Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03 Page 6

  She’d already noticed that there was no window in this door, so she availed herself of the facilities with a sigh of relief. There was even a ewer of water; she scrubbed off as much of the past few days’ filth as she could before investigating the contents of the tray.

  “Twas simple fare, coarse bread and hard cheese, with a mug of warm ale. To Lily it seemed manna from heaven. She savored every bite, setting aside half, lest they bring her nothing on the morrow. Besides, after the scanty meals she’d had the past few weeks, her stomach could bear no more.

  More comfortable than she’d been since her mother’s death, she settled on the pallet to mull over everything that had happened. She’d believed that coming to Dolwyddelan would give her answers; instead, she had more questions than before. But she couldn’t regret that she’d come here, despite her sojourn in the bowels of the castle.

  She couldn’t regret meeting the Dragon.

  Absently working her fingers through her tangled hair, she tried to think, but her brain reeled with exhaustion and confusion, not to mention the lump still swelling on the side of her head.

  She needed sleep to clear her mind. Only then could she make sense of everything.

  But she’d no sooner closed her eyes than she heard the rattle of a key in the door.

  Sweet Mary, what did they want now? Had they permitted her the luxury of refreshing herself, of food and drink, only to drag her back to the pit? If that was their plan, she would not go.

  She’d been too compliant, not wishing to anger Llywelyn. By God, what more could he ask? She refused to go against her nature any longer.

  When the door swung open, she stood ready with the tray, prepared to knock her jailer over the head, if need be. She hit the man in the head three times before he managed to wrest it from her, although she inflicted little damage.

  “Leave me be!” she shrieked.

  “All I want is a decent night’s rest! I’ll go wherever you wish tomorrow!”

  He held her wrists in one meaty hand, making a mockery of her struggles.

  “You’ll do as I wish, girl, else you’ll pay for it.” He chuckled, the sound resonating from deep within his massive chest.

  “They told me you were a quiet thing, and meek, Ha! What do those Welsh bastards know? Puny little runts, most of them, with brains to match.”

  Lily stared up into his face, intrigued by his strange looks and accent—and intimidated by his sheer size. He towered over her. Hair so fair it looked almost white hung past his shoulders, and his eyes gleamed an icy blue in his deeply tanned face. Even his clothing was odd, the fur-and-skin tunic leaving his arms and part of his chest bare. Despite his forbidding when, laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes; indeed, he was smiling down at her now, clearly amused by her meager show of rebellion.

  “Who are you?” she asked. And, more important to her—why was he here? He couldn’t be Welsh. What business could he have with her?

  “I am called Swen Siwardson. Your prince sent me to take you to your new home. Here,” he said, releasing her and tossing a bundle on the bed, “I have brought you proper clothes.” His gaze swept her from head to toe.

  “Though I like what you wear now well enough.”

  He made her feel awkward—naked—in her tunic and leggings. Turning away, she wrapped her arms about herself for a moment, then unfolded the packet.

  It contained an underdress of linen, softened by many washings, and a faded wool bliaut. Though well-worn, they smelled clean. Lily held them up—they should fit, with room to spare.

  But she still didn’t intend to go anywhere.

  “You put them on, then we will leave,” Swen told her.

  He stood in front of the door and, drawing his dagger, flipped it through the air. It landed, quivering, in the opposite wall.

  “Would you go out into the hallway to wait?” she asked when she found her voice. If he’d done that trick to intimidate her, it had worked.

  “Nay. You get dressed now.” He crossed the room in three strides and retrieved his knife.

  “We must be far from here before dawn.” Another flick of the wrist, and he sent the blade into the wall just past her head.

  He’d made his point. Hands shaking, Lily picked up the undemmic and pulled it over her head, then, using the roomy garment as if it were a tent, slipped out of her old clothes.

  She had trouble lacing up the bliaut, but what did it matter, so long as she didn’t trip over the excess fabric?

  At least Swen didn’t watch her dress—not so she could tell, anyway. The thought of traveling to some unknown destination with him frightened her, but she didn’t seem to have a choice. She might as well go with him willingly;

  he looked capable of killing her with his bare hands. He’d probably enjoy it, too.

  After she gathered the Dragon’s cloak about her, she ripped a square of material from her shirt and wrapped the extra food to take with her, then joined Swen by the door.

  Reaching into a pouch at his waist, Swen pulled out a slender piece of rope. Sweet Mary save her, but she was growing tired of this! She remained silent while he took her bundle of food, then bound her wrists. He picked up her torn shirt from the floor and eyed her consideringly.

  “You going to be quiet, or do I need to He your mouth, too?”

  “I won’t say a word, I swear,” she assured him.

  He nodded, a grin on his face.

  “Good. But it won’t matter if you do. No one will hear you where we’re going.”

  Swell moved to the wall and shoved at one of the wooden panels. It slid open to reveal a dark, gaping passage.

  “Come on, then, girl.”

  Grabbing her by the rope wound about her wrists, he drew her into the wall with him, and they plunged into darkness.

  She would never forget her journey with Swell so long as she lived. The man didn’t understand how it felt to be tired, he just plodded along and carried her with him, alternately bullying her and encouraging her to keep her moving. They traveled through the passageway seemingly for hours before they emerged from a rocky outcropping well outside the castle walls. No one would even know she’d left, unless they came looking for her.

  Since no one had seen them leave, how long might it be before that happened?

  A horse stood tethered in a copse of trees, loaded with several small packs, awaiting their arrival. After checking the area to be sure they were alone, Swen tossed her into the saddle, then climbed up behind her.

  He held her steady before him, but she didn’t like his arm wrapped around her waist, nor his body pressed against her back. He was larger and more muscular than the Dragon, but she’d far rather have had that enigmatic Welsh lord holding her close than this blond giant.

  However, she didn’t have a choice.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Lily caught her last glimpse of Dolwyddelan Castle as the moon set behind the towers. Would she ever see it–or the Dragon—again?

  That question haunted her as they jogged along, both man and horse apparently tireless. Lily fought sleep as long as she could; once the sun rose, she concentrated on taking note of anything unusual along the way. If she managed to escape Swen, she needed to know the route back to Dolwyddelan.

  Not if, she reminded herself firmly as she stifled another yawn. When. When an opportunity to escape presented itself, she must take it. Her chances of getting away—and staying out of his reach—were much better here in the hills and forest than they’d be once he locked her up again.

  If Swen hadn’t been her captor, she’d likely have found him an amusing companion. He loved to talk, and it didn’t seem to matter whether she answered him or not. He just kept up a steady stream of comment, his deep voice droning on in her ear until she could ignore him no longer.

  “I don’t know where you’re from, but do all people in your homeland talk as much as you?” she asked in exasperation.

  He chuckled.

  “Not all, but most. My home is far north of
the Frankish lands.

  “Tis cold there much of the year, not like this place. In winter the nights are very long. We like to gather round the fire, drink ale and tell stories.

  Much like your Welsh bards, only merrier.”

  Here was a chance to quench her insatiable thirst for news of foreign places.

  “You miss it.” She heard it in his voice.

  “Aye.”

  “Then why have you come here?” She looked back at his face.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  His expression told her nothing. What made men so inscrutable? She found it far easier to read women’s faces, though perhaps ‘twas only that she’d had more practice.

  She poked him in the gut with her elbow. He grunted, but appeared unharmed.

  “You cannot go silent on me now,” she chided.

  “Do you owe Llywelyn a debt? Or has he offered you riches? I don’t understand why he wants me locked away. It makes no sense, since I cannot possibly be of any value to him, but nothing that’s happened since I scaled the castle wall has–” “You climbed the wall?” He gave a muffled grunt of laughter.

  “I would like to have seen that. Did you make it all the way up?”

  “Almost. The Dragon pulled me over the top of the wall.”

  Grabbing her chin in his callused palm, he turned her head and stared down at her face. Finally he shook his head.

  “Quiet and meek! Llywelyn’s men are fools. And I worried that this would be an easy task, boring, a waste of my talents. I will need to watch you carefully,” he said. A wide smile split his face.

  “Good.”

  Lily jerked free of his hand and turned her back to him.

  That slip of the tongue would cost her dearly. The last thing she wanted was Swen watching her more closely;

  those pale eyes already saw too much. Beneath his affable when a sharp mind—and a dangerous man. She’d been a fool to underestimate him.

  Exhaustion made her mind too dull to focus on anything important now. Instead, she badgered Swen for more information about his home. Finally, his deep voice rambling in her ear, she drifted off to sleep.

  Swen looked down at the girl, her face resting back against his shoulder, her body slumped against him with the boneless ness of utter exhaustion. She surprised him.

  As he’d told her, she was nothing like those idiots had led him to believe. Perhaps everything else they’d told him was a lie, too.

  They expected him to accept her as a convent-bred lady, escaped from the abbey to run off with a Norman churl? It hadn’t rang true even before he met her. And now that he had… He didn’t believe a word of it.

  Llywelyn wanted her out of Dolwyddelan, Swen knew that much. She hadn’t wanted to leave. And the look in her eyes—and something in her voice when she said his name—pointed toward the Dragon as the man Llywelyn wanted to separate her from.

  For her protection, or the Dragon’s?

  This grew more interesting by the moment.

  Swen shifted the girl in his arms, savoring the way she nestled against him. If she belonged to the Dragon, he had no intention of enjoying more than this. A pity, but he didn’t poach on another man’s territory.

  Especially the Dragon’s.

  Lord Ian could be on their trail even now. Swen’s blood heated in anticipation. This situation might prove to be far more enjoyable than he’d imagined.

  He gazed at Lily’s face once more. Soft skin, vivid eyes, hair of flame.

  And courage.

  The Dragon would find them.

  Swell smiled. He loved a good fight.

  Chapter Six

  Before dawn, Ian stood outside Lily’s chamber, key in hand. Fortunately for him, the man on guard at the foot of the stairs owed him a favor, one he’d never imagined he’d bother to collect. But he needed to see Lily, without Llywelyn’s learning of it. This was the only way.

  He unlocked the door and slipped in quietly. Flickering lamplight cast an eerie glow over the small room, but nowhere did he see Lily.

  Hell and damnation. He swiftly drew the door closed and leaned his forehead against the planks. Llywelyn had done it again.

  Heart pounding hard with frustration and concern for Lily’s safety, he stalked over to the pallet and picked up the clothes tossed carelessly aside. At least she’d gotten a chance to change, hopefully into something better. He forced himself to calm, and looked about the room with more care.

  A Wooden tray lay near the door, bread crumbs scattered around it on the floor. Her shirt had been torn, but it didn’t appear to have been ripped from her body, thank God. A square of the fabric was missing. A bandage? He searched the area around the pallet, but he didn’t find any blood.

  However, he did notice several blade marks in the walls. The wood appeared fresh-cut. Lily didn’t have a knife, not even an eating knife, though these cuts had been made by something larger, thrown with force, to judge by the depth.

  Ian clenched his fist around the remains of Lily’s shirt.

  He knew of only one man with the habit of tossing his knife.

  Swen Siwardson.

  Had that arrogant Viking bastard been in this room—with Lily?

  Siwardson had arrived at Llywelyn’s court scarce three months ago, sent by his father to handle trade negotiations.

  Almostimmediately he’d wormed his way into the prince’s favor.

  Ian felt no jealousy over that fact, but he didn’t trust the Viking’s constant jovial manner. Unless the man was daft, how could he be so happy all the time? His size and strength, combined with his unusual looks and good humor, made him near as popular with the ladies as the Dragon, though he took more advantage of that popularity than Ian ever would. He couldn’t fault the man for that.

  But what business did he have in this chamber with Lily? He couldn’t have gotten in without a key. Ian could see Llywelyn’s hand in this. Clearly, his overlord intended to take no chances with the Dragon’s obedience. If Lily wasn’t there, she couldn’t tempt him away from his duty.

  Or so Llywelyn thought.

  Since he’d come to realize that Lily reminded him of Gillian, his mind hadn’t stopped conjuring up reasons to explain the resemblance. Every explanation that came to mind was far too bizarre to contemplate. He hoped Dal would discover something useful. Llywelyn’s actions only served to reinforce the feeling that there was more to

  Lily’s tale than he’d first thought.

  He had to find her.

  By the time the sun crept up over the horizon, Ian had left Dolwyddelan. He took a company of six men with him, including the two he’d chosen to train the previous afternoon. They knew next to nothing about fighting, but that wouldn’t matter. They had good hearts, and already their loyalties lay with him.

  As soon as they traveled out of sight of the castle, he parted company with his men. They would go on to l’Eau Clair, his cousin’s keep in the marches, while he searched for Lily. Instinct told him that the answers to Lily’s questions could be found there.

  Cautious investigation before he left revealed that no mounted men had left Dolwyddelan in the night, and that Siwardson was nowhere to be found. Apparently the Viking had spent the night away from the castle. A convenient excuse. But Ian felt certain Siwardson had taken Lily.

  Now he needed to discover where they’d gone.

  He backtracked to the outskirts of Dolwyddelan. Si-ward son must have had horses waiting somewhere outside.

  Hopefully they’d left some sign or trail he could follow.

  He searched for a while before he found the faint hoofprints of one horse, leading toward the forest from a remote area beyond the craggy outcropping that formed Dolwyddelan’s foundation. Lacking any other trail, he headed into the woods.

  Unfortunately, there was no snow on the ground, although there were enough soil-covered areas to show an occasional hoof mark. As the day wore on, Ian couldn’t help but be impressed with the other man’s ability to travel without leaving a well
-marked trail. But he still managed to follow along.

  He made good time, considering the terrain and the lack of clues, but he didn’t feel he’d gained much ground when he paused in midafternoon. They must have left the castle in the middle of the night to have so large a lead. He had an advantage, however; Siwardson’s mount carried a double load. Soon, he hoped, he’d begin to catch up to them.

  Ian’s lack of sleep the past two nights began to catch up with him as the day faded into twilight. He paused to eat, and to rest his mount. As soon as the moon rose high enough to light his way, he continued on. Siwardson would have to stop eventually, if only to give his overburdened horse a rest. That might allow him to catch up with them.

  He wondered how Lily fared. He’d tried not to think of her too often as the day passed. Only by detaching himself from this venture could he hold the frantic feeling pushing at his heart and mind at bay. As he’d done with so many of the tasks Llywelyn set him to, he treated it as a necessary duty, distancing himself from the reality of it.

  It was the only way he would succeed.

  But as he rode through the shadowy trees, pausing everY so often to look for signs they’d passed this way, Ian found himself thinking of Lily more and more, until she filled his thoughts. How would she look in ladies’ garb, her hair brushed smooth? He could not forget the way she’d clung to him in the cell, her lips so soft beneath his. Their bodies had fit together perfectly, her height a match for his. When he held her in his arms, her head had just reached his shoulder.

  She’d felt as if she belonged there.

  Would the Viking try to kiss her, or make too free with his hands? He didn’t fear that Siwardson would harm her.

  By all accounts, he loved women. That was the problem.

  Ian didn’t want him to so much as look at Lily.

  The thought made his blood rage with a fire completely foreign to him. But even though he had never felt it before, he knew what it was.

  Jealousy.

  He urged his mount to move faster.

  The trees grew thick in this part of the forest, making the going rough. He dismounted and led his horse. When he heard a noise different from the usual night sounds, he stopped. He stood listening, and heard it again. Voices, to his left. He tied the reins to a sturdy tree and, drawing his sword, continued on foot.