Shadowmoor (de Lohr Dynasty #6) (9 page)

“That old castle is the only thing up here,” he said. “Did you come from it?”

“If I did?”

“It was simply a question,
mon seigneur
.”

They asked about Shadowmoor, which tipped Brynner off that these men may be exactly who he feared they were.
Bramley.
He was feeling vastly threatened and trying not to let it show. He had been a knight, once, and a very good one, and that training began to kick in. It had been a long time since he’d needed it. He forced himself to calm and collect himself because panic would only get him killed. Slowly, he stood up, trying to brush the mud off of his breeches.

“That castle means nothing to me and I mean nothing to it,” he said evenly. “I will be on my way now.”

He started to move, pushing his way out from between the horses. But the Frenchman wouldn’t let him go so easily.

“Wait,” he said. “Please do not go, not yet. What is your name? Can we at least be civil to one another?”

Brynner paused to look at him. “Why?” he asked. “You mean nothing to me, either.”

The Frenchman smiled at the answer. The dirty, disheveled man on foot was so bitter that it was rather amusing. “And you mean nothing to me,” he said. “But I would like to know if you know anything about that castle up there. Have you been out here walking the moors for very long?”

Brynner shook his head. “Not very long.”

“Have you seen anyone come to, or leave, the castle?”

Brynner’s expression turned impatient. “No one comes or goes from that place,” he said. “It is dead, like these moors. People live there, but they are dead, too. The whole place is dead.”

“You speak as if you know this for certain.”

Brynner thought, at that point, that he had probably given too much of himself away. He had tried not to but his head hurt and he wasn’t thinking clearly. But, then again, he rarely thought clearly these days, so it was inevitable that he falter. Now it was a matter of trying to cover for his foolish tongue.

“I have grown up on these lands,” Brynner said. He was being deliberately vague and, in a smart move, turned the conversation away from him and on to them. “Where did you come from? These roads are not well traveled. You must have been heading for the castle if you are on this moor. What business do you have at that place?”

The Frenchman’s dark blue eyes settled appraisingly on Brynner before speaking. The wind, whipping around them, lifted his shaggy blond hair.

“As you said, that is not your affair,” he replied. “You will not tell me yours and I will not tell you mine. We are at an impasse.”

Brynner shrugged and turned away. “Good,” he said firmly. “Then there is no more to say to one another. I will wish you fair winds and Godspeed, then, and be on my way.”

One of the men moved his horse so that Brynner couldn’t push past the animal. Boxed in and frustrated, Brynner turned to the Frenchman with a scowl.

“Now what?” he demanded. “I have nothing more to tell you. My aching head and I would be grateful if you could allow us to pass.”

The Frenchman leaned forward on his saddle, noticing a jug that had fallen to the side when the man had slid down the hill. It now lay half-buried in the wet heather. He dipped his head in the direction of the jug.

“The root of your evils,
mon seigneur
?” he asked.

Brynner turned to see what he was referring to, embarrassed that the evidence was there for all to see. He may have been a drunkard but it was a private affair as far as he was concerned. He didn’t like to go announcing it all over the place. In a huff, he stomped over to pick up the jug. Embarrassed or not, he wasn’t going to leave it behind.

“It is the root of many evils,” he said, bending down to collect it. “May I go now?”

The Frenchman’s gaze lingered on Brynner and, for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Behind those dark blue eyes, there was a good deal going on.
Calculating
. Now, he had an idea as to finding out what this man knew. Where he came from. Perhaps he could find out even more than he’d hoped for.

As many times as he had come up to the moor, named for an ancient Saxon king, he’d never run into anyone like the man standing before him. All he’d come across were frightened peasants who could barely speak, people scraping the land, trying to scratch out an existence. But not this man; he was well spoken and seemingly intelligent. But he was also in a very bad state and the Frenchman could smell the alcohol on him, even at a distance. It was a weakness that the Frenchman wanted to exploit.

Something told him he had a prime opportunity right in front of him.

“What are you drinking?” he asked Brynner. “Whatever it is, I know where there is better drink. And large quantities of it.”

Something flashed in Brynner’s eyes, something that foretold of great interest in the Frenchman’s words, but that flash of interest was quickly gone. What replaced it was something that could only be described as humiliation.

Sorrow.

“I have what I need,” he said, lifting the jug. “Move your men and I will be on my way.”

“I will pay for your drink,” the Frenchman said quickly, not wanting to lose this opportunity. “You need not pay for any of it. I travel about with these three fools for companionship and it is rare to speak with a stranger. Come and drink with me. Your companionship is payment enough.”

The thought of flowing wine was enough to cause Brynner to swallow any pride or fear he may have felt. He knew it was wrong; God help him, he knew it. He knew he could be placing himself in a horrible situation. But lured by the thought of endless alcohol, he couldn’t help the interest. Like a siren’s song, it called to him and he could not resist.

It was stronger than he was.

“Where?” he finally asked. “Where will we go?”

The Frenchman pointed to the east, in the direction of the village of Ilkley. Nestled against the base of the soggy hills, it was a fairly bustling town with commerce.

“There is an inn called The Bridge and Arms in town,” he said. “I have supped there before. Good food and drink. Come and join me. It looks as if you could use a meal.”

Brynner didn’t care about the meal. He only cared about the drink. Everything in his body was screaming for it. Yet, he was still thinking cautiously in spite of his need. He presumed that the men wouldn’t try to kill or harm him if they were in a public place with witnesses and even people who might give him protection. More than that, he was fairly certain he didn’t have a choice in this situation. They weren’t going to allow him to leave. But he wanted the drink so badly that he was willing to dance with the devil to get it.

“I know the place,” Brynner replied. “I’ve not been there in years.”

“Then come with me.”

Brynner didn’t say a word. He simply started heading in the direction the four men had come from, to the road that would take them back down the hill to the road that ran north and south along the edges of the moor.

To the drink that await him.

As the sun crested the horizon and cast rays of light over the wet land, Brynner and his four new companions made their way down the moor to the road below, heading towards The Bridge and Arms. They slipped and slid in the mud all the way down the hill.

All the while, however, Brynner kept wondering what these men wanted of him, but he was fairly certain he already knew. He was certain they were the same men who had been harassing Shadowmoor for years. Bramley and his men wanted Shadowmoor and wanted Liselotte, and they’d already abducted one l’Audacieux son. Brynner didn’t know that Gunnar had been returned the night before, however, and assumed that he was now the second abducted l’Audacieux male. In his own stupidity, they’d managed to corner him.

But he was a different case altogether. He wasn’t a young boy, but a man and heir to the property Bramley sought. Once they found that out, and Brynner was more than likely sure they would once alcohol loosened his tongue, he wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t some kind of negotiation involved with him to try and gain the place.

With enough alcohol, Brynner knew he’d agree to anything.

And that concerned him.

As for the Frenchman, he wasn’t quite sure what he had in the slovenly man but something told him that his fortune had been good this morning. At least, that was what he thought, but it wasn’t to be the case – he would miss the opportunity he should have been looking for less than an hour later when the object of his lord’s greed, a lovely woman with pale skin and bronze hair, left the gates of the destitute fortress and headed north. By that time, however, the Frenchman and his guest, a man whom he soon confirmed to be the brother of the sought-after woman, were well on their way to being drunk and making plans. The Frenchman discovered very quickly that his guest craved alcohol more than money, so it wasn’t a matter of a bribe.

It was the matter of a promise.

The situation was about to become quite interesting.

*

The stormy weather
had cleared up and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. It was breezy as the sun rose, reaching fingers of gold and pink across the landscape, stretching out as far as the eye could see.

It was a bucolic vision just after dawn and would have been quite perfect had it not been for the fact that man, beast, and land were a sopping, muddy mess. Everything was wet and the oversaturated ground was littered with massive puddles of water. As Daniel emerged out into the ward from the keep, he made sure to avoid those watery traps as he crossed the bailey and headed towards the stables.

It was cold outside, too, a far cry from the warm room he had spent the night in. The very tiny room had been surprisingly clean and the bed had been mostly comfortable, so he really had nothing to complain over and he’d slept very well. He didn’t much equate comfort with this destitute fortress, but he’d been pleasantly surprised by Gunnar l’Audacieux’s small bed.

Therefore, after a heavy sleep through the storming night, he’d awoken refreshed and proceeded to dress. Donning a heavy linen tunic that smelled like a dead body beneath his mail coat, because he’d not washed it in weeks, and then donning a heavy leather coat with fur trim around the neck and sleeves, he’d headed out into the coming dawn.

Shadowmoor’s box-shaped keep was surrounded by its own moat, a ditch dug around the structure while the structure itself was slightly elevated. It was cold; the eastern horizon turned pastel shades and breath hung in the air in foggy puffs. Daniel looked at his surroundings as he headed for the stables, finding some interest in Shadowmoor in general. People were about at this early morning hour, scrounging for firewood for cooking fires, and the smell of smoke was already heavy in the air. He looked at the faces as he passed them; everyone looked tired and hungry, wrapped in their meager rags against the freezing temperatures. The inability to create work for themselves or trade with neighboring villages, all of these things prevented by Bramley, had taken their toll. Daniel thought that everyone looked very much like the walking dead.

Hopeless.

But there was more to it than even that. As he neared the stables, it occurred to him that there were, literally, no animals at all at Shadowmoor – no dogs, no chickens, and he realized when he’d been in the stable the day before that he’d only seen two other horses. No animals because they had all been eaten by starving people. Although he’d had mutton the night before, he recalled that it tasted old and he thought it was perhaps because Lady Liselotte had been trying to stretch the meat. Perhaps because that was all they had left.

It was a rather pathetic thought but it underscored the desperation of the people of Shadowmoor, desperation that idiot Bramley had forced them into. After a good night’s sleep, Daniel was feeling more compelled than ever to help these people although, even after his explanation on his reasons to Etzel the previous night, there really wasn’t any true factor why he should. He hadn’t particularly made an enemy out of Bramley, or at least he didn’t think he did in the long run, but he’d used it as an excuse to stay and help. Something was pulling him towards this destitute, hopeless place… or perhaps
someone
was pulling him towards it.

That was more than likely the answer.

Liselotte.

A woman with pale skin and bronze-colored hair. There was something sorrowful about her due to her circumstances but beneath that sorrow, he could see the fight and determination. She may have been persecuted but she hadn’t given up. He hadn’t spoken to her a tremendous amount yesterday but in the brief conversations they’d had, he’d sensed a good deal of strength in her. She wanted to fight, and she wanted to win, even though her circumstances had prevented much of that. Still, she didn’t surrender, but there had been something in her manner that suggested she was very happy to have help in her fight, help in the form of Daniel.

Perhaps he simply liked the idea of being her savior, of coming to the aid of people who had nowhere else to turn. Or perhaps he liked the idea of being her savior alone; he wasn’t sure. It was a matter of pride, too – he had found a purpose he could be proud of. Or perhaps the simple fact of the matter was that he wanted a beautiful girl to be indebted to him, to admire him and to show her gratitude.