State of Grace (Resurrection) (29 page)

Sir Bernard paused, his hand halfway to his mouth, surprised. He was partly turned away from me and he shifted
his body to look at me square on, lifting one leg over the bench, straddling it. The five other men who were sitting at his table moved restlessly, their interest piqued.

A dog rushed in, yipping and snapping, and I cringed away, snatching the hand closest to it to my chest before it could bite me. Sir Bernard’s booted foot lashed out at it, catching it in the ribs. It yelped and slunk under a table. On hands and knees I risked raising my head and just at that moment my wimple came off. There was a collective gasp, followed by a low angry-bee muttering.

‘Ulric? Sir Bernard spoke to the man who I thought of as the leader of my little band. Ulric bowed. ‘The bard’s whore, my lord,’ he said. ‘As you requested.’

‘I didn’t –’
Sir Bernard began, but got no further.

‘I did. Good morn, father.
I trust you slept well.’ It was Sibyl who interrupted him.

‘Daughter? To what do I owe the honour? It is barely past sunrise.’

She leant in between two of Lord Brychan’s soldiers and reached for an apple, tossing it in her hand. I watched its rhythmic rise and fall, thoughts skittering disjointedly through my head. Clearly I hadn’t been brought in to face Sir Bernard on his instructions; Lady Sibyl had instigated this. The question was
why
.

‘
I am grateful you feel the need to grace me with your presence when you are normally still abed,’ he said to her, a tad sarcastically. ‘But why the entertainment?’

Why indeed, I wondered silently.

‘She spent the night with the bard.’ Sibyl, still tossing the apple tried unsuccessfully to look as if she didn’t care. I guessed this was her version of a cat fight, and she wasn’t playing fair by going running to her daddy. I wasn’t prepared to spend any longer kneeling in front of her and I struggled to my feet. I felt horribly exposed, circled by a sea of unfriendly faces. Sibyl looked down her pretty upturned nose at me, disgust and dislike marring her features.

‘Of what interest is that to me, or to you?’  Bernard enquired. ‘If the bard wants to tup a wench it is no concern of mine. Nor yours.’ Even I could hear the warning in his voice.

‘She is his first cousin,’ Sibyl said, casually.

Bernard’s eyes narrowed and his head came round to look at me. ‘Is this true?’ he demanded, inspecting every inch of me.
I was acutely conscious of my homespun rough dress decorated with strands of straw, and my short curly hair that was undoubtedly sticking out in all directions. I compared this to Sibyl’s cool well-dressed figure.

‘I…
er… don’t know,’ I hedged.

‘She is lying,’ Sibyl stated calmly. ‘She told me herself.’ She put the apple on the table and confronted her father. ‘What will you do about this sin?’ She spat out the la
st word. ‘Then there is her hair,’ she added.

I knew
my short hair was an issue, but I couldn’t remember why.

‘I hope
for your sake you are not promised to God,’ Bernard growled at me. Then he made a decision. ‘Fetch the bard,’ he ordered. ‘I want to hear what he has to say. He may be as guilty of this sin as the woman.’

Sibyl’s expression changed from smug satisfaction to alarm. ‘Is that necessary, father?’ she asked quickly. ‘I am certain Roman is innocent.’

‘Daughter.’ Bernard looked her directly in the face. ‘You cannot have this both ways. If she is what you accuse her to be, then the bard would be equally as guilty.’ He glared at her and lowered his voice. ‘Be careful, Sibyl, you try my patience. Do not dishonour me with your interest in a common scoundrel, or I will marry you to Aubrey.’

Sibyl blanched and took an instinctive step back. ‘You wouldn’t,’ she stammered.

‘I warn you, daughter, I will not tolerate any more disgrace from my womenfolk.’

Sibyl took his threat seriously, and, gathering her skirts in her hands, stalked towards the arch and the staircase beyond.
‘I will leave this matter in your capable hands, Lord Father,’ she replied gathering her dignity around her and feigning disinterest. ‘I will break my fast in my chamber,’ she announced grandly and then she was gone, in a flurry of silken skirts.

‘Are you a nu
n?’ Bernard demanded.

I shook my head, not trusting my voice. On the one hand I was immensely r
elived Bernard was not going to question me about my part in Godfrey’s death, but on the other I sensed I was still in deep trouble, but not quite sure of the reason.

‘Have you been in holy orders, a novice, maybe?’

I shook my head again.

‘What are you called?’

‘Grace,’ I croaked, finding my voice.

A thump between my shoulder blades sent me staggering.

‘My lord,’ Ulric snarled behind my back.

‘My lord,’ I echoed obediently, straightening and trying to flex my back without being obvious. That blow had hurt.

‘Have you any other names?’

‘Llewellyn, my lord.’

‘Llewellyn,’ he mused. ‘Welsh, then. You are not from Brychan? Aberhonddu you may better know it as.’ He didn’t so much ask a question as make a statement, but I answered him anyway.

‘I’m from
London, my lord.’

This surprised him. ‘
London! I will check,’ he threatened. I bowed my head in acknowledgment.

A clatter from the entrance brought my head up sharply. Please, please, I pleaded silently, not Roman too, and relief made me feel faint when I saw the returning men had no prisoner.

‘My bard?’ Bernard demanded.

One man came forward, his hands outstretched in supplication. ‘Couldn’t find him, my lord. Nor that servant of his, neither. Horses are gone, too.’

Bernard shrugged and turned to me. ‘He has left you to your fate, wench,’ he commented. ‘Secure her until I make a decision.’ He turned away before her had finished speaking. The entertainment I had briefly provided was now boring him.

Ulric, standing slightly in front and to my right, jerked his head at his two sidekicks. Immediately they stepped forward, grabbed an arm each and marched me back toward
s the main doors. I guessed I was going to find out what the dungeons looked like.

I was wrong, though.
Instead of dungeons and manacles, I was led (frogmarched) to a miniscule room near the base of one of the smaller towers at the postern gate. It was more like a broom cupboard than a room, but I wasn’t complaining: at least it was above ground, even if it didn’t have a window.

I was pushed inside and I went without a murmur. I c
ould see no point in struggling, even when the nastiest of the three leered at me and grabbed his crotch, rubbing himself suggestively. I had no doubt he would visit me sometime soon. My only hope is that when he did he would find an empty cell.

The door cl
osed and a key grated in the lock, plunging me into total darkness. Tiny squeaks and rustlings assured me I wasn’t alone, and although I had no fear of rats, I nevertheless hoped that the noises were being made by mice: mice had a much better press and were cuter, too. And had smaller teeth.

The thought of teeth brought me to Roman and I hoped he was many miles distant. There was little point in both of us being caught. Bernard’s words slid into my mind and I weighed up the truth of them; Roman and Viktor were doing what was best for them. They couldn’t help
me, and why should they? I wasn’t one of them and they had no allegiance to me, in spite of what Roman and I had shared. I had no illusions about that; I might be stupidly attached to the man, but the vampire was only doing what came naturally. He had told me himself he didn’t feel anything for humans, that our lives were too short to impact on his. I hoped I would disappear back to my own time before I proved him right.

Taking my time, for I had
nothing else to do, I explored every bit of my prison. After a short while my eyes adjusted and I realised I could see a little by the light that seeped under the door: not enough to see clearly, just enough so that the darkness was a little less intense.

My cupboard was barely long enough to lie down full
length, and was so narrow I could touch each wall with my outstretched hands. The stone was cold and slightly damp to the touch, and the door was solid wood. It didn’t give, not even a little, when I tried to rattle it. I was grateful for the pallet of straw that had been laid along one wall and, in spite of the rodent activity. I sat down, crossed-legged, ignoring both the ache in my knees and the indignant squeaking. I mentally apologised for disturbing them, wondering how long I would need to be in here before I actually started talking to them. Not long, I suspected. I desperately needed to get out, and with that goal in mind in I concentrated on the insides of my head, willing my mind and body back to my own time.

I sat there, growing
more stiff and cold with each passing minute, my stomach rumbling and complaining and my throat and mouth craving water. I had no idea how long I remained in that position, but when I eventually gave up, I was mentally and physically exhausted. I carefully uncrossed my protesting legs, wincing at the pins and needles in my feet and the stabbing pain in my knees and hips, and I lowered myself, like an arthritic old lady, slowly and carefully onto my side. The straw was rough, poking and scratching me through my clothes but I hardly noticed it: I was too immersed in my internal misery to let a few sharp blades of old grass bother me.

I curled up, knees to my chest, and wrapped my skirt around my legs
, checking the cloak was securely tucked around my shoulders and arms, hoping to minimise the insidious creeping of the chill emanating from the bare stone walls and floor. It was cold now, and I had a horrible feeling if I was still here by nightfall, the temperature would become unbearable. I hated the cold and since I had been here I had only been warm for a fraction of the time. I had a grudging respect for how hardy the people of the early Middle Ages were. I missed central heating and right now I would have given my soul for a radiator.

I wanted to leap up
, prepared to run or fight, when, after interminable hours of cold and darkness, the door grated open, but all I could manage was a slow, painful lurching as I clambered clumsily and stiffly to my feet. The cold had settled into my bones, along with renewed fear (I’d had too much time to think) and this, combined with being in one position for far too long, made me slow and ungainly.

I needn’t have gotten up. A jug of water and half a loaf of bread were placed unceremoniously
on the floor by a hunched shadow and the door was locked once more. It had taken less than five seconds and I had done little more than move one foot in front of the other. There had been no opportunity to jump my gaoler, even if I had been physically capable. My thoughts inevitably swung round to Roman and his incredible speed. There was never a vampire around when you needed one, I thought sarcastically, yet at the same time grateful he wasn’t here. Boy, were my emotions ever mixed up, I mused.

I tried not to resent him for abandoning me, comparing him to what he so often reminded me
of: a leopard. Would a leopard put itself in danger defending a jackal against a pride of lions? Hardly. I know the analogy wasn’t quite right, but the gist of it was there. Roman was only doing what his nature intended. I would be the one at fault if I persisted in trying to maintain he had human emotions, feelings and values. He might have been human once, but he sure as hell wasn’t any more, despite how he looked. I couldn’t expect him to react in a human way.