State of Grace (Resurrection) (11 page)

I gasped. ‘Ok, that’s tight enough.’
Obviously Lady Sibyl was an awful lot thinner than I, and considering I was quite slim, she must be positively anorexic. Apart from her boobs, that is, as I seemed to have material enough to spare in that particular part of the dress. I looked down at the skirt floating around my legs and assumed that the other woman was taller than me too: the damned thing dragged on the floor. It was made of beautiful material though, I conceded grudgingly: a kind of brocade I guessed, in silver and grey. It was more suited to curtains than to clothing, but was I grateful for it, all the same. With long, trailing sleeves, fitted bodice that reached to a point below the waist and full skirt, I had to admit that the dress was flattering: or would have been if it had fitted correctly.

A polite cough reminded me of the urgency of the situation. Roman was holding out a small pair of soft leather slippers. I stuffed my to
es into them and wiggled; they were on the small side, but I could manage and my feet felt instantly warmer for them.

Roman looked at me critically, his eyes narrowing as he took in my appearance. He obvi
ously didn’t like what he saw because he disappeared out of the door and came back with a scarf made of the same material as the dress, which he arranged on my head, fixing it with a braid of cord that circled my temples.

‘You will pass
muster,’ he said, and then muttered under his breath, ‘if anyone we meet happens to be blind.’ He picked up the cloak from the floor and, with deft fingers, attached it around my neck, and slipped the hood over my head.

He peered out of the door again and beckoned
me to follow. The passageway was empty, but the sound of many voices could be heard coming from the bottom of the stone steps. We paused at the end of the corridor but really had little choice in the direction we needed to go if we wanted to avoid being caught, so we climbed up the narrow twisting staircase, before footsteps from above forced us to retreat back down. Roman dragged me at breakneck speed, past ‘our’ corridor, the footsteps following us down, echoing and bouncing around off the bare stone walls. To my relief we slowed our pace when we neared the bottom, for the closer we got to the well of the stairs the louder the noise from below became, and as we reached the last but one step he pushed me firmly behind him, obscuring my view with his back, and also shielding me from sight.

He sidled down the last step and along t
he wall as the staircase opened out into the huge room I remembered from earlier. He kept my back against the stone and his body directly in front of mine, and we had no sooner left the stairs when several burly figures poured out of the opening behind us and came to a standstill. I was thankful their attention was concentrated on the scene in front, and we escaped their notice entirely.

By peeping round Roman’s shoulder I managed to catch a glim
pse of what was happening. The hall was, I estimated, over one hundred feet long and at least thirty feet wide. The longer side on the left sported one of the largest fireplaces I had ever seen, tall enough for a man to stand upright inside, and in it logs with a circumference larger than my waist burned and crackled. At the far end was a raised platform with a long table, several chairs, and I thought sceptically, two exceptionally large chairs that reminded me of thrones. Fabric hung on the exposed stone walls, torches flamed at intervals, and the air was filled with gloom and smoke. And more than a hint of peril.

There were no slumbering men
this time: they were all very much awake and ready for trouble and many had weapons drawn. The noise was deafening; dogs barking, women crying, people shouting, and above all was the wail of a woman in pain. She was standing to the far side of the fireplace, surrounded by a circle of onlookers, facing a man younger than her who had a drawn weapon in his hand and hatred on his face. The woman was slender and slight, and even though her features were twisted by anguish, her beauty was evident. Her hair was waist length, falling over her shoulders and down her arms in soft golden waves. I estimated that she was around forty, but it wasn’t easy to see clearly: she was too far away and the air was smoke-laden and dense, the room dim and gloomy. Besides I could only catch glimpses of her in-between the people surrounding her, and of course Roman’s broad back blocked most of my view and his arm kept me securely behind him, even as I struggled to get a better look.

‘What is –
?’

‘Hush,’ he commanded, sotto vo
ce and I thought it wise to do as I was told as he listened carefully to the many raised voices in the hall.

The
tall younger man standing in front of her was covered in blood, hefting a sword equally coated. He was being restrained by three older, larger men and was shouting at the woman, his face distorted in contempt and fury as he struggled ineffectually to free his arms. At each word hurled at her, she screamed anew, wringing her hands as she paced before him, the skirt of her nightgown drenched in blood and spatters of the ruby liquor dappled over her bodice and her face. Her hands were smeared red and with each twist of her fingers, she spread the colour further up her sleeves.

‘She is Lady Nest, and the man with his clothes covered in blood is her son, Sir Mahel de Neufmarche, Lord Bernard’s son,’ Roman said,
his voice so low I had to strain to hear it above the barrage of noise that reverberated through the hall.

‘So, who killed who? And why –
?’ I stopped, thoroughly confused. Roman was searching the crowd of a hundred or so people who had gathered in the room, scanning faces until he spotted the one he had been looking for. He stared intently at someone I couldn’t see before gave a small sharp nod and then carried on with his narration.

‘It appears that my Lady had been entertaining Sir William i
n her chamber when her son came upon them,’ he explained. ‘Sir William dishonoured Lady Nest and Lord Bernard, so Sir Mahel has taken it upon himself to remove the cause of that dishonour.’

‘You mean, Sir William? Let me get this straight: Sir William is – was- having an affair with this Nest woman. Her son found out, and killed him.’ I swallowed, remembering Roman’s description of the body.

‘Yes’. This was a man of few words.

Before I could ask any further questions a
figure appeared at Roman’s side and the two men nodded at each other, a slight movement of the head, before talking in tones too soft for me to follow. I was taking little notice, concentrating on the commotion in the centre of the room, trying to peer around the solid wall that was Roman but as I shifted position I felt, rather than saw the newcomer stiffen, and I looked at him cautiously. He was staring at me with a concentration that made my skin prickle, and beneath his almost emotionless features I could read curiosity, incredulity and a satisfaction that I couldn’t fathom. Whatever it was, he scared me, even more than Roman did. Roman was not unaware of the exchange, and I was conscious of his puzzlement as he looked into both our faces.

My attention was now firmly fixed on this new man: he was shorter than Roman, with hair just as long and dark, a hooked nose, full lips and black, black eyes. But what really held my gaze was his paleness. Like Roman, he looked as if he had never seen the sun. Hell, even my white bits, the bits
I never tried to tan, were not as white as these two men.  And another similarity occurred to me: their motionlessness and lack of expression. Neither men fidgeted, both were statue-still, yet a power radiated out from them, a promise of violence and danger hidden beneath their stillness. I sensed well-sheathed menace and doubted if many had the bravery to cross them. And they were unarmed: imagine what havoc they might wreak if they wielded knives, or swords or guns? Little did I know, then, that they had no need of weapons. They carried their own natural highly-effective ones with them.

My star
ing was cut short as Roman manoeuvred me towards the huge double doors on our right. The newcomer was behind me, shepherding me and I wasn’t sure whether he was there for my protection or to make sure I didn’t run. Both men used their bodies to shield me as much as possible.

The violence in the air was tangible and I was glad we were leaving, though not so glad about
my companions. The words ‘frying pan’ and ‘fire’ came to mind.

‘What will they d
o to her?’ I whispered to Roman and we continued to edge our way out of the hall.

‘Lady Nest?’

‘Yes.’

He shrugged as if it
was of no consequence to him, and perhaps it wasn’t. ‘That is for Lord Brychan to decide.’

‘And…
Mahel?’ I was pleased I had remembered the name of the man with the blood-spattered clothes.

‘Again, Lord Brychan will decide. But,’ he continued, ‘Mahel is his son
and heir and the cause was just.’

We reached the doorway, and although it was full of people crowding in curiously, they moved willingly aside to let us pass. The doors themselves were huge, at least three times the size of a normal man and were wide open, but as we stepped over the threshold I noticed that one of the doors had a much smaller one cut into it – handy, I thought
.

It was dark outside
yet there was sufficient glow from fires and torches to make out the massive castle walls in front and a scattering of buildings in the open space inside them. There were plenty of people around but thankfully none appeared interested in us. Most were raggedly dressed, and from what I could see in the dark smoky light, were filthy and unkempt. All were scurrying about. A few seemed to be soldiers of some kind, wearing metal helmets and weapons, and their body language suggested they were not be messed with. That was fine by me; I had no intention of doing any kind of messing.

‘Stables,’ Roman said, and his companion disappeared into the shadows.
‘Viktor will get the horses,’ he explained.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Our home. Mine and Viktor’s.’

Okaaay…
now that shed a whole new light on things. I could have sworn Roman didn’t bat for the opposite side, especially not after what had happened earlier tonight (or two nights ago, depending on your perspective). Shows you never can tell, I thought, disappointed. 

‘And where is that?’ I enquired
politely, smiling sweetly, trying to deflect a suspicious look from one of the soldiers. I guessed I must stand out somewhat from the normal run of women the people here were used to. Roman returned the soldier’s look with an inscrutable one of his own. The soldier’s eyes widened in shock, then he put his head down and stumbled away as fast as his legs could move. I had no idea what, or who, Roman was, but that poor man certainly did, and it had caused him to run in fear. If I had any ounce of self-preservation then I knew I should do the same. I didn’t move.

‘South
of here,’ Roman replied to the question I had forgotten I had asked: I could still see the soldier’s face in my mind. ‘Not far.’

At that moment
shod hooves clattered over stone and, as I tried to step forward, Roman’s arm held me back as a huge horse emerged from the shadows. It was aimed at a black cave between two enormous turrets which I presumed to be a gate in the castle’s outer walls. The horse was travelling fast and the draft of its passing blew my skirt around my legs. If Roman hadn’t stopped me I would have stepped into its path and been trampled. I took a shaky breath, adrenaline shooting through me for the second time that night.

‘A messenger had been sent to Lord Brychan,’ Roman stated. ‘He will return on the morrow. We do not want to be here when he does.’ His voice was grim.

I was about to ask for further details when Viktor materialised out from behind the nearest building, leading two horses. Both were tacked up and were alert, ears pricked forward in anticipation.

Roman looked at them critically. ‘Can you ride like a man?’ he asked.

‘Excuse me?’