corner. All it would take to undo things would be for a scullery maid to empty her slop bucket, or some soldier come to take a leak against the wall and they would be done for.
Neither happened and they made their way around the base of the wall until they reached the kitchens at the back of the castle proper.
The cook was asleep, his head propped up by the ovens, the bread set out to rise.
Hearts in their throats, Morgan and Jacob slipped past him, moving nearly silently.
Danger rarely came from kitchens and so they were seldom guarded.
The Great Hall was clearly occupied, as a pair of guards stood at attention at both sets of doors, the ones to the courtyard and the ones to the hall.
Grimly, the guards stared at each other across the hall.
Nerves screwed tight, Morgan gestured. This would be risky.
He darted across the hall into the Steward’s office, closing the door softly behind them once Jacob was safely inside.
On the far wall he found the catch for the secret entrance to the halls behind the walls.
As Marshal, he’d been required to know all the ins and outs of the castle, to better protect the King.
That thought made his gut twist again.
He’d failed in that, just not completely. In the back of his mind he still searched for a way to have known, but he couldn’t find it… His spy hadn’t seen it. There’d been no hints, no rumors.
Morgan put it away. It couldn’t matter now, he had to let it go and concentrate on the matter at hand.
They slipped inside the dark tunnel, made their way to the upper floors past other entrances and exits until they reached the musician’s gallery that a predecessor to Gwen had installed but Gwen herself had never used. His heart wrenched at her loss, for he missed her, too.
That gallery overlooked the Great Hall though. It was the most likely place for Haerold to be found, if not in the King’s quarters.
Few even noticed the balcony was there any longer as a banner covered the opening and Haerold had never lived in this place. It had been and was Oryan’s seat, his inheritance from his father.
Light flickered there.
What was it that had Haerold and his allies up so late in the Great Hall? Morgan wondered.
Making his careful way around, Walter studied the men camped below. Northmen ?
He nodded to himself.
Northmen they were.
They were lighter in hair than even Morgan, some of them , he thought, grinning a little at the idea, knowing how little Morgan would have liked the comparison.
He shook his head even so, cursing lightly in his mind.
Did Haerold truly not care who he made alliances with to take the throne? Did he not know what men such as these had done in the north, the slaughter and rapine?
In the darkness behind him, something quested, but he was unaware.
Frowning a little, it panted, tasting the air…
Warmth, prey warmth…
It leaped, taking the interloper in the throat, its jaws closed, crushed, as hot blood burst into its throat, warm and rich.
Walter had only time to register the impact before he died.
Once the Great Hall at Caernarvon had been beautiful – an open, lovely place with its long fire pits and the spits that ran down the length of them. Oryan and Gwenifer’s thrones still stood at the far end, white and gold, with the King’s table across the width. Beneath the clerestory windows high above were the flags and colors of Oryan’s vassal states, there where the silk could capture the last light of day, brightening the room. Torchlit by night, it hadn’t seemed such a cavernous space then as it did now, but warm and close.
A thousand memories crowded Morgan’s mind. Happy memories of feasting here in the good company of his King, Queen and their people. The trestle tables lining each side nearly groaned with food. Mugs of ale and wine were filled by pages, young girls and lads, everyone laughing, jests flying. Laughter had filled the room, the rafters had rung with it.
He remembered tall, gangly Gwenifer being
Neither happened and they made their way around the base of the wall until they reached the kitchens at the back of the castle proper.
The cook was asleep, his head propped up by the ovens, the bread set out to rise.
Hearts in their throats, Morgan and Jacob slipped past him, moving nearly silently.
Danger rarely came from kitchens and so they were seldom guarded.
The Great Hall was clearly occupied, as a pair of guards stood at attention at both sets of doors, the ones to the courtyard and the ones to the hall.
Grimly, the guards stared at each other across the hall.
Nerves screwed tight, Morgan gestured. This would be risky.
He darted across the hall into the Steward’s office, closing the door softly behind them once Jacob was safely inside.
On the far wall he found the catch for the secret entrance to the halls behind the walls.
As Marshal, he’d been required to know all the ins and outs of the castle, to better protect the King.
That thought made his gut twist again.
He’d failed in that, just not completely. In the back of his mind he still searched for a way to have known, but he couldn’t find it… His spy hadn’t seen it. There’d been no hints, no rumors.
Morgan put it away. It couldn’t matter now, he had to let it go and concentrate on the matter at hand.
They slipped inside the dark tunnel, made their way to the upper floors past other entrances and exits until they reached the musician’s gallery that a predecessor to Gwen had installed but Gwen herself had never used. His heart wrenched at her loss, for he missed her, too.
That gallery overlooked the Great Hall though. It was the most likely place for Haerold to be found, if not in the King’s quarters.
Few even noticed the balcony was there any longer as a banner covered the opening and Haerold had never lived in this place. It had been and was Oryan’s seat, his inheritance from his father.
Light flickered there.
What was it that had Haerold and his allies up so late in the Great Hall? Morgan wondered.
Making his careful way around, Walter studied the men camped below. Northmen ?
He nodded to himself.
Northmen they were.
They were lighter in hair than even Morgan, some of them , he thought, grinning a little at the idea, knowing how little Morgan would have liked the comparison.
He shook his head even so, cursing lightly in his mind.
Did Haerold truly not care who he made alliances with to take the throne? Did he not know what men such as these had done in the north, the slaughter and rapine?
In the darkness behind him, something quested, but he was unaware.
Frowning a little, it panted, tasting the air…
Warmth, prey warmth…
It leaped, taking the interloper in the throat, its jaws closed, crushed, as hot blood burst into its throat, warm and rich.
Walter had only time to register the impact before he died.
Once the Great Hall at Caernarvon had been beautiful – an open, lovely place with its long fire pits and the spits that ran down the length of them. Oryan and Gwenifer’s thrones still stood at the far end, white and gold, with the King’s table across the width. Beneath the clerestory windows high above were the flags and colors of Oryan’s vassal states, there where the silk could capture the last light of day, brightening the room. Torchlit by night, it hadn’t seemed such a cavernous space then as it did now, but warm and close.
A thousand memories crowded Morgan’s mind. Happy memories of feasting here in the good company of his King, Queen and their people. The trestle tables lining each side nearly groaned with food. Mugs of ale and wine were filled by pages, young girls and lads, everyone laughing, jests flying. Laughter had filled the room, the rafters had rung with it.
He remembered tall, gangly Gwenifer being
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