Chapter 39
Ranulf felt Gawain’s small fingers
clinging to his belt as they rode along a sunken track and wished
again that the child had remained in camp. Why had he allowed the
lad and those others to come? He had his usual fighters, sadly
without Stephen, but he had also acquired a motley crowd of
stragglers. Each had insisted on coming and Gawain had sworn he
would follow the horses’ tracks if he was not allowed to remain in
the company. As he needed some of the former serfs as guides and
the rest would not be parted or persuaded to stay behind, Ranulf
had no choice but to bring them along.
He worried that even Lucy, Maria, and
the children were with them, riding with others as they hurried
like the wind-blown clouds, but he could do nothing about that now.
Once they knew Edith was taken, there was no holding
them.
Much as he approved their courage, he
disliked having womenfolk along, especially mothers and babes, but
he knew in the end that he would have to bring them along, or they
would follow on their own and Edith would never forgive him. So
they were riding together to the Chastel d’Or.
He had never heard of Giles’s yellow
castle, but the people gathered in the woods behind the tourney
camp knew it well. Worse, they told tales of it.
The yellow castle, or Chastel d’Or, as
Giles grandly called it, was on the borders of Giles’s richest
demesne land: a small place with a water-filled moat, gatehouse,
and drawbridge. Giles, he had learned from the anxious, cowering
group in the wood, all branded runaways, enjoyed ducking his serfs
in the moat whenever the fancy took him, and half drowning
them.
Teodwin, who was interpreting the
whispers of the runaways, had cursed when he had translated that.
“I know that habit of Lord Giles from my past,” he admitted. “Edith
knows it, too. Did she ever tell you how Peter the farrier
died?”
Ranulf shook his head. “Only that he
drowned in a fish pond.” Edith had spoken of her former betrothed,
but he had never asked her the full story about the fellow’s life
or death, not even when she confessed what Giles had ordered done
at Warren Hemlet. As he lifted Gawain onto his saddle and ordered
his men to allow those who wanted to come to ride pillion with
them, he knew the tale would be grim.
“Peter Farrier was a stubborn mule of a
man. You could not tell him one single thing. He loved fish and had
a taste for stealing pike from our lord’s fish pond close to Warren
Hemlet.”
Teodwin spat, a rough gesture Ranulf
had not seen before from the steward. “Edith begged him to stop,
but Peter took no more heed of her than he did of any other woman
or man. Next time he went fishing he was caught, a few days before
his wedding.”
Teodwin glanced up at Gawain, perched
high on Ranulf’s saddle with his hands clasping the horse’s mane.
“You should have a pony,” he added inconsequentially.
“I have, sir,” replied Gawain. “But he
is off somewhere. What happened to the man Peter Farrier? Was he
branded as punishment?”
Teodwin raised his eyebrows at this
frank question and answered, “Something like, yes, and then he
died.” Stepping closer to Ranulf he mouthed, “It was six months
later before any of the village elders dared tell Edith that her
Peter was drowned in the fish pond on Sir Giles’s
orders.”
He grunted at Ranulf’s stark scowl and
slapped his lame leg. “This was also a gift of our lord, from a
beating. I cannot now recall what I did that so angered him, but he
ordered me beaten and broken, and so I was. Edith set my leg, but
she could only do so much.”
“I am sorry,” Ranulf said, astonishing
himself. He knew he was a fool for being ashamed, but he also knew
that he had not studied Giles that closely.
When Edith told me he
was branding people, I shrugged. Now I have seen what that means.
Yet why did she not tell me about Peter the farrier? What else has
she hidden? Is there more of Giles’s spite? Can there be more? Or
was she truly laughing with Giles and allowing him to kiss her
hand, as Lady Blanche claimed?
“We must ride fast,” he
said.
“And if he has despoiled her?” Teodwin
demanded.
Ranulf felt as if he had been knifed in
the guts, a wrenching, burning knife that lunged into his body and
slammed up into his chest and his heart. He took a ragged breath
and forced himself to answer.
“That is why we must make haste.” He
had looked east, to where he was told Chastel d’Or was, and wished
as he had not done since he was a boy younger than
Gawain.
Lie, Princess, lie
well. Be the very Lady of Lilies you are. Beguile and charm and
delay and lie as you must, do what you must, to survive. Laugh with
Giles, if it keeps you safe.
He did not want to think about kisses
being exchanged.
Do not then,
Ranulf, warned Olwen. Trust her. Yes, she
lies, but you should trust her. She never lies to
hurt.
“She will never hurt me,” he said
aloud, as hope and fear flooded through him. The way was so slow,
the waiting and journey so long! This road, the London road,
crawled with wagons, shuffling peasants, urgent heralds on sweating
horses, and more. Even the ruinations of the pestilence had not
made this road faster, or less packed. Threading through the mass
when he wanted to charge, gallop so fast that the dust raised over
his head and all he could hear was his own breathing and the
horse’s hooves, was another torment.
But at least they were riding. They
were all riding to Chastel d’Or.
Her back hurt as if a witch was
sticking pins in her. Her head ached and her shoulders and neck
were as stiff as old dough. Someone was shouting to her. Adam
wanted her to heave herself out of bed and work. No, it was Peter.
He was mocking her because she was merely a blacksmith and not a
farrier.
No, that was wrong. Peter and Adam were
dead. So who was it?
Where was Ranulf?
Edith’s eyes snapped open. Was he here?
Was he safe? What must she do to keep him safe?
Her head still rang with confusion and
hurt, as if she had gorged on new ale, but her memory had begun to
work properly. She clenched her eyes shut. If she was lucky, her
captor would not have noticed and she would have a few more moments
to collect herself and to plan— She was unlucky.
“You are safe, Princess. You may open
your eyes.”
“Lord Giles?” She allowed her lashes to
flicker as if she was still stirring. “My lord?”
Her voice was slurred and slow even as
her thoughts flew like frightened doves from a cote. Where was her
ring? Had Giles seen it?
Giles lay stretched out on the bed
beside her. She went cold, imagining the horror of his caressing
her while she was unconscious. To stop her body from shuddering,
she took a rapid tally of the room. The chamber was of stone, with
no true windows. There was a bed, a strew of rushes, a stool, a
chest. Sunlight poured in by way of the open door. A maid hovered
nearby, clutching a shawl. A man patrolled outside, stepping slowly
to and fro. Lolling on the cushions and straw pallet, grinning like
a boy in possession of a rare bird’s egg, Giles still wore his
clothes. So did she. Her long silken wrap had been flung over her
as a blanket: she clutched at it, determined to cover herself as
quickly as possible. Better yet, she now could feel Ranulf’s heavy
ring, pressing against her breast and hidden by the lacing of her
bodice.
She gasped in relief.
“Princess? Are you in
pain?”
Still he did not know her, could not
recognize her as the blacksmith of Warren Hemlet. That mercy almost
unmade her, but she forced herself to shake her head. “No, no, it
is not that.”
“Then what, my love?”
He knocks me out cold
yet calls me love!
Edith tried to smile but her lips would
not obey her. She settled for a question instead, sitting up very
slowly.
“Where are we, my lord?”
“In my golden castle, now
ours.”
“Is it in a far-off
place?”
“Very far,” he agreed. “A place like
the castle of the green knight.”
“Green?” Edith prompted, for as
Princess of Cathay she should not be expected to know that
story.
With a languid sweep of his free hand,
Giles wafted aside her question. “Do not trouble yourself with
trifles, Princess. It is enough for you to know that you have
escaped the black knight and are safe with me.”
Edith saw his eyes crinkle at the
corners and his lips quiver slightly as he told the lie—signs to
watch for again, she decided. Did he think she had no sense or wit?
She could not see the position of the sun in this barren chamber,
but her silk and his rich light tunic were not grimed with the dust
of leagues of travel.
My legs would be aching
as much as my head if we had come far. I can smell a distant whiff
of spices and roasting meats; the kitchens are preparing their
master’s lunch. I can hear a carpenter somewhere, sawing. He would
not do that in the gathering dark. We have not been on any road for
long, and I know that the yellow castle is set back from the London
road, on a green-way track.
What else had she been told of the
yellow castle? She strove to recall the few, nervous comments the
former runaways had gabbled to her on the riverbank, but mostly
they had spoken of Giles’s cruelty: no surprise there.
She knew it was a risk, but thought it
wise to ask after Ranulf. If she was too accepting, even a lord as
self-regarding as Giles would be suspicious. “How am I here, my
lord? This morning I was Sir Ranulf’s prize.”
“And poor treatment he gave you! Had I
not killed that brute in the wood for him, you would be despoiled.
You should think no more of him, or his.” Giles touched her bruised
cheek. “I am sorry I ill-used you, but I had to break the spell.
Fredenwyke wears black armor and uses blacker arts. I, too, was
blinded by him at first, and called him friend.”
Forced to listen to these glib and evil
accusations, Edith felt the heat of indignation surge into her
face, making her bruise smart more than ever. Quickly, she lowered
her eyes so that Giles would not see the sparks of anger in them,
and hastily swung her green silk wrap across her shoulders, eager
to cover herself. “That being so, my lord, will he not pursue
you?”
“Us, my dear Princess!” Giles fondled a
scrap of cloth between his fingers, and Edith recognized part of
her veiling that he had ripped from her head. “But no, I do not
think so.”
“Sir, I do not understand
you.”
“Do you not?” Giles stretched a
fingertip to her bare middle, which she had not yet been able to
cover with the wrap, then abruptly he withdrew his hand. “I must
not be too keen,” he murmured, a remark that heartened and
terrified Edith together.
“Fredenwyke?” she prompted. It felt
strange to give Rannie his formal name, but she thought it
wise.
Giles was stroking the piece of veil
again. “He cannot stand for his things to be handled by others. I
once saw him drop a good pair of gloves into the fire because his
squire had worn them.”
“To wear any clothes without permission
is wrong, yet I am surprised he did not give them to the young
man,” Edith said, aware that such a reply would please her
companion.
“Exactly!” exclaimed Giles, who never
gave anything away. “Have you marked that fashion in
him?”
“Yes.” She would agree to anything
harmless. Have I noticed that trait in my lord? I
cannot remember!
Giles twirled the silk around his hand,
trapping his fingers. “He will know now, that you have escaped with
me.” He gave her a bright, chilling smile. “We are both free of
him, Princess.”
Does he expect me to
thank him? “As you say,” she managed, wondering how to
remove herself from the bed. She glanced at the maid but saw no
help there, only a rigid, pale terror.
“Did he burn your hands?”
“A dragon of the East did that,” Edith
replied, startled by Giles’s unexpected question into giving the
old lie. She was surprised that he had noticed the fire marks on
her fingers, but then he had always seen her gloved
before.
“Truly, Princess?” Kneeling up on the
bed, he put out a hand as if to touch her bare, scarred palms,
smiling as she hastily withdrew them.
“Sir Giles!”
“Forgive me, my lady.” As he bowed his
head, she understood that Giles was not truly interested in her
hands, or how she had come by her fire marks: his ploy had all been
a means to flirt and toy with her.
Better for me that he
is so disinterested! Ranulf would have asked
more.
Her heartbeat quickened as she thought
of him, her dark-armored, grim-seeming knight, but it was dangerous
to indulge herself. Giles might see the heat in her face and think
he was the cause.
Be a princess,
she reminded herself as he mumbled a further apology of sorts, and
she took the moment to hide her costume and limbs in her long green
silk. Ranulf is coming, and you must charm Giles
until he does. You have done the same a hundred times with other
knights.
If Ranulf was
coming. If he understood her message.
If Gawain had found him and found the
courage and wit to pass it on.
Edith sucked in her gut and squared her
shoulders, aware of Giles’s eyes fixed on her bosom. I have not survived the great death and brought my people into
safety to die as an enfeebled serf woman. Giles is not my master.
He is not even master of himself.
And if Ranulf does not
come? If he is as Giles says?
She gave Giles a warm smile. “I feel so
grubby from all our travels. May I have a bath, my lord?”
But not in this tiny, cloistered room from which I
cannot get out.
She rolled onto her side and from there
eased herself into sitting up cross-legged, modestly draping her
skirts about her legs and her green wrap over everything. All the
while she was moving, she sensed the burning, greedy gaze of Giles
roving over her skin, but he did not grab her.
Not yet at least. I can
hold him off for a while yet, a small while.
“My lord? To bathe outside in your
castle courtyard would be my delight.”
Giles grunted something, then snapped
at the maid, “Get out! Get the bathhouse stoked! Get a bathtub set
up in the courtyard! Bring towels, warm water, bring soap! You
heard your lady! Go!”
She rewarded him with an admiring look
and, feeling more confident, smoothly set another delay in motion.
“Will you show me your gardens, my lord? I love your English
roses.”
“My lord, this is beautiful. Even the
gardens and palace of my father do not compare to those of your
castle.”
For an instant, strolling beside Giles
on the fading primrose paths, Edith feared she had been too
effusive, but her former master merely raised his chin to display
his handsome profile and clicked his tongue in agreement. “I have
always liked my pretty castle.”
“What is it called, my
lord?”
“Chastel d’Or, which means castle of
gold.” He chuckled at her attempt to repeat his French. “More in
the back of the throat, Princess.”
Edith dutifully tried again, turning
her head slightly so Giles could see her
profile. She added a mix of the old Hemlet dialect and total
nonsense, then said, “That is how I say it in my language. Are the
walls truly of gold?”
Giles smirked again. “Shall we go and
see?”
The walls and battlements were built of
a golden yellow stone that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight.
Edith was fulsome in her praise, extolling the color and beauty of
the castle while remembering, just in time, not to clap her fingers together in order to show her
delight. She did not want Giles reminded of her hands, and kept
them tucked out of sight in the folds of her voluminous skirts or
in her wrap.
Chastel d’Or was pretty, she conceded.
It was a simple keep and bailey, older than Lady Blanche’s home,
with a small kitchen and physic garden, stables, a bake-house, an
obviously little-used bathhouse, smothered in wild roses, and a
moat.
She forced herself to look into the
moat when she glimpsed it through the crenellations of the bailey
walls. It was now very low, filled with dark, brackish water that
no doubt stank. Giles had been idle in his cruelty and had not
ordered it to be dug out or repaired.
Or, in these days of pestilence and
runaways, could he not find the labor?
Smiling at that thought, Edith looked
again at the walls. They were handsome but they were also old,
straight-sided, very thick. Recalling what her grandfather had told
her of castles in the East, she guessed an army would quickly seize
it.
But Ranulf, if he is
coming, does not have an army. . . .
Swiftly, she looked about again. The
drawbridge was down. The main gate was guarded by a gray-beard who
was picking his nose. The whole place was curiously
muted.
I cannot hear the
smithy. Is there no forge here, or workshop?
She sensed Giles watching, waiting for
more approval. “Those trees are so splendid!” she cried, nodding to
the woodland that surrounded Chastel d’Or. “Did you play in those
as a boy, my lord?”
“I may have done so.” Giles was not
interested in oaks or beeches, so she could not suggest a stroll in
the woods. He pointed along the path of the physic garden. “See,
Princess? Your wish is my command.”
Past the roses and marigolds, the
lavender and rosemary bushes, was the bare, tamped-down courtyard.
There in full sun, set away from the shade of the bailey and keep
walls, was a huge wooden barrel. Men were rigging up awnings behind
the barrel. Maids were rushing from the bake-house, bathhouse, and
kitchens with steaming jugs of water, or, more dangerous for them,
with glowing hot stones, carried perilously in aprons. Edith heard
the splashes and sizzles as the stones were tipped into the
barrel.
“Your bath is being prepared.” Giles
plucked a sprig of lavender from a bush and tucked it not into her
hair, but into his own tunic. “I will be your attendant,
Princess.”
She nodded, as if in agreement, while
her eyes tracked the position of the tub and the courtyard and the
drawbridge.
“The sun will shine through the
gatehouse onto my bath,” she said, hoping her voice was warm and
wondering enough. “Thank you, my lord. This is exactly how I bathe
in the East, with the gate of my father’s palace open to admit the
sun. But what of—”
She stopped and at once Giles repeated,
“What of?”
“Will others be here, my lord? With
us?”
“Should I put out their eyes,
Princess?”
“No! Of course,” she added hastily, “I
know you mean they will be blindfolded, maids and men.”
Thank you, Rannie, for giving me that idea!
“You sport with me, my lord.”
“Maids as well as men?” Giles looked
her up and down, his eyes fixing on her bosom again. “Do you claim
to be shy?”
“It is the custom of my land,” she
answered, refusing to elaborate.
Giles pursed his lips while he stared
at her softly wrapped curves and swatted the heads off marigolds.
“Why?” he demanded.
“A princess is not to be seen by the
common sort, only by quality,” she replied, appealing to his
notions of knighthood. “By your leave, my lord, I will make a veil
now from my wrap, to cover myself.”
“No need.” Giles snapped his fingers
and at once servants came rushing. It was the work of anxious
moments for them to fetch her some yellow cloth, almost as fine as
her silk.
She veiled herself quickly, relieved
that Giles could no longer see her expression, and gave him a brief
bow. “I am greatly in your debt.”
She watched him chew on that and like
it. His hand stopped swatting.
“I could bathe with you.”
As if he offers me a
jewel! “That would be wonderful, my lord.”
She dreaded being naked with him but
knew she could give no other answer than the one she had. All she
could do was delay more. “The day is so warm now! If you wish, my
lord, I could gather some raspberries or blackberries and make you
a tisane such as I make for my father.”
“You have such fruits in the
East?”
“Of similar kind, and dragon berries.”
Edith was already hurrying toward a shaded part of the garden,
where she had spotted a mass of brambles. When Giles did not call
her back, she knew her ploy had worked.
For now at least, and
if he asks after dragon fruits I have another tale to
spin.