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Forty-one
Dristan cursed when his foot came in contact once again with another unseen stair in his path.
“I warned you to be careful, my lord,” Ian declared knowingly.
Dristan muttered to himself and tossed a glare at the knight ahead of him, not that he would be able to see such a look. He was not pleased and was becoming careless in his eagerness to reach his wife whilst he plodded forever upward on these never ending steps.
“I remember no such thing,” Dristan complained, trudging vigilantly up onto another level ’til he reached what he assumed was a flat surface. Still . . . he suspiciously put out his foot, searching on where he would tread next. At least he was rewarded, once he heard several comparable curses from behind him, that those who followed were sharing a similar fate to their feet.
“I clearly heard your words to me, my liege,” Ian continued irritably whilst he fumbled around in the dark. “You told me to shut my trap when I mentioned the curve that surely would be upon us.”
“Has no one told you err afore, you are most annoying?” he inquired gruffly. “You remind me of my healer, who does not know her place in my household or when to hold her wavering tongue. She sets my nerves on edge with this seeing business. And just what is it you are in search of?”
Dristan continued to listen whilst Ian made several unidentifiable noises. He smiled in satisfaction when ’twas Ian’s turn to injure some limb that now came into contact with an unseen immovable object. He heard what he assumed was a trunk lid being lifted. Moments later, sparks began to light the room when Ian took flint in hand. Afore long, a torch was ignited, blinding those nearby.
Dristan blinked, allowing his eyes to become adjusted to the bright orange flames. What he thought to be a room was little more than a small round area with a flat stone floor. He could still smell the wet dirt he had become accustomed to since entering this hidden tunnel and observed the wooden beams helping to stabilize the fortification. The ceiling was coated with soot, adding to the dusky aroma of earth, and there were traces of burnt torches on the walls, well used over the years.
Wall sconces were empty of torches that normally would have lit this modest area. ’Twas a clear indication that others had gone ahead of them. A lone wooden bench worn with age sat along one wall with a trunk opened to its right. A bit of fabric escaping the case caught his eyes.
Dristan strode the short distance and pulled out a dress whilst he caressed the material, knowing Amiria had once worn the garment. How like his wife to don a peasant’s garb and still make the coarse wool seem eternally lovely whilst it graced her body. Gads, he must be going soft. Next, he would be spouting words of love and composing lays that would envy any bard who came to his hall. Eternally lovely, indeed!
Still, he carefully took the time to neatly fold the dress, placing it back in the wooden trunk. Visions of his wood nymph floated in his memory. His pensiveness must have shown on his face, for when he looked up and saw Ian with his own contemplative expression, he knew his thoughts were being mirrored in the younger man.
“A most beautiful and unusual woman is your wife,” Ian pronounced.
“Aye, she is at that.”
“She needs more time in the lists.”
Dristan gave a slight groan. “I will see to it.”
“See that you do. She is not one to just sit calmly with a bit of stitchery to keep her busy.”
“I said I would see to it, Ian,” Dristan said roughly. “Let us be about taking back that which is mine.”
Ian nodded and crossed the room to light the way. He stopped abruptly at the next flight of stairs. Kneeling down, he reached out to examine something found on the rough stones. He drew back his fingers and held them out to Dristan.
“Blood,” Ian reasoned. “But whose?”
“There is only one way to find out. Let us be about it, aye?”
The group of men began to make their way up the uneven stairs, and Dristan marveled at the ingenuity of Amiria’s ancestors. The tunnel had not been maintained in some time and was in need of reinforcement afore it caved in around them. If ’twas to be of further use to his own family, then some of the walls would need to be shored up. The uneven steps explained much for his abused toes, no matter the thickness of his boots. Still . . . if one could find the entrance, then so could another, and ’twould be just another route to lay siege to the castle’s keep again.
Rounding another bend, the walls became tighter, but at least now they had a dim glow to light their way. Their progress increased quickly, and they at last achieved their destination. To Dristan’s eyes, the wall afore them seemed but yet another barrier to his final goal of finding his wife. He watched Ian as the man hastily looked over his shoulder and grinned. Reaching out his hand into a small crevice in the rocks, Dristan heard a soft click as, amazingly, Ian pushed the rocks or doorway slightly open and looked carefully into the passageway of the family’s floor. Even King Henry’s knights were impressed from the concealment of the doorway.
“All clear,” Ian assessed and swung the portal fully open.
“Keep watch men,” Dristan ordered, rounding the corner leading towards the turret stairs. They were brought to an abrupt halt by a startled gasp echoing off the walls.
“My Lord!” Patrick cried. Running down the corridor, he hurled himself around Dristan’s legs and held on tightly.
The boy’s sobs became louder as he clung to Dristan. Clasping the boy to him in a rare display of public affection, he whispered tender words to soothe the troubled youth.
Patrick continued to spill the sorry tale of the fall of the castles defenses in a rambling of childlike frustration to make his meaning clear. Even now, Amiria would be making her way from the depths of the freezing cold prison she had found herself in. Dristan could almost see for himself the stubborn look in her eyes and tilt of her head as she searched out Hugh to enact her revenge against him. Merde . . . if he thought it once, he’d thought it a dozen times. She would be the death of him.
“You have done well this day Patrick, but I must ask for you to be brave for just a little longer,” Dristan praised the boy with a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Can you do that for me, my lad?”
“Aye, mi-milord,” he squeaked.
“Then we must find you a safe place to hide ’til this is over.”
Patrick cried out again. “How could I forget? I am so stupid! ’Tis Sabina, my lord. She is gravely injured and I was on my way to find Lynet so she might aid her!”
“Then hurry Patrick to your sister’s chamber so I may see her.”
Dristan followed Patrick as he raced along the passageway and opened the door with a mighty push. He rushed across the floor and gingerly sat on the edge of the bed.
“Sabina,” Dristan whispered and saw she yet breathed.
“Our answer to the ownership of the blood, but how did she get injured? Ian asked broodingly. “I would have thought her to be with Sir Hugh in the Great Hall, enjoying the comforts of being lady of the keep.”
“I have the dreadful feeling Hugh is the cause for the lady’s loss of blood.” Dristan began as he took her hand in his. She moaned in agony. Her hands were raw and he could only wonder how she came to be in her chamber. “I will kill that pestilent son of a whore for this offense, as well as all the others that have been marked against him in my eyes,” Dristan growled, watching as Sabina’s eyes began to flutter open.
“My Lord,” she sobbed, tears pouring down her cheeks.
Dristan leaned down closer. “Rest easy, Sabina. All is well and we will see to your needs.”
“But, my lord, I must beg your pardon for I−”
“Hush,” he demanded. “You may say all you wish when you are feeling yourself again. If your constitution is anything like that of your stubborn sister, ’twill be in no time at all.”
“I must needs unburden my soul, my liege,” she began again, gasping for breath, “for I do not think I will live to see the morning’s light. I do not relish spending my afterlife in purgatory without my confession . . . although ’tis no more than I deserve.”
Dristan gave a short snort. “You may make known all you wish to Father Donovan once you have healed, Sabina. He will be more than willing to save your soul from eternal damnation. As long as Amiria and Berwyck’s inhabitants are safe, you shall be forgiven for your part in this mess we are now in.”
Sabina reached up in an attempt to caress his cheek, but her hand fell limply against her breast. “You are benevolent, as much as you are handsome,” she said, wheezing. “Amiria has done well, having you as her hus-”
Dristan watched Sabina’s eye’s roll back and her head fell against her pillow. He frowned in thought of another innocent lass falling victim to the lecherous Sir Hugh.
Turning to Patrick, he reached down into his boot and pulled forth a dagger. Kneeling down afore his page, he fingered the blade as he had done numerous times since his youth.
“My sire gave me this when I was young and the blade has served me well,” he began.
Patrick interrupted him. “My Lord Dristan, there is something of import I must as yet tell you. ’Tis about Aid-”
Dristan cut off the boy’s words. “I vow to find your sister and see her safe, Patrick. Take this dagger, ’tis yours now. Bolt the door, and guard your sister well,” Dristan ordered, handing the boy the knife. He watched but a moment’s hesitation ’til Patrick held the blade as if he had been given the greatest treasure he had ever held.
Without further words, Dristan and Ian left, and with the closing of the oak portal, they heard to their satisfaction the bolt sliding into place.
“Find Lynet, Ian, and keep her safe. Bring her to Sabina when ’tis possible. I go to see to the more rebellious sister, whom I am sure is up to her pretty neck in trouble,” Dristan predicted. “Once Amiria is safe, I shall then see to Hugh!”
They clasped each other’s shoulders in a sign of solidarity in their missions and reached for their swords. Their blades in hand, they made their way silently down the turret’s stairwell followed closely by the king’s knights, who were ready for action. If Hugh were to see the fury blazing in the Devil’s Dragons eyes, he would have willing fled from Berwyck’s gates of his own accord. At least then his head would have still been firmly in place.
