Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (18 page)
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, her breath coming hard and fast, his chest heaving. He could see the pulse in her neck beating wildly, in time to his own throbbing desire. And somehow
somehow, he found his voice. I'm sorry.
No. She shook her head violently, reaching out to him. He took her hand in a tight grip, although he did not draw her close. Don't be sorry, she said, her voice a raw ache. Although it might have been better for us both, I think, if we had never met.
He ran his thumb along the back of her knuckles, his lips lifting in a tortured smile. Easier, perhaps. But I would not wish for it.
He watched an answering smile touch her face. No. Nor would I.
They stared at each other, sharing a long, silent moment. Then the sharp blast of the horn, announcing the meal, cut through the night.
She swung her head to stare at the distant hall.
Come, he said, linking his fingers with hers. We must go.
She looked at him, her eyes deep and dark with pain. He saw a quiver pass through her, and it was all he could do to keep from sweeping her into his arms again and telling her that he never wanted to let her go.
How had it happened, he wondered. It had begun so simply, as an amused liking for a brave, winning lad named Atticus. Then he'd discovered her secret and with that discovery had come a swift, unexpected rush of desire. And now, somehow, it had come to this, to this wanting that was more than liking, more than desire, so much more than either of them had room for in their lives.
Yes. Her hand clutched at his. We must go.
He held her hand as they walked through the darkened garden. But at the wicket gate they moved apart, walking sedately side by side across the yard. As they turned to go up the steps, the flickering light from the mounted torches threw their shadows out before them, separate, contorted.
And he thought,
This is how we are both fated to go through our lives. Disjointed and alone
.
He knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the hall.
The trestle tables had been set up and spread with fresh white cloths, the fire on the central hearth fed against the growing chill, the oil lamps suspended from their wall-mounted
brackets lit against the night. Outside, the wind howled around the castle, billowing through the high wooden rafters of the hall and creaking the chains of the lamps until they swayed back and forth, their flickering flames casting grotesque shadows into the darkest corners. Damion glanced about, his gaze sharpening. There were too many men in the hall. Too many men simply standing around the door.
And they were all armed.
He pivoted warily as Renouf Blissot stepped forward, his face unsmiling, the draft-tossed light accentuating the point of his beard and the hollows beneath his cheekbones. His hand rested on his sword. Are you Damion de Jarnac? he asked, his voice a rough challenge.
Ahead of him, Attica whirled about, her face white and startled in the flaring torchlight. What is this, Uncle?
Renouf kept his gaze fastened on Damion. Are you?
Regretting the broigne and sword he'd left in the Knights Tower, Damion rested his hands on his hips, and smiled. Yes. Why?
Turning to the men-at-arms, Renouf gave a curt nod. Seize him.
Attica lunged forward. No! Her uncle's hand snagged her arm, drawing her up short. Mother of God, she said on a gasp, struggling against him. What is this?
Dagger in hand, Damion dodged sideways as the men converged on him. A heavyset blond man with short legs screamed and fell back, clutching his shoulder. Another man doubled over, his hands to his guts. Then Damion staggered back as some half a dozen men threw themselves on him.
He realized dimly that they must not want him dead, or he would have fallen more quickly. He managed to slash two more before they wrested the dagger from him.
He didn't see the blow that knocked him senseless.
Two braziers stood, one at each end of the long, narrow room, but they had only recently been lit. The room was cold, the wind slamming against the castle with enough force to stir the fine wool hangings on the outside whitewashed plaster walls and rattle the closed shutters in the deep window embrasures. On the long, dark oak table in the center of the room, the flames of the beeswax candles in an ornate silver candelabra flared and fluttered with a shivering violence.
Still hugging herself, she prowled the richly appointed chamber, pacing past carved chests and cushioned stools, her gaze sliding almost unseeingly over the expensive collection of inlaid and jewel-incrusted swords, daggers, and maces that adorned one inner wall. But no matter how she tried to reconstruct the events since their arrival, she could not make sense out of what had just happened.
The sound of the door opening brought her spinning
around.
Mother of God
, she exclaimed, starting forward at the sight of her uncle's elegant form and handsome, unsmiling face. What is the meaning of this, Uncle?
He shut the door behind him with a snap and leaned against it to fix her with a cold stare. He had always been her favorite uncle. In those lonely years after Blanche sent Attica south to the courts of the Langue d'oc, he had come to visit her even when her mother did not. Not nearly as often as Stephen, of course, but he had come, a handsome, charming young knight, bringing gifts of sugarplums and gaily colored ribbons. For a few shining, memorable hours, he had lit up her young girl's life and made her feel special.
Only this was not the smiling young uncle of her childhood but a harder, more formidable man. Tell me, Attica, he said, yanking something from his sleeve and tossing it onto the high oaken chest beside them. Have you ever seen one of these before?
She found herself staring at a breviary. A green, leather-bound breviary from the convent of Sainte-Foy-la-Petite, its cover whole and unsplit. It's a Sainte-Foy breviary, she said.
That's right. A very common little book. There was one in Olivier de Harcourt's bags when you took them from Châteauhaut-sur-Vilaine. It's not there now.
She raised her gaze to his face. How do you know?
How do I know? He pushed off the door and walked away from her to the far end of the room, where the howling wind battered the shuttered window. I know it's no longer there because I've just had the bags searched. I know it
should
be there because Yvette tells me Olivier de Harcourt was carrying one. He stopped, drawing in a deep breath as he turned to face her again. This is important, Attica.
Where is the breviary now?
Her heart began to thump so wildly in her chest, she wondered her uncle couldn't hear it from across the room. I don't know.
You don't know, he repeated.
No. It's just a simple breviary. Why is it so important?
It's
important
because Philip of France uses these breviaries to transport secret state documents. And it's
important
that whatever document Olivier de Harcourt was carrying not fall into the wrong hands. He walked back toward her until they were separated only by the narrow width of the table. His voice rose. What have you done with it?
Attica stared at him. How do you know these things? she asked. A tense silence tightened between them, filled only with the rush of the wind throwing itself against the castle walls outside. She saw her uncle clench his jaw, a muscle jumping along his cheek where it showed smooth above his beard.
Grand Dieu
, she whispered. You've joined him. You and Yvette both. You've joined Philip against Henry.
Not Philip. Richard.
Her lip curled. That makes it acceptable, does it?
He pressed the palms of his hands onto the polished surface of the table between them and leaned into her. Where is the book?
She forced herself to return his gaze calmly, steadily. I don't know. I knew nothing of its importance when I brought the courtier's bags with me. I took them for his clothes, that is all.
He pushed away from the table with a violent shove. Then the knight must have it.
She let out a startled laugh that sounded false even to
her own ears. Don't be ridiculous. I must have left it at
Châteauhaut.
No.
Then I must have lost it. It was dark when I changed into the courtier's clothing, and I was nervous. I had no reason to take care with it. I could have dropped it.
Dropped it? He shook his head. I don't think so.
She watched, silent, as he walked to where an earthenware ewer stood, warming beside the brazier. Why didn't you tell me the knight you brought with you is Damion de Jarnac? he asked, his attention seemingly focused on the task of selecting a silver-mounted drinking horn and pouring himself a cup of wine.
What do you mean? He is simply a knight-errant I hired to escort me. Why should I have named him?
A simple knight-errant? Is that what you think? He raised the cup to his lips and took a deep swallow. For the love of God, Attica, nothing has ever been simple about Damion de Jarnac. And he is no longer a knight-errant. He joined Henry's household months ago.
The wind gusted up, flaring the candles on the table and filling the room with the scent of hot wax and leather and oiled wood. That's ridiculous, she said. Why wouldn't he have told me?
Why should he? he asked, throwing a glance at her over his shoulder. What exactly did you think, anyway? That he agreed to escort you here out of the goodness of his heart? A true chivalrous knight, succoring the weak and unfortunate and rescuing damsels in distress?
Damion de Jarnac?
A humorless smile twisted his lips as he gazed down at his cup. My God.
I tell you, he knows nothing of this.
Nothing? On the contrary, niece. Damion de Jarnac
probably knows more about Philip's correspondence with John than I do. That
simple knight
of yours has been to Brittany and Ireland on King Henry's business, trying to learn from nobles close to John the extent of his involvement with Philip of France.
She wouldn't have believed what he was telling her except that she couldn't seem to get past the memory of de Jarnac standing in that glade surrounded by the bodies of the dead
routiers
, his gaze narrowing as she held Stephen's ring out to him. No wonder he had recognized it and known so much about Stephen and her family.
What have you done with him? she asked, her voice low and quivering.
Nothing so far. He set aside his cup. My men locked him in the North Tower. He hasn't talked yet. But by the time I am finished with him, he will.
Her legs trembled oddly beneath her, so that she had to grip the edge of the table before her for support. One of the candles in the intricately wrought silver stand hissed, drawing her attention to the flickering golden flames. As she watched, a trickle of wax spilled out of the liquid pool around the wick to run down the taper and harden in the cold. You will torture him? she said, the words coming out in a hoarse whisper.
If I have to.
And me? Will you torture me, Uncle, to be certain I tell you the truth?
He smiled and came around the table toward her. I don't think that will be necessary. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to lock you up, Attica. It's worth my neck to leave you wandering around the country, knowing what you know.
You think I would betray you? she asked, pivoting to face him.
Given the chance, yes. Which is why I don't intend to give you the chance.
He reached for her arm, his grip tightening as she tried to pull away from him.
Don't touch me, she cried, hitting out at him with her free hand. Her nails caught his left cheek and ripped through the flesh deep enough to draw blood. He let her go.
God's teeth, Attica. He swiped at his face with his sleeve as he backed away from her.
Don't touch me, she said again.
Very well. He dropped his hand to his side, his gaze cold and angry. I will leave you here while a separate, more secure room is prepared for you. Hopefully by then you will have calmed yourself. But be warned, Attica: I'll have my men-at-arms drag you there if necessary.
He turned on his heel and left her.
She watched him slam out the room, then stood quite still, staring at the closed door and listening to the murmur of voices as Renouf posted a guard at the door. Her heart beat hard and fast within her, but an odd kind of calm had settled over her.
She walked with deliberate purpose to study the wall containing Renouf's collection of inlaid and jeweled weapons. After some thought, she selected a jewel-encrusted mace that looked as if it had probably been made for a bishop, and a poniard, handsomely sheathed in silk-wrapped leather. The mace proved to be heavier than she'd expected, and the poniard long. It wouldn't be easy to keep them concealed in the sleeves of her gown. When her uncle came back, she would go with him quietly.
Damion lay unmoving for a moment, his eyes closed while he waited for full consciousness to return. He found that his cheek rested against hard-packed, rush-strewn earth, which he supposed meant he must be lying on a dirt floor somewhere. He felt trickles of moisture running over his flesh and a pool of wetness beneath him; he assumed both were his own blood. He could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He stretched his senses, listening. But the silence around him hung empty and absolute, stirred only by the distant thrashing of the wind. He was alone.
He opened his eyes to darkness. His head and his ribs ached from the beating he'd received, although he didn't think anything was broken. By gritting his teeth against a wave of dizzy nausea and levering up with his hands, he managed to sit. He kept still for a moment, his ears filling with the sound of his own ragged breathing, his head bowed as he gathered his internal forces. Then his vision cleared, and he lifted his head and looked around.
The room contained only one small barred window, open to the night and placed high up near the ceiling. Through the opening the night sky shone black and starless, but some unseen torch in a bracket on the castle walls cast a faint, flickering golden light that revealed unwhitewashed circular stone walls. A tuff of rank grass hung down through the bars to move fitfully in the wind. There was no furniture except for a bucket. He could see only one door, which doubtless gave onto the stairwell.
By inching carefully backward, he was able to brace his shoulders against the coarse wall. He was in the lower room of a tower. A tower somewhere in Laval Castle, he supposed, but probably uninhabited, since he could hear no movement above. Although that might simply be because
of the hour; he had no way of knowing how long he had lain unconscious.
He wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing them up close to his body for warmth as he assessed his situation. It wasn't difficult to guess the reason for his imprisonment. And it wasn't much of a stretch from there to the realization that his chances of release were slim, and the possibility of escape or rescue, even less. Only Sergei and Attica knew he had come to Laval. Sergei was already on his way to warn Henry at La Ferté-Bernard, while Attica
Damion tilted his head back against the stone wall, the chill of this place striking deep within him. He told himself her uncle wouldn't hurt her, had no reason to hurt her. But it didn't stop fear for her from churning his gut and bringing an icy sweat to his face.
He closed his eyes and tried to think, except his head ached ferociously. He only realized he must have dozed when he jerked suddenly awake and found himself shivering with cold and listening alertly. His body tense, he heard the sound of footsteps on the circular stone steps outside the heavy plank door. A bolt shrieked as it was drawn back on the outside of the door.
He would not meet his captor like this, curled up in a shivering huddle against the wall. It might not be easy to retain his dignity through the events to come, but he would preserve it as long as possible. So he pushed himself upright, slowly, his breath hitching as a searing pain grabbed at his side. Then, using the wall as a prop, he pivoted to face the door.
The castellan of Laval came in carrying a horn lantern and flanked by four burly men wearing helmets and mail hauberks.
Four men, said Damion, pursing his lips. And decked out in armor, too. You must think I'm dangerous.
A touch of color rode high on Blissot's cheekbones, one of which now bore an interesting series of scratches. Shackle him, he said, standing back to let his men past.
Damion watched the golden light from the lantern play over the bare, irregularly cut stones of his prison to reveal several sets of fetters bolted high on the walls. He knew fists weren't much of a weapon against men wearing mail shirts and helmets, but he fought anyway, the breath leaving his body in a painful huff as the men seized him and flung him back against the wall. His arms were yanked brutally over his head, the rough stones scraping his flesh as iron bands, cold and abrasive, clanged closed around his wrists.
He lunged once, uselessly, the chains ringing, the metal biting into his wrists, wrenching painfully at his shoulders. Then he hung still, setting his teeth against the rush of panic and the animal-like impulse to continue to pull wildly, mindlessly.
I would have thought you had enough bruises already, said Blissot, smiling faintly from across the room. The smile faded as he nodded to his men-at-arms. Leave us.
Is that wise? said Damion, tossing his head to throw the tumbled hair out of his eyes. I'm only fettered and beaten half-senseless.
Unexpectedly, Blissot laughed. Turning, he hung the lantern from a hook near the door. Your reputation is formidable, I admit. But unless you number witchcraft amongst your skills, I fail to see how you expect to escape your fetters. They are quite solid, believe me.
Test them regularly, do you? Damion said, wrapping
his fists around the chains to ease some of the stress on his arms. Have you turned robber baron? I hear capturing innocent pilgrims and holding them for ransom under threat of hideous tortures and painful deaths can be lucrative.
No. She shook her head violently, reaching out to him. He took her hand in a tight grip, although he did not draw her close. Don't be sorry, she said, her voice a raw ache. Although it might have been better for us both, I think, if we had never met.
He ran his thumb along the back of her knuckles, his lips lifting in a tortured smile. Easier, perhaps. But I would not wish for it.
He watched an answering smile touch her face. No. Nor would I.
They stared at each other, sharing a long, silent moment. Then the sharp blast of the horn, announcing the meal, cut through the night.
She swung her head to stare at the distant hall.
Come, he said, linking his fingers with hers. We must go.
She looked at him, her eyes deep and dark with pain. He saw a quiver pass through her, and it was all he could do to keep from sweeping her into his arms again and telling her that he never wanted to let her go.
How had it happened, he wondered. It had begun so simply, as an amused liking for a brave, winning lad named Atticus. Then he'd discovered her secret and with that discovery had come a swift, unexpected rush of desire. And now, somehow, it had come to this, to this wanting that was more than liking, more than desire, so much more than either of them had room for in their lives.
Yes. Her hand clutched at his. We must go.
He held her hand as they walked through the darkened garden. But at the wicket gate they moved apart, walking sedately side by side across the yard. As they turned to go up the steps, the flickering light from the mounted torches threw their shadows out before them, separate, contorted.
And he thought,
This is how we are both fated to go through our lives. Disjointed and alone
.
He knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the hall.
The trestle tables had been set up and spread with fresh white cloths, the fire on the central hearth fed against the growing chill, the oil lamps suspended from their wall-mounted
brackets lit against the night. Outside, the wind howled around the castle, billowing through the high wooden rafters of the hall and creaking the chains of the lamps until they swayed back and forth, their flickering flames casting grotesque shadows into the darkest corners. Damion glanced about, his gaze sharpening. There were too many men in the hall. Too many men simply standing around the door.
And they were all armed.
He pivoted warily as Renouf Blissot stepped forward, his face unsmiling, the draft-tossed light accentuating the point of his beard and the hollows beneath his cheekbones. His hand rested on his sword. Are you Damion de Jarnac? he asked, his voice a rough challenge.
Ahead of him, Attica whirled about, her face white and startled in the flaring torchlight. What is this, Uncle?
Renouf kept his gaze fastened on Damion. Are you?
Regretting the broigne and sword he'd left in the Knights Tower, Damion rested his hands on his hips, and smiled. Yes. Why?
Turning to the men-at-arms, Renouf gave a curt nod. Seize him.
Attica lunged forward. No! Her uncle's hand snagged her arm, drawing her up short. Mother of God, she said on a gasp, struggling against him. What is this?
Dagger in hand, Damion dodged sideways as the men converged on him. A heavyset blond man with short legs screamed and fell back, clutching his shoulder. Another man doubled over, his hands to his guts. Then Damion staggered back as some half a dozen men threw themselves on him.
He realized dimly that they must not want him dead, or he would have fallen more quickly. He managed to slash two more before they wrested the dagger from him.
He didn't see the blow that knocked him senseless.
CHAPTER
TEN
Two braziers stood, one at each end of the long, narrow room, but they had only recently been lit. The room was cold, the wind slamming against the castle with enough force to stir the fine wool hangings on the outside whitewashed plaster walls and rattle the closed shutters in the deep window embrasures. On the long, dark oak table in the center of the room, the flames of the beeswax candles in an ornate silver candelabra flared and fluttered with a shivering violence.
Still hugging herself, she prowled the richly appointed chamber, pacing past carved chests and cushioned stools, her gaze sliding almost unseeingly over the expensive collection of inlaid and jewel-incrusted swords, daggers, and maces that adorned one inner wall. But no matter how she tried to reconstruct the events since their arrival, she could not make sense out of what had just happened.
The sound of the door opening brought her spinning
around.
Mother of God
, she exclaimed, starting forward at the sight of her uncle's elegant form and handsome, unsmiling face. What is the meaning of this, Uncle?
He shut the door behind him with a snap and leaned against it to fix her with a cold stare. He had always been her favorite uncle. In those lonely years after Blanche sent Attica south to the courts of the Langue d'oc, he had come to visit her even when her mother did not. Not nearly as often as Stephen, of course, but he had come, a handsome, charming young knight, bringing gifts of sugarplums and gaily colored ribbons. For a few shining, memorable hours, he had lit up her young girl's life and made her feel special.
Only this was not the smiling young uncle of her childhood but a harder, more formidable man. Tell me, Attica, he said, yanking something from his sleeve and tossing it onto the high oaken chest beside them. Have you ever seen one of these before?
She found herself staring at a breviary. A green, leather-bound breviary from the convent of Sainte-Foy-la-Petite, its cover whole and unsplit. It's a Sainte-Foy breviary, she said.
That's right. A very common little book. There was one in Olivier de Harcourt's bags when you took them from Châteauhaut-sur-Vilaine. It's not there now.
She raised her gaze to his face. How do you know?
How do I know? He pushed off the door and walked away from her to the far end of the room, where the howling wind battered the shuttered window. I know it's no longer there because I've just had the bags searched. I know it
should
be there because Yvette tells me Olivier de Harcourt was carrying one. He stopped, drawing in a deep breath as he turned to face her again. This is important, Attica.
Where is the breviary now?
Her heart began to thump so wildly in her chest, she wondered her uncle couldn't hear it from across the room. I don't know.
You don't know, he repeated.
No. It's just a simple breviary. Why is it so important?
It's
important
because Philip of France uses these breviaries to transport secret state documents. And it's
important
that whatever document Olivier de Harcourt was carrying not fall into the wrong hands. He walked back toward her until they were separated only by the narrow width of the table. His voice rose. What have you done with it?
Attica stared at him. How do you know these things? she asked. A tense silence tightened between them, filled only with the rush of the wind throwing itself against the castle walls outside. She saw her uncle clench his jaw, a muscle jumping along his cheek where it showed smooth above his beard.
Grand Dieu
, she whispered. You've joined him. You and Yvette both. You've joined Philip against Henry.
Not Philip. Richard.
Her lip curled. That makes it acceptable, does it?
He pressed the palms of his hands onto the polished surface of the table between them and leaned into her. Where is the book?
She forced herself to return his gaze calmly, steadily. I don't know. I knew nothing of its importance when I brought the courtier's bags with me. I took them for his clothes, that is all.
He pushed away from the table with a violent shove. Then the knight must have it.
She let out a startled laugh that sounded false even to
her own ears. Don't be ridiculous. I must have left it at
Châteauhaut.
No.
Then I must have lost it. It was dark when I changed into the courtier's clothing, and I was nervous. I had no reason to take care with it. I could have dropped it.
Dropped it? He shook his head. I don't think so.
She watched, silent, as he walked to where an earthenware ewer stood, warming beside the brazier. Why didn't you tell me the knight you brought with you is Damion de Jarnac? he asked, his attention seemingly focused on the task of selecting a silver-mounted drinking horn and pouring himself a cup of wine.
What do you mean? He is simply a knight-errant I hired to escort me. Why should I have named him?
A simple knight-errant? Is that what you think? He raised the cup to his lips and took a deep swallow. For the love of God, Attica, nothing has ever been simple about Damion de Jarnac. And he is no longer a knight-errant. He joined Henry's household months ago.
The wind gusted up, flaring the candles on the table and filling the room with the scent of hot wax and leather and oiled wood. That's ridiculous, she said. Why wouldn't he have told me?
Why should he? he asked, throwing a glance at her over his shoulder. What exactly did you think, anyway? That he agreed to escort you here out of the goodness of his heart? A true chivalrous knight, succoring the weak and unfortunate and rescuing damsels in distress?
Damion de Jarnac?
A humorless smile twisted his lips as he gazed down at his cup. My God.
I tell you, he knows nothing of this.
Nothing? On the contrary, niece. Damion de Jarnac
probably knows more about Philip's correspondence with John than I do. That
simple knight
of yours has been to Brittany and Ireland on King Henry's business, trying to learn from nobles close to John the extent of his involvement with Philip of France.
She wouldn't have believed what he was telling her except that she couldn't seem to get past the memory of de Jarnac standing in that glade surrounded by the bodies of the dead
routiers
, his gaze narrowing as she held Stephen's ring out to him. No wonder he had recognized it and known so much about Stephen and her family.
What have you done with him? she asked, her voice low and quivering.
Nothing so far. He set aside his cup. My men locked him in the North Tower. He hasn't talked yet. But by the time I am finished with him, he will.
Her legs trembled oddly beneath her, so that she had to grip the edge of the table before her for support. One of the candles in the intricately wrought silver stand hissed, drawing her attention to the flickering golden flames. As she watched, a trickle of wax spilled out of the liquid pool around the wick to run down the taper and harden in the cold. You will torture him? she said, the words coming out in a hoarse whisper.
If I have to.
And me? Will you torture me, Uncle, to be certain I tell you the truth?
He smiled and came around the table toward her. I don't think that will be necessary. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to lock you up, Attica. It's worth my neck to leave you wandering around the country, knowing what you know.
You think I would betray you? she asked, pivoting to face him.
Given the chance, yes. Which is why I don't intend to give you the chance.
He reached for her arm, his grip tightening as she tried to pull away from him.
Don't touch me, she cried, hitting out at him with her free hand. Her nails caught his left cheek and ripped through the flesh deep enough to draw blood. He let her go.
God's teeth, Attica. He swiped at his face with his sleeve as he backed away from her.
Don't touch me, she said again.
Very well. He dropped his hand to his side, his gaze cold and angry. I will leave you here while a separate, more secure room is prepared for you. Hopefully by then you will have calmed yourself. But be warned, Attica: I'll have my men-at-arms drag you there if necessary.
He turned on his heel and left her.
She watched him slam out the room, then stood quite still, staring at the closed door and listening to the murmur of voices as Renouf posted a guard at the door. Her heart beat hard and fast within her, but an odd kind of calm had settled over her.
She walked with deliberate purpose to study the wall containing Renouf's collection of inlaid and jeweled weapons. After some thought, she selected a jewel-encrusted mace that looked as if it had probably been made for a bishop, and a poniard, handsomely sheathed in silk-wrapped leather. The mace proved to be heavier than she'd expected, and the poniard long. It wouldn't be easy to keep them concealed in the sleeves of her gown. When her uncle came back, she would go with him quietly.
*
Damion lay unmoving for a moment, his eyes closed while he waited for full consciousness to return. He found that his cheek rested against hard-packed, rush-strewn earth, which he supposed meant he must be lying on a dirt floor somewhere. He felt trickles of moisture running over his flesh and a pool of wetness beneath him; he assumed both were his own blood. He could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He stretched his senses, listening. But the silence around him hung empty and absolute, stirred only by the distant thrashing of the wind. He was alone.
He opened his eyes to darkness. His head and his ribs ached from the beating he'd received, although he didn't think anything was broken. By gritting his teeth against a wave of dizzy nausea and levering up with his hands, he managed to sit. He kept still for a moment, his ears filling with the sound of his own ragged breathing, his head bowed as he gathered his internal forces. Then his vision cleared, and he lifted his head and looked around.
The room contained only one small barred window, open to the night and placed high up near the ceiling. Through the opening the night sky shone black and starless, but some unseen torch in a bracket on the castle walls cast a faint, flickering golden light that revealed unwhitewashed circular stone walls. A tuff of rank grass hung down through the bars to move fitfully in the wind. There was no furniture except for a bucket. He could see only one door, which doubtless gave onto the stairwell.
By inching carefully backward, he was able to brace his shoulders against the coarse wall. He was in the lower room of a tower. A tower somewhere in Laval Castle, he supposed, but probably uninhabited, since he could hear no movement above. Although that might simply be because
of the hour; he had no way of knowing how long he had lain unconscious.
He wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing them up close to his body for warmth as he assessed his situation. It wasn't difficult to guess the reason for his imprisonment. And it wasn't much of a stretch from there to the realization that his chances of release were slim, and the possibility of escape or rescue, even less. Only Sergei and Attica knew he had come to Laval. Sergei was already on his way to warn Henry at La Ferté-Bernard, while Attica
Damion tilted his head back against the stone wall, the chill of this place striking deep within him. He told himself her uncle wouldn't hurt her, had no reason to hurt her. But it didn't stop fear for her from churning his gut and bringing an icy sweat to his face.
He closed his eyes and tried to think, except his head ached ferociously. He only realized he must have dozed when he jerked suddenly awake and found himself shivering with cold and listening alertly. His body tense, he heard the sound of footsteps on the circular stone steps outside the heavy plank door. A bolt shrieked as it was drawn back on the outside of the door.
He would not meet his captor like this, curled up in a shivering huddle against the wall. It might not be easy to retain his dignity through the events to come, but he would preserve it as long as possible. So he pushed himself upright, slowly, his breath hitching as a searing pain grabbed at his side. Then, using the wall as a prop, he pivoted to face the door.
The castellan of Laval came in carrying a horn lantern and flanked by four burly men wearing helmets and mail hauberks.
Four men, said Damion, pursing his lips. And decked out in armor, too. You must think I'm dangerous.
A touch of color rode high on Blissot's cheekbones, one of which now bore an interesting series of scratches. Shackle him, he said, standing back to let his men past.
Damion watched the golden light from the lantern play over the bare, irregularly cut stones of his prison to reveal several sets of fetters bolted high on the walls. He knew fists weren't much of a weapon against men wearing mail shirts and helmets, but he fought anyway, the breath leaving his body in a painful huff as the men seized him and flung him back against the wall. His arms were yanked brutally over his head, the rough stones scraping his flesh as iron bands, cold and abrasive, clanged closed around his wrists.
He lunged once, uselessly, the chains ringing, the metal biting into his wrists, wrenching painfully at his shoulders. Then he hung still, setting his teeth against the rush of panic and the animal-like impulse to continue to pull wildly, mindlessly.
I would have thought you had enough bruises already, said Blissot, smiling faintly from across the room. The smile faded as he nodded to his men-at-arms. Leave us.
Is that wise? said Damion, tossing his head to throw the tumbled hair out of his eyes. I'm only fettered and beaten half-senseless.
Unexpectedly, Blissot laughed. Turning, he hung the lantern from a hook near the door. Your reputation is formidable, I admit. But unless you number witchcraft amongst your skills, I fail to see how you expect to escape your fetters. They are quite solid, believe me.
Test them regularly, do you? Damion said, wrapping
his fists around the chains to ease some of the stress on his arms. Have you turned robber baron? I hear capturing innocent pilgrims and holding them for ransom under threat of hideous tortures and painful deaths can be lucrative.
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