see to you.  I'll wager you're clean.  Just think, Kyle, in a
fortnight we'll be related."

She stepped onto
the porch.  Cold mist peppered her face, the king's strong voice now a distant
nightmare.

"'Now that
the truth is found out, 'twas most entertaining, Kyle.  Don't you agree?"

Y
ou slut.  You whore
.

In rhythm with
the pound of hooves against mud, Kyle's accusations crushed Eleanor's heart
like a spiked mace.  She clutched at the front edge of the raised saddle as Sir
Jerrod held her atop his thighs, his arm around her waist.  The horse galloped
along the rutted road at too dangerous a pace.  With each strike of hoof
against sodden earth, Eleanor knew the horse might stumble and most likely
break her neck; she didn't care.

Mist swirled in
the ebon of the night.  Indistinct shapes and forms blurred past her view.  If
the moon would awaken, perhaps the rays would chase away the devil of a haze. 

I never want
to see you again.  Never
!

Kyle had believed
Brigham's lies.  She longed to have faith that Kyle merely pretended, but his
hatred had burned her as hot as a lit torch.  Dear God, had Kyle forgotten? 
Brigham had tried to kill her with his horse! 

Truth slammed
into her mind.  Memories of Kyle's rescue, of staying near her to protect her,
of his heart-rending confession that he would give his life for her willingly
and without hesitation, even to the defiance of the king.  He loved her.  Aye,
he had merely sought her escape.  She longed to tell him she understood.  If
not for the babe, she... Merciful heaven.  His child.  Somehow she must protect
the precious gift of their joining.

"By the arm
of Saint George, I hate this pace."  Sir Jerrod growled his complaint, yet
the horse still raced.

From the
appearance of the unreal surroundings, she feared they had stumbled upon the
nether regions of the world.  An owl called--the precursor of death.  She
shuddered.

Sir Jerrod's
destrier topped a rise, then slowed.

A sudden gust
swirled the mist and chilled her face.  Charcoal clouds scudded, thinning to
hint of a ghostly moon.  Below, a pocket of fog blanketed the ravine and
covered the road.

"Where do
you take me?"

"The
convent."

Frightful
memories shriveled her courage.  "Nay, Sir Jerrod, I beg you.  Even though
Lord Kyle says he will assure my safety behind the cloistered walls, there is
something I should tell you about when I left the convent.  The nuns burned
my--"

The destrier
stumbled. 

Eleanor gasped
and grabbed Agate's mane.  Sir Jerrod clutched her to his body until the animal
regained his footing, then he urged the horse back into a steady pace.  A voice
inside her warned her to keep silent about burned feet and purified souls.  The
very air seemed to listen for the mention of dreams and witches.  Determined to
say no more on the matter, she studied the road ahead.  The wall of fog lay
silent, thick, hungry, as if in wait to swallow them whole.  The destrier
dropped below the rise, descending toward the cloud that seemed as steam from
the mouth of hell.

An owl hooted, a
haunting wail.  The wind died, then all became as still as death. 

Prickles spread
between her shoulder blades and teased her nape.  "Sir Jerrod, I--"

"Hush." 
Sir Jerrod slowed the destrier even more.

The owl called
again, this time more near.  The night moaned of dracs and ghouls and soulless
spirits.  Fear tingled her flesh, tightened her chest.

Sir Jerrod
remained silent except for his shallow breaths.  He pulled back on the reins
and the mount halted, then sidestepped as if anxious.  "Easy, Agate. 
Easy."  The horse nickered, tossing its head, but Sir Jerrod held firm on
the leather straps.  "Something dangerous lies ahead, lass.  I can feel
the presence of evil.  Yet to go back to the crossroad is as perilous."

Eleanor's tongue
had become too stiff to form a word. Her lungs gasped too noisily for air.  Sir
Jerrod reached across her, then she heard the scrape of metal against
scabbard.  The long length of steel shadowed dark against the grayish
ground-cloud. 

"Listen,
lass.  We go in.  Whatever awaits us cannot see any better than we, but be
prepared.  I may have to urge Agate into a gallop again in spite of the horrid
road and no visibility.  When I do, grasp his mane and lean forward.  If I
fall, hold tight and ride for your life."

Sir Jerrod turned
in his saddle as he scanned the area.  "'Tis all around us.  Our best
chance is to hide in this dragon's breath."  He paused.  "I pray 'tis
not a deadly error."

She felt his
thighs tighten, and Agate moved toward the unknown.  Fingers of fog reached
toward them, ready to clutch them, to drag them into oblivion.  Eleanor
struggled not to breathe so that she could listen, but she only heard the thud
of hooves against mud.

The cloud towered
like a vaporous castle.  Mist thickened.  She strained her hearing, but her
pulse swooshed in her ears.  The wispy fingers curled around them, beckoned,
drew them in, swallowed them, 'til all misted gray-white.  Her mouth felt as
dry as old parchment. 

The grade of the
road still dropped.  Despite the cold, perspiration drizzled between her
breasts.  She could see nothing but fog.

Movement rustled
all around, hushed, but there, hidden.  Her pulse picked up its pace.  A horse
whinnied. 

Suddenly, Agate
lurched, then sidestepped.  Sir Jerrod's thighs tightened.  Agate lunged.

Terrified,
Eleanor grasped the horse's mane and leaned forward.  Sir Jerrod swung his
sword.  A man screamed.  Agate jerked into a turn and the destrier's neck
muscles bulged beneath her hands.  She heard a whack.

Sir Jerrod
groaned.  He collapsed atop her back, then slid to one side like a clump of
snow off a heated roof, slow, quiet.  Panicked, Eleanor struggled to grab hold
of him.  His body scraped down her leg, then past.  She heard a thump as if he
had hit ground. 

Eleanor dug her
heels into the horse and prayed.  Agate reared, throwing her off balance, and
she grasped for anything she could catch.  A man wrapped his arm around her
waist and dragged her from the destrier.  "Nay!"  Her voice died in
the fog.  She kicked against her abductor and hit horse and stirrup and boot. 
She struck out with her fists.  "Leave me be!  What have you done to Sir
Jerrod?  Nay!  Let me down."  A blow jerked her head and stung her cheek. 
She tasted blood from her split lip.

"Jerrod's
dead, witch.  Or, he won't last long if he does still breathe.  And now, you're
mine."

Brigham's voice
rasped from out of the fog like a dictate from the grave.  Fighting hysteria,
she wondered how many others there were.  And Brigham must be wrong.  Sir
Jerrod couldn't be dead.

The man who
entrapped her atop his horse yanked on the reins.  "I think the bastard
got William." 

A man crammed a
foul cloth into her mouth then secured the wad as they tied a fabric behind her
head; a strand of her hair caught in the bind and stung her scalp.  Eleanor
twisted her body and lashed out with her arm.  Fingers gripped her hair.  A
blow slammed her head to one side, then the other.  Her cheeks throbbed as did
her lip.  She stifled the urge to cry out from the pain, from the fear, the
anger.  A man grabbed her wrists and lashed them together with a rough rope.

"I'll drag
Jerrod and William into the bushes in case another passes this way.  After the
king leaves on the morrow, we'll come back for the bodies."

A beard scratched
the back of her neck as someone tied a strip of rough wool around her eyes.

"Go."

She jolted from
the sudden movement of the horse.  Brigham had once mentioned a dungeon where
no one could hear her scream.  He had once threatened torture... and a witch's
death.  Panic twisted below her breastbone. 

"Stop here,
Ned."

The mount
halted.  Feet thumped against earth.  The men had not ridden far.  She must
still be near the road.  A man grabbed her by her waist and dragged her off the
horse.  She thought to run, but he held her with a grip beyond her strength.

A man grunted as
if he lifted something heavy.  "Over here.  Aye, through the door.  Just
toss her into the pit as we planned."

A cry rolled from
her throat.  Eleanor struggled; she pushed back, but her feet slid forward on
the wet leaves.

"Ye said we
could have our way with her, Brigham."

"And you
might, still.  If she survives this hellhole.  But alive or dead, she'll burn. 
Besides, after we kill Kyle and take Trystonwood you'll have plenty of wenches
to warm your bed.  Beth and Lucinda are both lusty rides.  Now, dump her in
here."

A sob wrenched
from her chest.  She struggled, shoving with her feet, then she tripped over
something hard.  The ground disappeared and she dropped.  Wet earth jarred her
ankles and pained her bound wrists.  Mud splashed her face.  Moldy air stifled
her lungs.

"When do we
come back for her, Brigham?

"For the
ceremony on All Hallows Eve, near midnight, after we ready the stake and
brush."

Terror jolted her
like a bolt of lightning.  They planned to burn her!  Eleanor struggled to
swallow her bile even though the cloth held apart her lips and stilled her
tongue.

"What about
Lord Kyle?"

"I'll make
certain Beth keeps his mind and his rod occupied.  He now hates this whoring
witch with such a passion, 'twill be easy." 

Brigham laughed
and she heard the rustle of fabric as if he knelt. 

"As you
know, witch, Kyle's brains are between his legs.  When the messenger tells Kyle
that you burn, he'll most likely celebrate by rutting Beth in sweaty passion
whilst you shriek in agony.  Mayhaps he'll cry out his release whilst you gasp
your last breath."

Eleanor shoved to
her feet and clawed at the obstruction over her mouth so she could scream her
denial.

A man sniffed. 
"I've never seen anyone burned."

"Then stay
and watch this next night.  'Twill be a Hallows Eve to savor."

Frantic, Eleanor
jerked at the tight cloth as she struggled to force the filthy rag over her
lower lip.  Something brushed against her ankle.

"Listen,
witch.  I wish I had more time to enjoy you, to make you scream.  Lady
Mellisande will be most disappointed, but I dare not tarry.  The season is too
appropriate not to take advantage.  You'll make a wicked glow." 

With the most
horrid of laughs in her ears, she heard a thump, then silence.

A frightful
scream filled the pit.  The scream went on, and on, and on, a most horrid
wail.  Eleanor determined to complain.  And then she knew--the screams were
hers. 

Gaining control
of her hysteria, she yanked the rag from around her eyes, yet saw only black. 
Something coiled around her ankles and slid over her feet.  Too frightened to
move, Eleanor doubled over with a knot of fear that gripped her insides.  Bile
heaved to her throat.  Kyle wouldn't even know to look for her.  He thought her
safe with Sir Jerrod, not down in a pit surrounded with slithering creatures. 
And then she remembered Kyle's nightmare of when the dragon hid her in his lair
beneath the earth, and how Kyle searched but couldn't find her.
 
Eleanor
clutched the carved rose for strength.

Dear God. 
Guide Kyle to where she stood buried beneath the earth.
  Her horrified mind
assured her Kyle couldn't hear her, but just in case, she must call the words
from deep under the earth so he would know.

"Kyle!  I
love you!"