flay
the skin from your back,” he threatened.
Hardwin.
That was Berold’s youngest. Geoffrey thought him about ten and two. With
Barrett’s death, he would be heir to Winterbourne.
The boy
rushed past, not meeting Geoffrey’s eye when he passed.
Now the two
soldiers who held fast to him dragged him down the remaining steps and brought
him into a cell. They pitched him on the floor. One cuffed his wrists to
shackles chained to the wall while the other locked restraints around both his
ankles. They stepped from the cell but left the door ajar.
His eyes
adjusted to the dim light. Only a couple of wall sconces flickered.
“Excellent
work,” Berold praised. “I must be certain, though, for ‘tis a sensitive matter
you’ve been entrusted to this day. You’ve told no one of your task? Not another
soldier . . . nor a pretty serving wench?” He looked from one man to the other.
“Nay, my
lord,” they answered in unison.
“That must
remain so. I thank you heartily for your labor this day. You will receive your
just reward in time. Leave—and tell no one what you participated in.”
The men
nodded and turned to depart the dungeon. Before they’d taken two steps away,
Berold drew his sword from its sheath and moved to the one on the right.
Without warning, he swung the sword behind the man’s back and sliced his head
clean off.
The second
of the pair turned, a look of horror upon his face. Berold ran his sword into
the man’s gut and twisted it. He yanked it out as the soldier fell to his
knees, blood bubbling from his lips. Then he fell face down.
Geoffrey
watched in shock. The earl acted so swiftly, the violence was over before he
could even shout a warning.
He watched
as Berold dragged each body off into the darkness a good ways away before he
retrieved the severed head and tossed it in the same direction.
The
nobleman returned and stared at him. “Let the rats feed on their remains and
their bones turn to dust.” He stepped into the small cell. “No one— no one —can
know you are here.”
A sinking
feeling overpowered him. Geoffrey sat mute, only starting to comprehend the
evil plan unfolding.
He heard
voices approach from a distance.
“’Twill be
my healer. She will get the arrowhead from you. She will tend the wound.
There’s magic in her old fingers.” Berold studied him. “I’ve heard said many
times over that you are a man of your word. Give me your word now that you will
allow her to care for you and not harm her in any manner.”
Geoffrey
knew that to escape, he must live. And to live, this arrowhead must be removed
and the wound tended to so that infection wouldn’t set in. He needed the skills
of this healer.
“On my word
of honor, I vow she shall not come to any harm by my hand.”
As he
finished speaking, Berold stepped from the cell. Geoffrey saw Hardwin and the
healer had arrived. She moved into the cell, a bag in one hand and a knife
gleaming in the other. No words were spoken between them as she shoved a wadded-up
cloth into his mouth.
She called
for the boy and light. He stepped forward, holding a lantern high. She cut into
his flesh. Geoffrey groaned into the cloth. Her fingers probed. Indescribable
pain shot white lightning through him. He thought the agony would never end.
He must
have passed out. His eyes opened. The cloth sat in his lap. The healer finished
her last stitches and then packed a poultice onto his shoulder. Winding cloth
round and round his shoulder and arm, she secured it. She picked up her goods
and left. No dismissal was necessary. In the silence, he heard her slow tread up
the stone steps, echoing till it ceased. A faint grating noise occurred. He assumed
she shut a door from far above.
Hardwin had
exited after her. He stood cowering in the shadows, having left the lantern in
the cell.
“Come,”
Berold commanded, motioning his son with two fingers. Hardwin moved to stand
next to his father. Berold placed an arm about the trembling
the skin from your back,” he threatened.
Hardwin.
That was Berold’s youngest. Geoffrey thought him about ten and two. With
Barrett’s death, he would be heir to Winterbourne.
The boy
rushed past, not meeting Geoffrey’s eye when he passed.
Now the two
soldiers who held fast to him dragged him down the remaining steps and brought
him into a cell. They pitched him on the floor. One cuffed his wrists to
shackles chained to the wall while the other locked restraints around both his
ankles. They stepped from the cell but left the door ajar.
His eyes
adjusted to the dim light. Only a couple of wall sconces flickered.
“Excellent
work,” Berold praised. “I must be certain, though, for ‘tis a sensitive matter
you’ve been entrusted to this day. You’ve told no one of your task? Not another
soldier . . . nor a pretty serving wench?” He looked from one man to the other.
“Nay, my
lord,” they answered in unison.
“That must
remain so. I thank you heartily for your labor this day. You will receive your
just reward in time. Leave—and tell no one what you participated in.”
The men
nodded and turned to depart the dungeon. Before they’d taken two steps away,
Berold drew his sword from its sheath and moved to the one on the right.
Without warning, he swung the sword behind the man’s back and sliced his head
clean off.
The second
of the pair turned, a look of horror upon his face. Berold ran his sword into
the man’s gut and twisted it. He yanked it out as the soldier fell to his
knees, blood bubbling from his lips. Then he fell face down.
Geoffrey
watched in shock. The earl acted so swiftly, the violence was over before he
could even shout a warning.
He watched
as Berold dragged each body off into the darkness a good ways away before he
retrieved the severed head and tossed it in the same direction.
The
nobleman returned and stared at him. “Let the rats feed on their remains and
their bones turn to dust.” He stepped into the small cell. “No one— no one —can
know you are here.”
A sinking
feeling overpowered him. Geoffrey sat mute, only starting to comprehend the
evil plan unfolding.
He heard
voices approach from a distance.
“’Twill be
my healer. She will get the arrowhead from you. She will tend the wound.
There’s magic in her old fingers.” Berold studied him. “I’ve heard said many
times over that you are a man of your word. Give me your word now that you will
allow her to care for you and not harm her in any manner.”
Geoffrey
knew that to escape, he must live. And to live, this arrowhead must be removed
and the wound tended to so that infection wouldn’t set in. He needed the skills
of this healer.
“On my word
of honor, I vow she shall not come to any harm by my hand.”
As he
finished speaking, Berold stepped from the cell. Geoffrey saw Hardwin and the
healer had arrived. She moved into the cell, a bag in one hand and a knife
gleaming in the other. No words were spoken between them as she shoved a wadded-up
cloth into his mouth.
She called
for the boy and light. He stepped forward, holding a lantern high. She cut into
his flesh. Geoffrey groaned into the cloth. Her fingers probed. Indescribable
pain shot white lightning through him. He thought the agony would never end.
He must
have passed out. His eyes opened. The cloth sat in his lap. The healer finished
her last stitches and then packed a poultice onto his shoulder. Winding cloth
round and round his shoulder and arm, she secured it. She picked up her goods
and left. No dismissal was necessary. In the silence, he heard her slow tread up
the stone steps, echoing till it ceased. A faint grating noise occurred. He assumed
she shut a door from far above.
Hardwin had
exited after her. He stood cowering in the shadows, having left the lantern in
the cell.
“Come,”
Berold commanded, motioning his son with two fingers. Hardwin moved to stand
next to his father. Berold placed an arm about the trembling
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