Princess Avenger - Brightcastle Saga Book 1 (20 page)

“Captivating.”
Lord Finus had not released her fingers and his other hand curled
around her waist. Alecia trembled. If he chose to force himself on
her, there was little she could do. Alecia doubted her father would
protest if Finus bedded her before their wedding day. The prince
was desperate to have an heir and, with the wedding to take place
as soon as could be arranged, an early pregnancy would not be a
problem.

“I cannot wait
until we are man and wife, Alecia,” Finus said, his pupils large
with desire. “I feel your apprehension, my dear. All will be well
once we are wed.” He leaned towards her and Alecia pushed against
him, arching away. Anger leaped into his gaze. The arm around her
waist tightened like an iron band. She had not known the scrawny
lord had so great a strength. He pulled her against him and crushed
her mouth beneath his. Alecia pushed at his chest with her free
hand but Finus took his time over the kiss, his right hand running
up into her hair to hold her head still. His mouth was so insistent
that she couldn’t draw breath to scream. After what seemed an age,
Finus released her hair and pulled away. His arm remained around
her waist.

“Do not think
to fight me, Princess,” he said, his voice cruel. “You are mine.
You will show me the proper respect and affection as your
betrothed, or I will come to your bed without the authority of the
marriage vow. Your father would not object. I think he would turn a
blind eye to just about anything. Compose yourself, my love. Our
betrothal ceremony begins within the hour. See that you are not
late.”

He swept from
the room, leaving her panting, the bile rising to her throat. She
hated him and her father. She hated all men! Alecia crossed to the
wood box and withdrew her favorite knife from its hiding place. The
sound of the blade moving across the whetstone as she sharpened it
calmed her fears. She was not without choices.

The betrothal
ceremony was over. The amethyst betrothal ring Finus had given her
lay on the table beside her bed. Alecia fought down fury at the
lord’s choice of stone. The purple gem had been her favorite until
now.
Will he
destroy all that is dear to me?

She stood
before her mirror in dark gray tunic and leggings, smearing
charcoal on her face. Her hair was tucked up under a black cap and
a gray hood lay down her back. On her feet were soft leather boots.
Tonight, she would finish the job of killing the mercenaries, and
if she were lucky, die in the struggle. She no longer cared. Lord
Finus had made it clear how her life with him would be and she
would rather be dead. Her father had watched the lord fondle her
after the ceremony and barely frowned. With that level of
discouragement, Finus would be even more likely to pursue his
privileges as husband before the wedding took place. Alecia had
determined she would not be there to suffer. She might as well do
the world a service with her death and take as many mercenaries as
she could with her. There was no one left to care about her, with
the possible exception of Hetty. She gathered her weapons and left
the chamber through the passage hidden behind the tapestry.

Alecia lay in the
shadows across the cobbled road from The Dancing Lion. She had
spied her three targets inside the tavern: the blond-haired man
with the ruby in his ear, the heavy-set bald man with the bushy,
black beard and the tall, thin brown-haired man. They were drinking
heavily and pawing the serving girls. Easy prey, she told herself.
Her first murder still haunted her, and not just because she had
nearly died. The act had changed her; left scars that would never
heal. She could not even contemplate going through with this unless
she kept reminding herself that these men had killed Jorge. They
deserved death. They
did
.
And unlike the last time, Alecia would welcome death herself. Not
caring about her own safety would give her an advantage, but all
three men must die in the attack. She did not plan on being around
after tonight.

Several men
had already left the inn but the mercenaries she sought were not
among them. She tensed as three men staggered from the inn. Was one
of them bald?

The men turned
right and lurched into the street, their heels snapping on the
cobbles. They were beyond drunk, and held each other upright.
Alecia followed on the opposite side of the street, sticking to the
shadows, her eyes glued to the men, heart pounding in her
chest.

They passed a
window where light spilled onto the street and she glimpsed a bald
head and bushy beard. At least one of the three was a target, but
she had to see if the others were as well. She continued on, her
soft boots making no sound. The man furthest along the road tripped
and pulled his companions down. Alecia saw the glint of a red stone
as the man in the centre climbed to his feet and helped his friends
up. The third man looked thin and exceptionally tall to her. It had
to be them.

She slipped
around the corner into the first alley she came to and pulled three
arrows from her quiver. She stuck two head first into the dirt and
nocked and drew the third. The men were dusting each other off and
laughing over their stumble. She sighted on the chest of the
tallest man, but as she prepared to loose the arrow, the clatter of
hooves rang in the street. Alecia withdrew further into the shadows
as a troop of her father’s soldiers trotted into view.

“Who goes
there?” The leader shoved a flaming brand out to illuminate the
faces of the three. “Ah, Raoult and your friends from the Lion. I
would’ve thought you’d take more care, after the murders of those
mercenaries last week.” The torch allowed Alecia to be certain
these were the three she targeted.

“We don’t fear
death, Sergeant,” said the blond man with the ruby.

“Get to your
homes and don’t tarry, Raoult,” the sergeant said, as he led his
men past and up the street.

Alecia glared
at the soldiers as they trotted out of sight, afraid she would not
get another opportunity to launch her attack. Contrary to Raoult’s
words the men peered around, seeming suddenly uneasy. Then Raoult
slapped the bald one on the back.

“Do not fear,
Dom, all will be well,” he said. “Let’s call on Silvandra. She’ll
take our minds from this grisly business.” The other two laughed
and they continued on up the street.

Alecia drew a
deep breath. She could do this. These outlaws must be removed from
Brightcastle Town before they raped this Silvandra, or worse.

She
crept onto the street again and followed, half expecting to be
accosted by some night prowler. Twice she thought she heard the
clatter of the soldiers returning. No one came. Even drunk, the men
moved too quickly for her to take aim in the darkness. Finally,
they came to a crossroads and started down an alley. Alecia crossed
the street and crouched in the deep shadow of a rain barrel. She
rested for a moment against the wall, willing her heart to slow,
her trembling to still. It was no good, she could not achieve the
calm she desired.
Ninny! You do not matter!
Alecia turned her attention to her weapons,
preparing the bow and arrows as before.

The three men
continued along the alley and pounded on a door halfway along.
After some moments, the door swung outwards. A woman stood there in
corset and knickers, with a flimsy robe draped across her
shoulders. Alecia stifled a gasp as Raoult pulled the woman roughly
against him. He planted his lips on hers and his free hand grasped
one of the whore’s breasts. The woman struggled but Raoult’s two
friends stepped forward and grabbed each of the woman’s arms.

Alecia
realized her hand was at her mouth and her eyes glued to the scene.
She took hold of herself, knelt and nocked her first arrow. She
aimed at the one called Dom, forcing her breath to slow.
Good enough!
Her first arrow took him in the
back and her next slammed into the neck of the tall man. The
bloodcurdling screams of the whore tore at Alecia but she had the
third arrow nocked before Raoult realized what had happened. When
he saw his friends dead at his feet, Raoult threw the woman against
her doorway and charged back up the alley.

Alecia
crouched, paralysed as the mercenary thundered towards her. She had
no plan for this! With trembling hands, she dragged the bowstring
to her ear, sighted and released her third arrow. In a heartbeat,
Raoult was upon her. The arrow had taken him in the right shoulder
but his left fist glanced across her cheek and pain crashed into
her skull. Blinking back the dark waves of fog that seeped into her
brain, Alecia struggled to fend off the clumsy blows that Raoult
rained down on her. She wriggled out from under him and began to
crawl away, but the blond man grasped her foot and hauled her back,
his eyes striking a chill through her.

“Kill me,
would you lad?” Raoult’s fingers closed around Alecia’s throat and
squeezed. Her air supply was abruptly cut off and agony rocketed
through her as her windpipe was crushed. The mercenary’s smile
slowly widened as she gasped and struggled for air, her fingernails
clawing at his hands, desperately seeking a weakness that would
save her. Raoult’s face dimmed and Alecia slipped away, her last
thought for Vard and the goodbye she had never uttered.

Vard strode down the
darkened hall of the guardhouse, his mood sombre and his thoughts
on the princess. Why couldn’t he concentrate on the matter at hand?
He had been called from his bed in the soldiers’ barracks to
interview a suspect. He should be glad there had been a development
in the mercenary killings, but his chest and shoulder ached and the
hour was late. No matter. His eyes would be enough to have the
suspect spilling his guts and then he could return for a
much-needed rest.

The command
sergeant who had summoned him stopped before a heavy wooden door
bound by thick bands of iron. He raised the plank that secured the
door and swung it outwards into the passage. The dark cell stank of
wet straw, mould and mice. Vard’s eyes went immediately to the form
huddled in the corner.

“The lad was
almost dead when we came upon them,” the sergeant said. “I haven’t
had much from him since he woke up. Either he’s scared witless or
the strangling has done permanent harm.” The man crossed the cell
and lit the brand that sat in the bracket opposite the door. Then
he gave the prisoner a kick on the shoulder. “See that you
cooperate and it may be a quick death for you instead of
crucifixion, boy.” The captive whimpered and curled tighter into a
ball.

“Leave us,”
Vard said.

“I’ll be in
the guardroom,” the sergeant said as he left the cell.

Vard stared at
the pathetic figure in the straw. The lad looked like the boy whom
Vard had rescued from the mercenary. It seemed so long ago. Vague
memories of the second mercenary death told him the prisoner was
also a match for that killer. A faint smell of lavender came to him
and he nodded. It made no sense that a lad would use perfume, but
it fit with the fragrance he remembered. Now the boy had been
accused of killing two more mercenaries and wounding another. He
didn’t seem capable of it.

“Look at me,
lad,” Vard said. “I think we’ve met before.”

Vard’s words
only caused the boy to curl tighter into a ball.

“You’ve led me
a merry chase and now it’s time to put all to rights. You must pay
for your deeds.”

The figure in
the straw raised a battered face. “My deeds!” the lad spat. “What
of the foul deeds of those men!”

The vehement
response shocked Vard. He knelt in the straw and peered at the
prisoner. What had Hetty said? That the prince wouldn’t thank him
for finding the killer? “Who are you?”

The boy
scrambled back against the stone wall, his eyes on the dirty straw.
The fire had left him.

“I can’t help
you if you won’t talk to me,” Vard said.

The lad
hunched his head further down into his hood and Vard lost patience.
This was too much after being dragged from his bed. He reached
over, grasped the hood and reefed it off the convict’s head. Vard
stared as long blonde hair tumbled down. “Princess!”

Alecia looked
up at him her eyes huge in her dirty face.

How had he not
guessed? All this time, the ‘lad’ had been right under his nose.
His gaze took in the ugly bruises around her right eye and on her
neck, and his heart lurched. She had almost been killed this night!
But for the proximity of the sergeant’s patrol, the princess would
lie dead in an alley.

Vard reached
out a hand to touch the bruise at Alecia’s eye. She flinched at his
contact.

“There is
nothing you can do for me, Captain. Get up and walk away. I will
face the consequences of my actions, knowing I have avenged Jorge’s
death. You will tell his parents that I have killed the
murderers.”

“You’re making
no sense. I can’t leave you here. Tell the duty sergeant who you
are. Your father won’t allow you to hang for your crimes.”

“Crucifixion
is the sentence for murder. I accept it gladly, rather than the
life sentence I already face.”

“What life
sentence?”

“What would
you call it?” Her pupils were deep black pools and her fragile form
trembled. Vard longed to reach out and draw her into his embrace.
“Soon I will belong to Lord Finus. I already do. He paws me like a
village whore. I would rather die than let him take me. I would
already be dead if my plan for tonight had gone as it should.”

Vard
drew a sharp breath. “You
wished
to die in the attempt on the mercenaries?”

“And now I
must suffer crucifixion. I cannot allow my father to find out.
Better that I just disappear.”