Page 90 of The Silent Songbird

“Westley!” Evangeline jumped from her horse, but one ofShiveley’s guards grabbed her. She struggled against him, but he was too strong. She strained her eyes in the half-light of evening but could see nothing in the water, not even a bubble breaking the surface.

This was even worse than when he’d been struck and pushed into the river. At least she could see him and was free to jump in and save him. But now . . . He had disappeared under the water.

She recalled the tricks Reeve Folsham had taught her. She stomped on her captor’s foot, then elbowed him in the ribs. He made anoomphsound but only tightened his hold on her. He pulled her arms behind her back, so hard it made her shoulders burn. She screamed, but he still did not loosen his hold.

“Someone save him! Lord Shiveley, I demand that you send someone in to save him.”

No one moved and Lord Shiveley said nothing.

“If you save him, I will marry you! Willingly!”

“You will marry me anyway.” Shiveley chortled.

She glanced around to see if there was anyone who could save Westley, but Shiveley’s guards were tying cloths around Frederick’s and Lord le Wyse’s mouths.

O God, please!Westley was drowning!

Shiveley shook his head. “It is a pity. He looked to be a strong, healthy young man. But perhaps you will forget him when you are wed to me.”

She refused to even acknowledge Shiveley’s words. Except for the sickening twist in her stomach, she couldn’t feel anything.

Westley hit the water, his body sinking in the cold moat.

He swam under the surface, hopefully in the direction of thebridge. He’d drawn in as much air as he could before he went under. He even managed to keep hold of the sword in his hand as he swam.

His lungs were near bursting by the time he reached the darker water that he believed was shaded by the bridge. He took the risk of raising his head and bumped it against something hard.

Wooden planks. It must be the bridge.

He lay on his back. His mouth and nose were only three or four inches from the underside of the wooden bridge, but it was enough room for him to breathe.

Soon he heard horses’ hooves clomping on the wooden planks above him. Evangeline screamed, then the sound was suddenly muffled.

“Shut her up,” Lord Shiveley said. “Tie something around her mouth.”

“Who goes there?” A voice came from the other end of the bridge.

“The Earl of Shiveley,” another voice answered him.

Several horses crossed the bridge into the castle bailey. Was anyone looking for him? They didn’t seem to be. He waited until no more hooves sounded on the bridge. When he was sure no one was looking for him in the murky waters of the moat, he took a deep breath and dove beneath the surface.

Evangeline used her hands, tied together in front of her, to check to see that she still had the extra knife strapped to her thigh underneath her tunic. It was growing quite dark as they moved across the bailey toward the castle. Strangely, no one was around to see her, Lord le Wyse, and Frederick with their hands bound and gags in their mouths.

Lord Shiveley quietly ordered his prisoners to dismount. Theydid so, and he whispered to Evangeline, so near her face that she couldn’t help but smell his breath, “If you tell King Richard anything, I shall immediately kill Lord le Wyse and your beloved Muriel before the king can intervene. Then I will tell him you are delusional and will force you to marry me anyway. So I suggest you cooperate.”

He kept hold of her arm as they entered the castle and skirted around the rooms used by guests. They started up the stairs only used by the servants. Shiveley stopped her. “Remember, not a word, not a sound from you, or Muriel and Lord le Wyse will die.” He untied the gag from her mouth.

“God will punish you for this.”

He slapped her cheek. Hard. The sharp sound resounded through the narrow stone stairway. The stinging in her cheek brought tears to her eyes as she covered her burning face with her hand.

“That is only a small taste of what you will get if you do not obey me.”

She refused to look at him, and he started up the stairs, pulling her after him. No one had ever slapped her before. She burned with the humiliation of being struck in the face.

“If you will be a good girl, I shall bring Muriel to you. But if you try to escape or talk to King Richard, I shall have my men snap her neck like a twig.”

Her stomach boiled. She could possibly break free from his grasp by punching him in the throat or kneeing him in the groin, but three of Shiveley’s men followed closely behind them. She could never get away from so many.