Page 5

“Two days, three at most. Now, food and drink—and hurry. Braxston’s no pauper. I would see my men well fed.”

“And the women?” Richard flashed them a shrewd assessing glance.

“They are none of your concern. My men are in need of diversion. These will serve the purpose well enough.”

Richard scowled but said nothing more. He started to walk away then paused, his eyes going wide at Caryn’s familiar face, which surely looked bloodless and wan.

Then his indifferent manner returned and he continued toward the kitchen.

There was little the man could do, yet it gave her fresh hope and the courage not to falter.

“Assemble the trestle tables,” a serving maid called out. “We’ve hungry men to feed.”

In minutes, the hall was transformed from a place of sleeping servants to a raucous assembly of Lord Stephen’s men. Horns of ale were filled to overflowing and trenchers of meat brought out. A leg of mutton, loaves of buckwheat bread, hunks of cheese, platters of cold boiled peahen.

The gruff knight dragged Caryn to one of the tables and forced her to sit on a bench.

“Eat, wench, you will need your strength before this night is done—that I can promise.” He chuckled crudely and roughly squeezed her breast.

Caryn jerked free but said nothing, just eased away as far as she could.

Pretending to pick at the food he urged upon her, she surveyed the great hall, looking for a means of escape.

Instead she saw another familiar face, one that warmed her insides and brought a second shot of hope.

Though the woman was bent a little more than when last Caryn had seen her, there was no doubt that it was Marta, the woman who had suckled her, who at times had been more a mother to her than her own. Caryn had long believed her dead.

“Marta,” she whispered, barely forming the word as she realized the woman had already seen her. A warning finger came up to the old woman’s lips. Mayhap there was help here after all, in this castle of her enemy, on the very spot she had once called home.

She turned to the thin gruff knight beside her. “If you please… I am in need of the garderobe. Might I not be allowed—”

“You will be allowed to warm my pallet, that is all.”

“’Twas a long ride, sir. Your needs were met along the way. May I not now see to my own?”

He grumbled something crude, then jerked her up from the bench. “If you would go, then I will go with you.” He grinned and she noticed a missing tooth. “In truth it might be best we leave the others. Mayhap a little privacy would better suit for your first time.”

Sweet Mother Mary, what have I done? Before she could think how to dissuade him, he was leading her off through a passage behind the wall, Caryn stumbling along in his wake. Behind her the men’s coarse laughter and the women’s tearful pleading made her stomach clench into a hard tight ball.

Sweet God in heaven. It wasn’t until they had rounded a corner out of sight that she heard a muffled thump and the grip on her arm grew slack.

“Come, my pet,” came Marta’s soothing voice, “we must find a way to hide you.” She stepped from the shadows and Caryn went tearfully into her arms.

“I thought you were dead,” Caryn told her. “’Tis a blessing from God I have found you again.”

“’Twill be a blessing indeed shall you keep your virtue this night.

Hurry, we must away.” Down one passage and along another, Marta led her unerringly.

Behind a curtain in the kitchen, she crouched down on a coarse heather-filled pallet and Caryn did the same.

“You must stay hidden. Do not venture forth no matter what disturbance you might hear.”

“What about the others?”

“There is naught you can do but pray for Lord Raolf’s return.”

“You speak of Braxston? You believe he would help us?”

“He is not like the others. He would not see innocent young women come to harm.”

“But he is Norman!”

“I pray thee, do as I say this once.” The old woman’s hard look softened. “Hear me this night, my pet, as you never have before. In this, I beg you, do not disobey.”

Caryn only nodded. Too often she had ignored the old woman’s wishes. Freedom from tedious women’s work, or mischief-making held far greater appeal. It had been so that day she had left the hall for the meadow, though had she stayed home, her fate would have been much the same.

Caryn shivered. This night she would heed old Marta’s warning.

She would stay where she was, pray that the gruff knight would not be missed and that the lord of the manor might return.

She chewed her bottom lip. If only there were some way to help the others.

Though she steepled her hands and crouched on bended knee, prayer seemed not nearly enough.

***

Ral caught sight of the signal flag near the wardcorne atop the stone tower at the gate. Visitors in residence. He would know who they were before he led his men inside the castle.

Riding ahead of the others, he approached warily, but naught seemed amiss. The guards at the gate warned him of the baron’s presence—Stephen de Montreale—but said he traveled without his usual vast number of retainers and only several dozen armored men.

Ral breathed easier as he returned to Odo and his other knights and men-at-arms.

“’Tis de Montreale. Richard has granted him shelter, though had he any other choice ’tis certain he would not have.”

“’Tis only a three-day ride to Malvern. With your return, ’tis unlikely he will stay overlong.”

Ral merely grunted. An hour in Stephen’s presence was more than enough.

“Signal the men. I would have us enter as quietly as we can.” He would see what Malvern was about before the others came into the hall.

Odo nodded and moved off through the ranks of the men.

In minutes they reached the drawbridge and crossed into the bailey, where the stables, barns, storehouses, and living quarters for a number of his troops had been built.

Several sleepy pages rushed to the aid of the men-at-arms while squires saw to their knights, then the animals and harness.

As the men finished their labors, Ral made his way toward the hall, inwardly glad he still wore his hauberk, the fifty pounds of chain mail growing heavy in these hours not long before dawn.

Inside the hall, the snores of sleeping knights he had only half expected were instead the raucous laughter and lecherous grunting of drunken men.

As Ral stood silently in the shadows, he could hear a woman weeping.

In the rushlights that flickered against the walls, he saw naked pale thighs spread wide beneath the pumping hairy buttocks of one of Malvern’s men.

The woman’s face was not known to him. Even Stephen would not risk Ral’s fury by harming the maids in the hall.

Stephen had seen to his men’s amusement, curse the man to the flames of hell.

“My lord, ’tis I… Marta.” The old woman slipped from the darkness. It unnerved him the way she could move with such stealth. “I would speak to you, my lord.”

“What is it, old woman? Can you not see I have problems enough with Malvern in the hall?”

“It is of him I wish to speak.” Her thin lips curled in disapproval. “The man is a jackal.”

“The women—they are not from the village?”

“No. Malvern brought them with him. The maids are little more than children. Novices from the convent. Malvern stole them away.”

Ral’s hand balled into a fist. It was a deed he might have expected from a man the likes of Stephen. “Would that I could help them, but there is naught I can do. Malvern holds the king’s ear. He has far greater power than I. At least with my return, ’tis certain he will soon be gone.”

“But, my lord—”

Scuffling in the hall drew their attention. “So, at last you have found her!” Thick with drink, Stephen’s voice echoed loudly across the hall. “Bring her here!”

“She was hiding in the passage. The bitch was dressed in the garb of a scullery maid, but ’tis hard to mistake those big brown eyes and rich auburn hair. She’s the comeliest of the lot, to be sure.”

When the tall knight dragged the girl into the light Marta gasped. “’Tis the Lady Caryn,” she whispered from her place in the shadows beside him.

Malvern laughed as he gripped the maid’s arm. “So you thought to escape us, did you?”

“She was helping the others,” the knight said, dragging her closer. “Two of them have come up missing, my lord.”

Stephen chuckled. “The little wench has courage, but in this she has outfoxed herself.” He pulled the tie on his chausses as he stood up. “I shall initiate this one myself.” He reached for the neck of the little maid’s tunic, grabbed hold of the fabric, and ripped it to her waist.

“Let me go!” the maid cried, struggling to pull away. Stephen slid an arm around her waist and brought her hard against his body. He rent her camise and stripped it off her shoulders.

Standing in the shadows, Marta gripped Ral’s arm. “I beg you, my lord! Lady Caryn is the old thegn’s daughter.”

“Harold?”

“No, Harold’s brother Edmund. He was lord before.”

Ral barely heard the old woman’s words. Instead his eyes remained on the maid. She was tiny, but not fragile, a woman fully grown. He couldn’t quite recall what it was but there was something familiar about her.

“Rest easy,” Stephen was saying, forcing her chin up with his hand.

“I am not unskilled at bedding an unbroken wench. Give yourself into my care and I will go slowly.” He smiled with cold malice.

“Fight me, and I will tear you apart.” Holding her immobile, he pulled the string binding her thick auburn braid, then sifted his fingers through the shiny mass and spread it about her shoulders.

The moment he did, the hazy images Ral had been seeing came together, colliding with a force that caused a roaring in his ears.

“Sweet Christ,” he said, “’tis her.” It was a face he remembered all too well, one of two that had haunted him for the past three years. Stepping from his place in the shadows, he strode forward into the hall. Behind him the heavy oaken door swung wide and in walked a group of his men.

Near a bench in front of the fire, Malvern laughed at the girl’s useless struggles, bent her back over his arm, and began to fondle her breasts.

They were lush and high, Ral saw, feeling a tightness in his groin.

Nothing like the tiny plums he had seen that day in the meadow.

And her features looked different, her cheeks soft and full, her mouth a rich burnished crimson.

She was not the gawky maid he remembered, but nothing could erase the image he carried of her face, nor that of her beautiful raven-haired sister.

“Hold, Stephen!” Ral strode toward him, his mail and spurs clanking as he moved.

“Well… Braxston. Home at last. I might say ’tis good to see you, but we would both know the words for a lie.”

“You’ve been offered the comfort of my hall. ’Tis nothing less than I would expect of you. You’ve women enough to ease your men’s needs. I ask your leave of this one.”

Stephen’s mauling ceased, but his pale blue eyes turned hard.

“These women give succor to the enemy. I have claimed them in the name of the king.” The little maid pulled her coarse brown tunic up over her breasts with a trembling hand.

“This one will warm my bed ’ere this night is done.

She belongs to me and we both know I keep what is mine. ”

“You have others to amuse you.”

“This one has fire.” He twisted his fingers in her hair, dark shades of crimson and gold, and pulled her head back. “I would see her spread beneath me. She is mine.”

“Nay!” said the girl, pulling away. “I belong to no man.”

Ral clenched his jaw. He glanced from the maid’s stricken face back to Stephen, whose men had begun to gather round him, their hands resting uneasily on the hilts of their swords. Behind him, Ral’s own men fanned out across the hall.

“You are both wrong,” he said. “The girl belongs to me.”

Malvern set her roughly away. “You dare to gainsay me in this?” Feet splayed, he rested his hand on his blade.

“The girl is mine. She is the daughter of the old Saxon thegn.” He flashed her a hard look of warning. “Caryn of Ivesham is my betrothed.” He smiled at her but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Is that not so, my love?”