Her Noble Lords (7 page)

“Okay then, lass. Come with me.” Mr. Belcher unlocks a small door at the far end of the chamber and gestures me to precede him through it. The passageway beyond is unlit and narrower than the previous one. I shake my head, dreading what may await me down there, in the dark.

“Please, could I stay here?”

“Nay, lass. Now don’t be giving me no trouble.”

“But, it’s dark. I can’t…”

He considers for a few moments, then, “Once ye’re settled I’ll leave ye a light. Will that do ye?”

Miserable, quivering with terror, I can only nod.

“So, in ye go then. I’ll tell ye when to stop.”

I make my way slowly through the passageway, aware of Mr. Belcher following close behind me. He has a torch, so we have some meagre light. The walls are damp and the scurrying sounds coming from the shadows on either side tell me all I need to know about my fellow inmates.

“Stop there.”

I pause at my jailer’s command and struggle to maintain some semblance of control. Absolute panic is just a hairsbreadth away. It would be so easy to imagine the walls closing in, suffocating me, crushing me to death.

Mr. Belcher produces another set of keys and reaches past me to unlock a gate to my right. “This’ll be you then. In ye go.”

He shines the torch into the opening and I see that it is a cell, maybe five feet square. A stone bench runs along the back but that is all the comfort it offers. It is not even high enough for me to stand fully upright.

“No, you can’t mean to keep me here. Please…”

“Give me any trouble, an’ ye’ll have no light.” He jerks his thumb toward the forbidding entrance. “Behave yourself an’ I’ll make sure ye have enough to eat. I’ll even let ye have a bucket to piss in.”

It is in utter despair that I bend and edge through the gateway into my subterranean cell. I perch on the stone bench, shaking, as Mr. Belcher swings the gate closed with a heavy clang and turns his key in the lock. He turns to leave me, then seems to remember his promise. He wedges the torch in a sconce set into the wall opposite my cell door. It casts a dull glow which more or less reaches the spot where I now sit.

“I knew ye were a sensible little wench. I’ll bring ye some victuals and a fresh torch.”

With that promise he is gone, lumbering back down the dark passageway, leaving me to my thoughts.

It has been over two weeks since I was incarcerated in the dungeons at Egremont. Mr. Belcher turns out to be a diligent jailer and much to my surprise he is neither cruel nor unnecessarily harsh. I suspect the man has been much maligned over the years. After the first day or so, he agreed to allow me out of my cell for a couple of hours, though he insisted I accept a shackle around my ankle. Thus hobbled, I was permitted to spend the precious respite in the chamber where I was initially searched. This is where Mr. Belcher passes most of his time and he even lights a fire in the grate occasionally so I am able to enjoy some small measure of warmth.

By the end of my first week, I am spending most of the day in the larger chamber, only returning to my vile cell to sleep. There are no other occupants of the dungeon. It is just me, Mr. Belcher, and the rats that scurry in the corners, though they come right up to scamper around our feet as we eat.

Mr. Belcher brings food from the castle kitchens for both of us and the fare is not bad. Stews mainly, made with mutton, carrots, potatoes, and occasionally a little pepper to flavour them. The bread is at least fresh. After much pleading on my part and grumbling on his, he provided me with a bowl of water for washing and a small sliver of lye soap. His companionship is pleasant enough, in fact, or would be were it not for the heavy mantle of terror which pervades every day.

Soon, Piers will return. He will have me brought up into the daylight again, there to be killed in retribution for the senseless death of his beloved brother.

In response to Mr. Belcher’s questions I have shared my story with him. He seems to believe my account of events; certainly he has never questioned my identity.

“Just tell his lordship the truth, Linnet. He is a fair man. He will listen.”

I shake my head. “He won’t. Neither of them believes me. I told them, again and again, that I am not Lady Eleanor. And now, it has come to this.”

“All is not lost, lass, not as long as ye draw breath.”

Well, that’s true enough but I doubt that happy circumstance will continue for much longer.

* * *

“Linnet, his lordship has returned.” Mr. Belcher announces the chilling news as I awaken, stretching on my stone bed. I clutch at the blanket he has kindly provided for me and struggle to sit up.

“Which… which lord? Is Sir Ralf here too?”

A silly question. He will have returned to his family home, of course, if only to be buried.

Mr. Belcher shrugs. “I can ne’er tell ‘em apart, lass. It could have been either.”

“But there is just one of the brothers here?” I whisper, my heart sinking. If only one, it must be Piers.

“I only saw one.”

“Did he say anything? About me?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet, lass.”

Not yet but soon. Too soon.

* * *

A day passes, then another and still no summons from Ralf. Or Piers. Mr. Belcher is unable to allay my fears. He can only tell me that since the party returned but one golden-headed earl is frequently to be seen in the stables and the jousting courtyard, drilling the castle guards and barking out instructions to all around concerning the defence of the keep. At my constant probing, he does, eventually, concede that these circumstances are unusual. There would normally be the pair of them, though their roles seem interchangeable. Mr. Belcher explains that Ralf is nominally the lord here by virtue of having entered the world six minutes in advance of Piers but both brothers command and for the most part, members of the household neither know nor really care which one they deal with.

“So, Ralf has not been seen?” I wring my hands, desperate for news.

“I cannot say for sure, lass.”

“Is there a funeral planned?” Surely the interment of a murdered earl would be a momentous occasion.

“I have not heard tell of it.”

“So…?”

“Lass, just wait. Be patient. If bad news is coming your way, it will be here soon enough without you going looking for it.”

“But I need to know… Did I kill him? Did I really murder Sir Ralf?” I sink to my knees, trembling. I fear for my own life, that is true but I am wracked with a guilt which almost paralyses me. Even more powerful than my terror at facing the gallows, my remorse gnaws at me, torments and mocks me. I have worshipped Ralf St. John since I was a child. I adored him but I killed my shining hero in a foolish act of blind panic. If I could but have that time again, I would accept whatever treatment he might mete out to me, never lift a hand in my own defence. It is not even as though he meant me harm. I know that. I would have survived, would have probably even enjoyed his lovemaking. Instead, I lashed out in a mindless frenzy. Now he is gone and my life is to be forfeit.

“Lass, there is naught ye can do to change things. What’s done is done. You must just tell his lordship the truth and repent before God. Meet your fate with courage.”

I nod. My jailer is right and he has been kind, after a fashion. If Hugh Belcher is to be my executioner, too, I can at least expect a swift and merciful end.

* * *

“Lass, ‘tis time.” Mr. Belcher leans down to peer into my cell.

“What? What is happening?” I waken, rub my eyes.

“The earl wishes to speak with you. You are to come with me. Now.”

“Now? But, it is late…”

“His lordship has summoned you. Follow me, please.”

I stagger to my feet, dreading what the next minutes and hours might bring, yet curiously elated that the agonising wait is at an end. I stumble along the narrow passageway in Mr. Belcher’s wake. We emerge into the larger chamber, to be met by three guards.

“You will go with them, Linnet.” Mr. Belcher gestures me toward the waiting sentries.

One of the soldiers steps forward. He grabs my wrists and binds them in front of me, then drags me toward the outer door. The other two fall in at our rear.

We emerge into the cool evening air. By the dimming light, I judge it to be dusk, not as late in the evening as I had thought. My windowless existence over the last weeks has left me uncertain of the passage of time. I concentrate on maintaining my footing as we cross the bailey.

I cast my glance around seeking out a gallows but find none. The soldiers march me straight across the cobbles to the entrance to the main keep and through the huge stone portal. A narrow, winding staircase ascends to our right and the guard leading me turns in that direction. We climb in single file to reach the first landing. I am pushed inside a small chamber. The guards say nothing; they just release my hands, back off, and slam the door shut, leaving me alone. There is the metallic scrape of a lock fastening, then silence.

The chamber is lit, though dimly. A torch burns in a sconce above my head, giving off enough illumination to see by. The chamber even sports a small window. Luxurious accommodations indeed, compared to the Egremont dungeons. Apart from a narrow, wooden chair upon which lies a rough linen undershirt, neatly folded, the only other item in the room is a large round tub which is half full of water. I test the temperature and find it to be tepid. A bath? I am intended to cleanse myself prior to seeing the earl?

I can only surmise so and in truth, the prospect of a bath is welcome enough. I have made do with the limited resources made available by Mr. Belcher’s generosity but my clothing is in a sorry state, having been worn continuously for well over a fortnight. I presume the shirt is intended for me.

Would he—they?—wash and dress me, only to send me to face the hangman? In truth, I do not know. Wearily, I remove my tattered, soiled wedding gown and toss it into a corner. I trust I will not be called upon to don it ever again.

The water is clean and sufficiently warm to make washing a pleasurable experience. I even discover a small block of soap and use it to good effect. My hair is the biggest challenge but I manage to rinse most of the accumulated dirt and grease from it and finger-comb my wet tresses. Apart from the shirt I have nothing on which to dry myself. Rather than spend the rest of the night in damp clothing I squeeze as much excess water as I am able from my hair and wait, shivering in the chilly evening air until my body dries naturally. Then I slip the coarse shirt over my head and perch on the chair to await my fate.

I do not have long in which to ponder. I sit, staring at the door, as footsteps echoing up the stairs and the scrape of the lock alert me to the arrival of more soldiers. Just two this time and they instruct me to follow them. My hands are not tied, for which I am grateful.

We continue up the winding steps, the cold stone slabs icy against my bare feet. We ascend two more flights until we reach what I presume to be the earl’s private chambers at the top. The lead guardsman halts at a solid oak door and raps on it hard. A voice from within permits us entry. The soldier opens the door and stands aside. It would seem only I am to go inside.

I draw in a deep breath and step forward.

I am in the lord’s solar, a circular room occupying one corner of a large tower. A solid table dominates the centre, surrounded by several chairs, two of them large and imposing, high backed with stout arms, the rest more modest. The floor is scattered with rugs, brightly coloured, soft underfoot. A fire roars in the huge grate, a solid oak settle to one side of it. I am drawn to that spot, long to sink onto the settle and stretch out my frigid toes. Warmth has been sparse of late.

One man. One man with hair the exact hue of summer corn stands at one of three windows, his back to me as he peruses something far below in the courtyard. Is it Piers or Ralf? I cannot tell until he turns. Or speaks to me. For several long moments, he does neither.

At last he straightens and swivels his head around to look at me over his shoulder.

Piers. It is Sir Piers and his visage is set. His features are firm, stern, unforgiving.

The implication is obvious and no longer escapable. Ralf is not here.

“Oh, oh, dear lord, I am sorry.” I whisper the words, not certain if they are meant for Sir Piers or an even higher authority. It is of no matter, the end will be the same. I have sinned and I am here to be judged.

One perfect eyebrow lifts as Piers turns to face me fully. He regards me in silence, taking in my unprepossessing appearance. At least I am clean and for that I should thank him since it must have been he who ordered that I be allowed to bathe. I open my mouth to utter the words but none come forth.

“So, we meet again, my bloodthirsty little countess. I trust your accommodations have served to impress upon you the seriousness of your situation here.”

I bow my head. “Yes, sir. But I thank you for the bath and the clean clothing.”

“Though they have their place, I am not prepared to subject myself to filth and squalor. You have had adequate food?”

“Yes, sir,” I repeat. Then, unable to contain the question uppermost in my mind for a moment longer, “Please, tell me of Ralf. Does my husband live?”

He frowns, as though slightly surprised by the question. “Your husband, madam? Ah, yes, I do understand your concern. The earl’s fate is inextricably bound up with your own, is it not?”

“That is not the sole reason. I am so sorry. I wish I could undo what is done. I never meant him harm, I swear it.”

“Do you? Do you indeed, my lady?” He pauses. “You will recall my promise to you.”

“I… I am not sure, my lord…”

“I told you, if my brother dies, you will hang.”

The harsh face of the new earl betrays no mercy, not a shred of compassion. I should expect none. The brothers were devoted and without doubt, Piers will demand my death in retribution for taking the life of his beloved sibling. As he should. I can conjure no words in my own defence.