Page 7 of Bold Angel
Caryn never saw him after the day she was taken to the convent. During the period of her recovery, she had learned of the attack on the hall, of her uncle Harold’s death, and the surrender of his small valiant group of defenders. Someone had mentioned the Dark Knight’s name, but it was said another powerful knight had actually lain waste to the hall. A short time later, work began on Braxston Keep, which now rose up in its stead, though Caryn had never seen it.
She guessed this night she would and something unwelcome tightened inside her.
“’Tis not far now,” said the gruff knight who held her. “You will soon be in out of the cold.”
Out of the cold and into the hot lecherous hands of one of Malvern’s men. Sweet Mary, she knew what that would be like. She would never forget her sister’s pitiful moans as a brutal Norman thrust between her legs. Caryn had fought them, done her best to stop them. She would fight them again if she had to, but first she would try to outwit them.
She feigned sleep as they rode along, but beneath her half-closed lids, her eyes remained watchful, and just as the gruff knight had said, it wasn’t long before the gray stone walls of Braxston Keep rose up before them, a tall stark fortress against the backdrop of a glowing moon.
Lord Stephen and two of his knights rode forward, speaking to the wardcorne, the watchman at the gate, seeking shelter for the eve while the other men, no longer tired but eager now for what lay ahead, restlessly awaited the lowering of the drawbridge. When word finally came, the horses’ hooves thudded eerily against the heavy oaken planks, their exhaustion as apparent as Caryn’s own.
It was the numbness, her sense of disbelief combined with the chilling cold, that allowed her to keep her senses. It was no secret now, the fate about to befall them. Too many groping hands, too many lewd remarks that in any language foretold the Normans’ awful intent. While the other girls sobbed and begged for mercy, receiving no end of rough warnings and brutal slaps, Caryn remained silent, determined somehow that she would not fall victim to such a fate.
Outside the tall stone tower a hundred feet square, its walls at the base nearly twenty feet thick, they climbed the wooden stairs to the first floor entrance to the keep and made their way into the great hall. It stood twostories high with a vaulted ceiling open at one end to let out smoke from the fire pit. A second floor gallery wrapped around it, and great stone stairs spiraled steeply upward until they disappeared.
“’Tis unfortunate Lord Raolfe has not returned,” someone said to de Montreale in French with heavy Saxon overtones. Caryn twisted in the arms of the knight who held her, then sucked in a great breath of air at the sight of Richard of Pembroke, a sandy-haired man in his middle twenties who had once been steward to her uncle.
“You must send him our thanks for the use of his hall.” Lord Stephen smiled, making him look deceptively handsome. “My men are weary. They require food and drink. We shall be off again once they are rested.”
“Mayhap you could advise us how long your stay might be,” Richard said a bit unkindly. Caryn didn’t miss his unconcealed dislike of Stephen de Montreale.
“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 andtrenchers 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 stumblingalong 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.”
