Princess Avenger - Brightcastle Saga Book 1 (2 page)

Hetty clutched
Alecia’s arm and pulled her to a seat at the small wooden table in
the centre of the room. Her gaze softened as she examined the
injuries at close quarters. “I can help you, Princess, but it’ll
take all my skill.” She soaked a snowy cloth with water from a
wooden bowl and bathed the crusted blood from the damaged eye.

“Ouch!”
Alecia’s eyes watered at the sting of bruised flesh and she gripped
her knees to stop herself from pushing Hetty away.

“Nearly
finished,” the old woman said, her gaze gripping Alecia’s. “Did he
do this to you? The man with the gilded eyes?”

Alecia
frowned, recalling the disturbing eyes of the captain. How did her
old nurse know of him? “He was my rescuer. One of the mercenaries
lies dead.”

Hetty reached
into her apron pocket, removed a velvet-wrapped object and
uncovered a flat amber stone the size of her palm. She dropped it
into the pot over the fire, muttering under her breath.

The hairs on
Alecia’s arms stood up as an orange vapour rose over the pot. She
longed to ask what Hetty knew of the captain but the witch would
not welcome any interruption.

Alecia
suppressed a yelp as Hetty whirled from the fire, virulent ochre
mist oozing from the hearth pot that hung from a wooden hook in her
hand. The old woman plonked the pan in the centre of the table then
removed the stone with wooden tongs, rewrapped it and placed it in
her pocket. She poured the concoction onto a saucer, soaked a small
piece of linen in the potion, picked it up with the tongs and
turned to Alecia.

“That smells
terrible.” Alecia leaned back in her chair.

“I wouldn’t
have thought you’d let a small thing like this upset you,” Hetty
said.

“
I
am
not
upset,”
Alecia said, sitting up straight so that Hetty could reach her.
“How does it work?”

“Ah, that
would be giving away my secrets, and I wouldn’t do that unless you
were my apprentice. Tilt your head to the side, please.” Alecia
complied and Hetty laid her poultice over the wounded eye and
cheekbone. “It must stay there while the sand timer empties.” She
dragged the large wooden timer from a hook on the wall and placed
it on the table.

Bile rose in
Alecia’s throat at the smell; she concentrated on the feel of the
cloth to distract herself. The gentle warmth of the poultice
changed to a tingling. Something was happening but would it be
enough to fool her father? “You mentioned the man with the gilded
eyes. When did you see him?”

“Hetty doesn’t
miss much.” The old woman shook her wild silver hair. “He chased
you into the alley and came here looking for you.”

“He came
here?” Alecia didn’t quite manage to keep the squeak from her
voice.

“Yes, he
barrelled in as if he owned the place. He charged up the stairs to
my bedchamber, asking all sorts of questions about a lad with lilac
eyes who fought a mercenary in the square. When he didn’t find
anyone, he looked as though he would do murder. His eyes turned
fully golden, and I don’t mind saying he frightened me. I have my
little secrets but I’m no match for the likes of him.”

“Why would he
come here, Hetty?”

The old
woman’s eyes dropped from Alecia’s and she studied her calloused
palms.

“Hetty?”

The dark eyes
rose again. “I saw him chase you. He would’ve caught you. I made
him think you were in this house.”

“What did you
do?”

“I emptied my
chamber pot over his head and ensorcelled him so he believes he saw
you at the window.”

“Hetty, he
could have throttled you.” Alecia’s lips twitched at the thought of
the dashing captain covered in slop.

“He’s one of
your father’s soldiers. I thought I was safe until he fixed me with
those eyes and called me a witch. He knows what I am,
Princess.”

“Does he know
what you did?”

“I can’t say,
but he’ll return. He said so. You must be careful. There is
something about that one. Something wild.”

Alecia chewed
her bottom lip, the cloth on her face forgotten. She recalled the
unease she’d felt when he spoke to her. A sixth sense warned her he
was more dangerous than the mercenary he had killed. Alecia had
never seen Hetty frightened, even when she had been tried for
sorcery. The witch maintained her anonymity with a thin veneer of
magic that changed her appearance, but if the captain knew her true
identity, she was in danger. What to do? Housing was scarce in the
town and Hetty was fiercely independent. She would not want to
leave her home.

“Let’s see
what we have under this cloth.” The old woman slid the linen from
Alecia’s face, her eyes darting over the area around the damaged
cheek. Then she lifted a silver-edged mirror from the table. What
Alecia saw astounded her. All the puffiness and most of the
bruising had vanished, leaving the soft skin of her cheek and
temple near perfect. Her left eye looked back at her with a clear
lilac gaze.

“Thank you,
Hetty. A little powder and rouge and Father won’t suspect a thing.
I owe you a huge debt for the potion and for risking yourself with
the captain.”

Hetty shook
her head. “It’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me, child, or that you
haven’t already done.”

Alecia smiled.
“Where will you go?”

“I’m going
nowhere, Princess.”

Alecia shook
her head. “He will come back. He said so.”

“I’ll not run
from him or anyone else,” Hetty said, a familiar stubborn set to
her jaw.

“No, you must
listen to me. You are not safe here --”

“Don’t fret,”
Hetty said. “I’ve enough tricks up my sleeve to fool a stupid
man.”

Alecia
couldn’t believe her ears. “You said you were scared, Hetty. So am
I. I do not want anything to happen to you.”

“Then stay
away. Now you must go.” Hetty pulled Alecia up from the table, her
grip strong for one so withered. Alecia barely had time to collect
her bow and quiver as she was ushered to the back door. The witch
unlocked the heavy metal padlock, slid the bolt aside and peered
into the alley.

Alecia slung
her weapons about her person and checked her knives, reluctant to
leave.

“It’s clear,”
Hetty said and while Alecia still struggled to think of a way to
keep Hetty safe, the old woman shoved her though the door and
slammed it in her face.

The barracks of
the Prince’s Guard lay just inside the castle walls. Vard
dismounted and tossed his reins to a groom. Swift, his brown horse,
shied away as Vard handed the horse over, bringing the familiar
surge of frustration and sadness. After ten years of training, the
gelding still feared him and Vard had to face the fact that despite
all his careful nurturing, the horse would never overcome its
instinctive terror. It was just another price he had to pay as a
member of the ancient and mysterious order to which he belonged.
Defenders were destined to live out their lives in isolation and
secrecy while protecting the innocent. It was a high price to pay,
and as Vard was yet to find a mentor, he risked losing his human
core with every transformation
-- and, worse, he endangered those around him.

The stench of
human waste soured Vard’s stomach as he swept the soiled cloak from
his shoulders and hurled it into the bonfire. His shirt and tunic
followed. Clad only in fitted black breeches and boots, he grabbed
a pail of water that lay near the flames and tossed it over his
head. Goosebumps sprouted on his chest and shoulders.

A crowd of
soldiers laughed. Vard ground his teeth; he must reek if his
misfortune had come to the notice of men who only washed when it
rained.

“Bring me a
cake of soap,” he said to a gawky youth who didn’t seem old enough
to be free of his mother’s apron strings. He’d probably lied about
his age to join the army. The boy scampered to obey and then stood
watching.

Vard soaped
his hair and upper body and rinsed with a second bucket. The stink
was a little less, but he’d smell like the inside of a chamber pot
for the next week. He bent to collect his weapons and found the boy
still stared.

“What are you
doing here, boy?” Vard asked. “You can’t have seen your fifteenth
summer.”

“I’m thirteen,
sir. Prince Zialni took me instead of the shield money my mam owed
him. Said he’d come and take one of her boys every year that she
couldn’t pay. He’ll do it too, sir.” The boy’s voice trailed off as
he realized he could be flogged for the words.

Vard felt the
tug he always did when an innocent was at risk. “Am I right in
thinking your tenure here is unpaid?” He gripped the talisman at
his throat, seeking the inner calm of the wolf to control his
anger.

“The prince
feeds and clothes me and gives me a place to sleep, but there are
no wages to send back to Mam. Things are terrible hard for her,
Captain.”

Vard reached
into the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a silver penny,
which he shoved into the boy’s grimy hand. “You give this to your
mam,” he said gruffly.

Tears welled
in the lad’s eyes as he clutched the coin to his chest. “Thank you,
Captain.” He looked around fearfully. “I better go. The sergeant
beats me if he catches me slacking.” He dipped his head to Vard and
jogged away to the smithy that lay beside the barracks.

“What’s your
name, boy?”

“Billy,” the
lad replied, before ducking through the wide door into the shadows
of the forge.

Vard turned to
stare at the miraculous shining walls of the castle above him;
walls that had given Brightcastle its name and were rumored to have
been magic-wrought centuries ago. Today they seemed just like their
master, their flashy exterior hiding a cold, cruel heart. Billy’s
wasn’t the first tale of its type he’d heard since his arrival in
Brightcastle. Rumors abounded of beatings and hangings of common
folk for little reason. The familiar rage burned in Vard’s gut,
inspired by Zialni’s cruelty. The man deserved death and Vard would
be only too happy to oblige, once he’d figured out the when and the
how. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. He had to remain
calm.

The rage
subsided and Vard strode to his room in the barracks, shedding his
breeches and donning a fresh pair. The odour of the chamber pot
swirled up his nostrils and he thought of the lad he’d chased that
morning. His quarry had taken refuge in the house of a witch. Vard
had heard whispers of bold rescues of prisoners, including one of a
witch whom the prince had ordered burnt at the stake. Was the lad
somehow linked with the rescues, or just a stupid young man who had
interfered with someone too powerful?
He shook his head, the familiar tightening of his
gut warning him that he wouldn’t be able to walk away from this
mystery. He had to find that young man, and the witch was the
key.

Concern for Hetty
gnawed at Alecia as she made her way back to the modest castle that
lay on a low rise on the outskirts of Brightcastle town. Hetty had
shut her out but she would find a way to keep watch over her old
friend.

She found the
trapdoor, carefully concealed amongst a stand of trees that grew
twenty paces outside the west wall of the castle. Alecia lifted the
hatch and descended the rough stone stairs, drawing the door after
her. The passage plunged into darkness and she groped for a torch
from the pile against the wall, lighting it with her flint. Her
shadow cavorted on the damp stone as she traveled from west to east
within the wall of the castle, up a narrow stairway and along a
cramped corridor to a hinged panel. Alecia placed her ear to the
stone but heard not a sound. She stripped off her disguise and felt
along the stone for the trigger. A section of the wall swung into
the passageway. She slipped through the narrow opening and pushed
past the tapestry of the warrior queen. The panel of stone slid
back in place with a low grinding.

A fire
crackled in the hearth of her bedchamber. She rang for a bath and
while the servants carted the hot water in she fetched her favorite
lilac gown and a change of underwear. Finally all was prepared and
she slipped into the bath, savouring the warmth that eased away the
worries and soreness brought on by her adventures.

But once her
attendants left her alone, wave after wave of shudders racked her
body despite the warm water. Memories of the burley mercenary
suddenly returned, his fist slamming into her cheek again and
again, causing damage much deeper than any Hetty had healed.
Nothing in her weapons training had prepared her for the shock of
his attack on her person. He could not harm her now, the captain
had seen to that. Could she pull together the shreds of her
confidence and go on?

Already
she doubted she could continue her plan of revenge against the
murderous swine who had killed Jorge. Sweet, brave, honorable
Jorge, had merely been defending his parents and been killed last
month by a pack of mercenaries sent by her father. The dead man was
one of the group responsible for the crime. Tears sprang to her
eyes at the thought of her lost love and the chaste kisses they had
shared. Theirs had been a love beyond reproach and he had been
stolen from her. She had vowed to retaliate, but she had not
expected to feel … guilt and … pain at the death of a killer.
Alecia’s gut clenched at the thought that four of the men
responsible still lived.
I must go on, but I do not know if I
can
. The thought of
those men walking while Jorge was cold and dead in the ground made
fury burn away her fear.
I have eight years of arms training! I must just
be harder; as hard as the captain.

Unbidden, his
gold-flecked eyes popped into her mind and she shivered. The spark
his touch had evoked made her uneasy. Was it just that strangers
did not usually touch a princess? The captain was an altogether
different species; a man who would do as he pleased and, she
suspected, who was accustomed to having his own way.