Entreat Me (7 page)

“Yes.”

She was bone-tired and the only reason she conceded to that one request.  “I’ll stay for one night and do as you ask—listen to what you have to say regarding saving Papa from Jimenin.”  Cinnia clapped her hands.  Louvaen raised a finger, and she paused.  “I’m not agreeing to anything beyond that, including leaving you here.  I’ll knock you unconscious and tie you to the saddle if I have to.”

Cinnia threw her arms around her.  “Thank you, Lou.”

Louvaen hugged her back, guilt making her flinch.  There was something infinitely wrong when such small a thing as her acquiescence made her sister so jubilant.  She gazed at Ambrose over Cinnia’s shoulder.  He watched her, dislike narrowing his eyes and tightening his mouth.  The same curiosity glinting in Magda’s gaze earlier tempered his disapproving expression.  No doubt her countenance mirrored his, except for the interest.  She planned to stay out of his way while she was here.

“Magda will serve you supper and show you the room where you’ll sleep tonight.”  Ambrose inclined his head and left them in the hall.  Good as his words, Magda and two younger women entered the hall carry platters filled with bread, cheese and cold chicken and placed them on the long table set near the hearth.  The housekeeper introduced her helpers as Clarimond and Joan.  Both curtsied, their puzzled gazes going back and forth between Cinnia and Louvaen before they fled to the kitchen.  Magda chuckled as she laid out the repast and gestured for the sisters to sit.  “They’re looking for some resemblance.”

Louvaen smiled.  “Everyone does when they first see us together.”  They’d dealt with it all their lives.  Cinnia, dainty and blonde, was the perfect counterpoint to the statuesque, dark-haired Louvaen.

“You have the same chin.”  Magda tipped the pitcher she carried and refilled their mugs with the spiced ale.

“That’s our father’s contribution.”  Cinnia picked at a chicken leg with her fingers.  “Otherwise, we look most like our mothers.  Papa says Lou’s mother Gull was even taller than Lou.”  She popped a piece of chicken into her mouth and chewed enthusiastically.

“Thank you, town crier.”  Louvaen gave Magda a dry look.  “I’m guessing she’s told you every family secret back six generations?”

Magda laughed outright this time.  “Only a few things.  I hear you’re deadly with a pitchfork.”

Louvaen glared at Cinnia who blushed.  Farmer Toddle had never forgiven her for nearly skewering him in the town stables a decade earlier.  Not that Louvaen ever offered an apology.  The man should have kept his hands to himself.

The housekeeper retreated to the kitchen with the promise to deliver Louvaen’s cloak and boots to her room once they were dry.  The two sisters enjoyed their meal together, Cinnia nibbling from Louvaen’s trencher and chatting about her stay at Ketach Tor and how wonderful—no, miraculous!—Gavin was.  Louvaen listened with half an ear while she ate the food and drank two more cups of ale.  By the time she’d finished her supper, her belly lay silent and content, and her head sat heavy on her shoulders.  She still fretted over her father’s predicament, was suspicious of the strange de Sauveterres, and wondered if the family patriarch would survive the night.  Still, the edge of terror that had shoved her heart into her throat as she rode to meet Cinnia had abated.  Her sister was safe—utterly wrong-headed in her plan to extract her father from the disaster he’d caused—and apparently happy.

“You’re about to fall asleep in your trencher.”  Cinnia tugged on her hand.  “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Louvaen followed her up a narrow stairwell until they reached a mezzanine drowning in shadow and another set of stairs.  A single lit torch cast feeble light along a short corridor with doors on either side.  Cinnia led her to one, her steps loud across creaking floorboards.  “You’re here, and I’m in the next one.”  She opened the door and stepped aside.

Fine candles lit a chamber swept spotless.  Louvaen’s nostrils twitched at the scent of beeswax.  Gavin’s garb had indicated he came from a family possessing a good measure of coin.  She’d not fallen for that trap.  Many a fop, barely able to feed himself, spent his last copper on fancy clothes to make a good if fraudulent impression in order to lure a wealthy bride to him.  This was different.  Only the wealthy could afford the extravagance of burning pure beeswax candles.  Families of both poor and moderate means used tallow candles or wax mixed with tallow to light their homes.  Louvaen wasn’t quite convinced Gavin hadn’t been filling Cinnia’s ears with all manner of tall tales, but this at least offered a hint that he’d been somewhat honest about his family’s means.

Candlelight revealed a box bed enclosed by ornately carved screens and a low step built against the lower rail that acted as storage.  A mattress piled high with an assortment of pillows and blankets promised a warm and comfortable night’s sleep.  Her pack sat next to the bed, and someone had laid out one of her two frocks across a chair near the small corner hearth.  Her stockings fluttered on a drying horse next to her sodden boots.  Shutters made of shaved bone blocked the window from the snow and ice whirling outside.  The frigid chamber slowly warmed from the recently lit hearth, and the tapestries hanging on the walls worked to keep the growing heat from escaping through the stone.

Cinnia pointed to a low table set by the chair.  “A pitcher and basin for you, and there’s a chamber pot tucked under the bed.  I’ll show you where the privies are tomorrow.”

“You said your room is next to mine?”

“Yes.  They gave me the bower.  It’s lovely, and I have real glass in the windows.”

Louvaen eyed her sister.  “And you’re sleeping alone?”

Cinnia crossed her arms.  “Of course I am. That’s insulting, Lou.”

Louvaen shrugged.  “It isn’t meant to be unless Gavin has seduced you, and you’re lying to me.  Then it isn’t an insult, only an insightful question.”  Her scowl was fierce.  “It best never be an insightful question while you remain unmarried.”

“Gods, you are such a dragon.”  Cinnia glided to the door.  “It’s late.  You’re sleepy and grumpy, and I’m tired of defending myself to you over every little thing.  Go to bed.  Sleep as long as you like.  I’ll see you in the morning.”  She kissed her on the cheek and slipped into the hall, leaving a bemused Louvaen staring after her.

“Who are you,” she said softly.  “And what have you done with my sister?”

She stripped down to her knickers, chemise and Cinnia’s stockings.  The night rail she pulled from her satchel had more wrinkles than crumpled parchment but would keep her warm in the still chilly room.  She dressed and blew out the candles.  Firelight from the hearth lit her path to the bed.  To her delight, she sank onto a feather mattress laid over an under mattress of straw.  The blankets were a mix of fleece and fur, with a costly one of green velvet sandwiched between them.  A feather bolster ran the width of the headboard, and Louvaen nestled her head into it with a satisfied sigh.

She hadn’t lain in a real bed in five days.  The inns along the route she’d taken to Ketach Tor held more vermin than just rats.  She’d paid a small amount to sleep in the relative safety of haylofts, her pallet of straw warmed by the horses and cattle sheltered within the stable or barn.  She’d slept with the flintlock by her side and a dagger tucked under the makeshift pillow she’d made of Plowfoot’s saddle blanket.  Tonight, she’d leave both in their respective places of pouch and sheath.  So far, she’d found the denizens of Ketach Tor to be mysterious and downright odd in some cases, but polite and solicitous.  And if her supper had been poisoned, well it was too late to cry about it now.  Louvaen snuggled deeper under the covers and fell asleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

It seemed as if she’d just closed her eyes when bestial cries reverberating through the very walls jerked her out of a deep slumber.  Were the bed not partially enclosed, she would have tumbled onto the floor.  Her shoulder struck one of the box bed’s sides, snapping her fully awake.  Those anguished, tormented sounds made her shudder.  De Sauveterre. The tenor of his screams had changed—rage mixed with agony as if he fought against his tormentor and was punished in the most barbarous fashion.

She climbed out of bed, shivering in the darkness.  The fire in the hearth had burned down to a paltry glow of embers that tumbled shadows across the floor.  Louvaen used a rush tip to light candles so she could locate her shawl and pull on her damp boots.  She blew on her hands to warm them and retrieved the flintlock along with her supply of flint, powder, patch and ramrod.  Her fingers chased the remaining two round lead balls inside a small purse before capturing one.  She set it on the bed step’s surface next to the flintlock.  Reloading the pistol was slow work, especially with hands made clumsy by the cold, and she cursed her lack of foresight in not doing so before falling asleep.

What madness possessed these people that they ignored the sounds emanating from the castle’s lower chambers?  Her own sister showed a lack of concern for de Sauveterre’s suffering.  Unlike Cinnia, Louvaen didn’t believe a word of Ambrose’s assurances that his master was not dying nor that his tribulations were both regular and temporary.  She refused to cower in her room and hope the screaming would stop.  She’d find out for herself what terrible business lay below.  At least then she’d know whether she’d have to sling Cinnia on Plowfoot tonight and brave a snowstorm in the dark or wait until morning when the sun was up and could she could see clearly enough to set those repulsive roses on fire before she left.

With the pistol loaded and a candle in hand, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and poked her head into the empty, torch-lit corridor.  Cinnia’s door was shut.  Surely she didn’t dream the dreadful howling?  Another cry split the silence; she was most definitely awake.  She tried Cinnia’s door.  It opened under her touch.  Louvaen growled.  Did the girl trust so easily that she wouldn’t use a lock or bar?

Cinnia huddled under a stack of blankets in a grand bed, partially concealed by heavy drapes attached to the bed’s canopy.  She murmured in her sleep, and Louvaen breathed a small sigh of relief.  Their family joked about Cinnia’s ability to sleep through a barrage of cannon fire.  Considering the racket drifting up from beneath the castle, she thanked every god within earshot that her sister slept so deeply.

She had a quandary before her.  Awaken Cinnia to have her bar the door and spend the next hour arguing with her or leave her be and make her way downstairs alone.  Neither option was palatable.  In the end she let Cinnia sleep, reasoning that a sorcerer lived here.  No simple lock or barred door ever withstood a powerful spell cast by a skilled hand.

She closed the door behind her and tiptoed down the narrow stairwell leading to the great hall.  The hall itself lay in darkness, the hearth gone cold.  A flicker of light danced beneath the screens separating hall from kitchen.  Louvaen entered the heart of the fortress, following the groans and howls drifting up from another short stairwell situated in one corner.  The stairs descended into a buttery leading to a corridor that hooked sharply left.  More light flickered at one end, accompanied by voices speaking instead of screaming.  She recognized Gavin’s first.

“It’s much worse this time.  I’ve never known him to suffer like this.”  Though Louvaen couldn’t see him, she heard the fear and worry in the son’s voice for his father.  One of the knots inside her loosened.  At least someone else in this sad jumble of stone besides her wanted to retch at the hideous noises.

Ambrose answered him.  “The flux is stronger.  Can you tell?”

“Aye.  I feel like a mangled rag with the strength wrung out of me.  He’s tougher than all of us combined to survive this kind of torture.”

“He always has been.”

Louvaen remained still, shamelessly eavesdropping.  She jumped and almost dropped her candle when Ambrose’s voice snapped out of the dark.  “Show yourself!”

She gripped her shawl and strode through the low archway separating her from the men.  The arch led to a circular chamber protecting a deep well.  Storerooms lined the curved walls, some empty, others filled with barrels or sacks of grain.  Two were closed off by wooden doors heavily fortified with iron strap hinges and heavy bars across small cutouts.  Locks shimmering with blue light held them shut.  Gavin and Ambrose stood in front of one, the breath steaming from their noses and mouths in the chilly air.  Gavin wore a startled look.  “Mistress Duenda.”

Ambrose glared—or so she first thought.  He was without his spectacles, and Louvaen wondered if maybe it was more of a squint.  “I might have known,” he said.  “And armed of course.”  The acidic bite of his words assured her it was a glare.

She lifted her chin.  “What did you expect?  Not even dawn and the poor man is shouting your towers down around your ears.”  Cinnia had said Gavin’s father was disfigured.  Louvaen wouldn’t have been in the least surprised to learn he was also completely mad.  No one lived through this kind of horror with their mind still intact.  She raised the candle higher and caught her breath as the flame reflected in Gavin’s yellow eyes.  “My gods...”

Ambrose knocked her hand aside as Gavin turned his face from her.  “You shouldn’t be here, Mistress Duenda.”

“You’ll get no argument from me, sorcerer,” she snapped.  “Touch me again, and I’ll wear your teeth as a necklace.”  She turned her attention back to Gavin.  “I’ve heard from the trickster here.”  Ambrose growled, but Louvaen ignored him.  “Now I want your version of the story.  What is wrong with your father, and what is wrong with you?”  She jabbed a finger at him when he opened his mouth to answer.  “Don’t tell me it’s some illness.  I’ve seen the whites of a man’s eyes yellow from disease.  Yours are different, and I remember they were green a week ago.  Now they glow like a wolf’s, and your father sounds like an injured cur needing to be put down.”

Gavin’s eyes closed for a moment.  He waved Ambrose away when the man made to protest.  “Ambrose didn’t lie.  It’s the flux.  I’m pulled back to Ketach Tor at the high tide.  It’s impossible—painful even—to resist.  My father is completely imprisoned by it.  He can’t leave our lands, even at ebb tide.  I usually take to my bed—weak, sick in my belly.  My eyes don’t usually change.

“It’s always bad for my father.  The flux twists him so much he’s maddened by the pain.  To protect ourselves—and him—we made one of these storerooms into a cell and keep him chained there until the flux ebbs.”  The color washed from Gavin’s face and tears glossed over the yellow eyes.  “This is the worst so far, and the longest.”

“Satisfied, mistress?”  The dislike in Ambrose’s previous expression paled in comparison to the loathing she heard in his voice now.

Louvaen’s throat had closed up during Gavin’s explanation, so much more heartfelt than Ambrose’s had been.  She’d come to Ketach Tor with the intention of snatching her sister back and peeling a strip off Gavin’s hide for having the short-sighted audacity to steal Cinnia away from Monteblanco.   A part of her still felt that way, but another smaller part made her want to pat his shoulder and offer any help she could give to both father and son.  “I want to meet him.”

“No!”  Ambrose stepped between her and the cell door.

Gavin stared at her long and hard.  Whatever he saw in her gaze must have answered an important question for him.  “Show her.”

“This woman is an unwelcome intruder with no right—”

“Show her, Ambrose.  She has as much right as anyone.  She’s acting in her father’s stead for her sister’s protection.  Were Cinnia your daughter, wouldn’t you want to know what resides in this castle with her?”

Sour-faced and reluctant, Ambrose produced a key from a hidden pocket in his robes.  The lock clicked twice at the key’s turn.  He held out a hand.  “Give me your pistol, Mistress Duenda.”

Louvaen hesitated.  She’d made a few enemies in her life; Jimenin the most dangerous.  Until now.  “And provide you with the means to shoot me in the back?”

The magician’s answering smile was as wolfish as Gavin’s yellow eyes.  “You’ll have to trust my restraint, but I’ll not let you in that cell so you can put down the injured cur.”  His fingers twitched in a telling gesture:  relinquish the weapon and be quick about it.

“Why don’t I give it to Gavin?” she said.

A small smile eased the somber lines in Gavin’s face.  “Because you’re not going in alone.  I’m going with you”.  He turned grim once more.  “The last thing I want is my father somehow snatching your pistol from me.”

Louvaen placed the weapon into Ambrose’s waiting hand.  “Excellent point.”

She stood at Gavin’s shoulder as Ambrose eased the door back just wide enough for them slip through one at a time.  The smell emanating from the cell made her gag.  Blood, urine, sweat and vomit—the odors overwhelmed her, brought painful memories of her husband’s last days rushing back until she thrust them into the corner of her mind.  She clenched her teeth and took shallow breaths through her mouth.  Her candle’s sickly light cast a halo at her feet but did very little to dispel the enveloping blackness.  She clutched Gavin’s arm as her boots hit a slippery patch on the floor, and she slid.  The light wavered, and she sighted a hulking shape crouched against one wall.

Gavin stopped her from stepping farther into the cell.  “Run your foot along the floor.”  She did as he instructed and found a shallow depression cut into the pavers about three steps in from the entry.  “That,” he said “is your marker.  Don’t go past it.  The length of his chain won’t reach this far.”

Her heart squeezed at his words.  What child should ever have to say that about their parent?

“Father,” Gavin’s voice was soft, coaxing.  “You’ve a visitor.  Cinnia’s sister; Louvaen Duenda.”

A gravid silence breathed through the cell, broken by two raspy words.  “Boy, why?”

Intent that de Sauveterre not blame his son, Louvaen promptly forgot Gavin’s instructions and stepped beyond the line.  “I insisted, my lord.  The fault is mine, not—”

The flash of yellow eye shine in candlelight was her only warning before the chain rattled and powerful fingers snaked around her calf to yank her off her feet.  Louvaen screamed.  The candle shot out of her hand as her back and bottom struck wet stone.  Gavin’s and Ambrose’s shouts bounced off the walls.

“Father!”

“Ballard, let her go!”

Grunting and thrashing, Louvaen kicked to break loose of the clawed hand that clutched her leg and dragged her across the slick floor.  She held onto Gavin as he wrapped an arm across her stomach and pulled her toward the door.  Father and son tugged in opposite directions, fighting over her like starved hounds on a carcass until Louvaen thought they’d tear her apart.  She kicked out with her free leg, striking blindly at her attacker.  Her foot connected with something solid that instantly gave with a sickening crack.  An agonized bellow followed, and de Sauveterre released her as if scorched.  Louvaen didn’t pause to thank the gods for the brief mercy.  She scrambled over Gavin and careened out of the cell where she fell against Ambrose.  The sorcerer looked like he wanted nothing more than to shoot her with her own flintlock.

She didn’t care, grateful to be out of the hellish cell and away from its maddened prisoner.  She bent at the waist and took several deep breaths of the antechamber’s fresher air.  Her back ached and the scratches etched into her calf stung, but at least her heart no longer tried to pound its way out of her chest.

Gavin spoke behind her.   “Are you well, mistress?”

Louvaen faced him.  Other than having a decade scared off her lifespan and being smeared in a black muck that smelled worse than a privy during high summer she was fine.  “No harm done except to my dignity.  Your father?  I know I hit something.”

“I think you broke his nose.”  He breathed as hard as she did.  “Magda will pack it with snow once he lets her near him.  It’s been broken before.”

She hoped it wasn’t because he’d captured other foolish women who’d made the mistake of crossing the line.  “Forgive me.  I disregarded your warning.”

Ambrose’s nostrils flared.  “Gavin shouldn’t have let you into the cell.”

“Fortunate for me then that yours isn’t the final word at Ketach Tor.”  She returned the magician’s glare with one of her own.