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.