13. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Tennyson’s fingers gripped Louna’s tightly, reflexively, and then let go. “Lindsey,” he said, his voice almost even. “Where are you?”
“Northwest of the prison,” Lindsey said. “I made it through Rime of the Ancient Mariner four and a half times.”
“A hundred eighty kilometers,” Tennyson told Louna.
“Left at second Part IV, second Part VII, right at third Part V, fourth Part VII, another left two stanzas in.”
Tennyson tapped his finger along with Lindsey’s directions. “That’s… forty minutes, fifty-five minutes, an hour and fifteen minutes, and… about two hours, consecutive turns.”
Louna stared at him, and he set his mouth impatiently. “Rime takes half an hour to recite. We used it to count distances on missions. What else, Lindsey?”
“Alvarez and Mitchell aren’t with me.”
“They’re still at the prison,” Tennyson said. “You were the only target.”
Lindsey let out a relieved breath, and Louna spoke in the gap. “We aren’t far behind. Can you describe where you are?”
“Oh yeah,” Lindsey muttered. “You’re gonna love it. Very capital ‘R’ Romantic.”
Louna flashed a quick smile at Tennyson. “There’s nothing more romantic than a jailbreak.”
“How about a castle?” Lindsey asked.
A flicker of satisfaction sparked through her. “Corb Castle?” she asked.
Lindsey paused. “How’d you know?”
“Fortified, elevated, remote,” Louna said, glancing at Tennyson again.
“Doesn’t get much more fortified than a dungeon,” Lindsey muttered.
“It’ll be hell to breach. The castle’s on top of a hill, with clear sights down the roads, but there’s some forest cover.
A few little outbuildings, trees, big cliff on the south side.
They brought me down to a side door, but it sounded like there were other people on the grounds. ”
Louna frowned. “Why would they go to a castle with an audience?”
“They wouldn’t,” Tennyson said. “Witnesses complicate the situation—Hartmann would have avoided them.”
“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Louna said.
“Who else would kidnap Lindsey?”
Tennyson pointed, and Louna turned down a road barely wider than the car. “Any guesses?” she asked.
“From me?” Lindsey asked. “No. I’m still trying to catch up on what’s going on.”
“Start at the beginning,” Louna suggested. “What happened when you were taken?”
Lindsey shifted, the sound of clinking chains muffled in the background. “A guard came to my cell this morning and said my trial had been moved up. I thought it was weird that they were taking me separately from the others, so—I took out the earbud and hid it in my sleeve.”
The last part was said in a rush, and Louna hid a smile and glanced at Tennyson.
She knew he’d been listening. The curiosity would have been too much to resist, even if he wasn’t spending his days bored and alone in a cell.
But in a show of great restraint, she kept the I told you so off her face as she looked Tennyson over, checking the increased tension in his shoulders and fists.
“Don’t gloat,” he mouthed back.
“The guards brought me out to the transport van,” Lindsey went on, “but it was stopped outside the city. Four men opened the doors, tased the guards, and threw me in the trunk of a car. Black Impala. I didn’t get a look at the plates.”
“Hartmann,” Tennyson said. “He likes American classics, and Harlow’s got an Impala in his Budapest garage.”
Lindsey didn’t ask who Hartmann was—more confirmation that he’d been listening to Tennyson’s reports about their situation. The car bounced over the uneven road, but Louna pressed harder on the gas pedal. “Did you see the men who took you?” she asked.
“They were young. Twenties, wearing masks. One spoke Romanian. I know a lot of the locals, but I didn’t recognize them.”
The road inclined, leading them up a creeping hill overgrown with oak and hornbeam. “We’re almost there,” Tennyson said. “Hang tight for a few minutes.”
“Sure,” Lindsey said dryly. “Take your time.”
They drove for another couple kilometers, and then Tennyson sat up straighter and pointed down a gap in the trees. “Turn here,” he said, searching the ground as she obeyed. “This looks like a utility road. The tire tracks are old—probably hasn’t been used since the last snowfall. Park here.”
She pulled over, and he unbuckled and fixed her with a serious look. “I’m going to scout the grounds,” he said. “Lindsey said four men took him, but they may have more in the castle.”
“Have fun,” Louna said. “I’ll go see what Lindsey heard when he came in.”
Tennyson let out a breath. “I suppose it’s no use asking you to stay in the car.”
She smiled, turned off the engine, and got out. “I’ll see you back here in an hour?”
Concern deepened the crease between his brows—again—but he didn’t tell her not to go. She waited, daring him to say it wasn’t safe.
“One hour,” he said finally, as though he were giving her permission to stab him.
Louna wanted to laugh at his tone, but his eyes looked so big and blue and worried that she sighed and buried her inclination to tease. “I’ll be careful, mon loup. I promise.”
He nodded, and when she locked the door and stepped out onto the road, he didn’t stop her.
A heavy feeling settled in her chest as she walked, like she had missed a number in the combination while cracking a safe.
She’d conceded that she would be careful, hadn’t she?
He couldn’t expect her to just sit in the car and wait for him.
To be fair, he hadn’t asked her to. He’d made his wishes known, but accepted her refusal without argument. Even worried, he hadn’t pushed. He was trusting her.
And she wasn’t returning the favor.
Louna sighed and looked over her shoulder, but Tennyson had disappeared.
She should have told him about the ring, but the thought came with a shriveling desire to pull back, to keep the information to herself.
Information was power. As much as she liked Tennyson, she’d only known him for a few days.
If Harlow was as dangerous as Tennyson said, then her life depended on how she used what she knew about the ring.
Not just hers—Tennyson’s and Lindsey’s, as well.
She couldn’t predict how Tennyson would use that knowledge, and that made sharing it too risky.
She needed more. Once she knew exactly why the ring was important to Harlow, she would have a better idea of what to do about it, and then she could involve Tennyson.
She was not willing to melt for this.
Mind made up, Louna turned her attention to the castle.
It had risen over the cloud of bare tree branches, weathered white stone and snow-capped spires stabbing the gray sky.
As she got closer, she could see the cliff Lindsey had mentioned crowding on the southern side of the keep, blending seamlessly into the castle wall.
The trees thinned and the road wound around the hill into a low parking lot, which was filled with vehicles.
Including a catering van.
“Someone’s hosting a party,” Louna said, tilting her head back to study the roofed turrets.
“Seems like an odd place to bring a prisoner,” Lindsey commented in a flat voice. “Hope they’re not planning on a public execution as entertainment.”
“There won’t be a public execution,” Tennyson said.
Lindsey snorted. “Right. Because that’s less likely than being kidnapped and imprisoned in a medieval dungeon.”
“Be specific,” Louna said, climbing a set of stairs cut into the hillside at the edge of the parking lot. “Medieval architecture spans the entire Middle Ages. Did you see all the arches? The buttresses? I’d say 15th century, early Renaissance. Very Gothic.”
“God, there’s two of you,” Lindsey muttered. “Where did you find each other?”
“I used him as a model for a nude painting,” Louna said.
Lindsey whistled. “Tell me you have a picture.”
“As a matter of fact—”
“No picture,” Tennyson said. “No copies. Focus on the problem, please.”
Louna had reached the top of the steps, and she paused to take in the magnificence of the arched stone doorway.
The wooden door was open, welcoming Louna into a small courtyard.
High, whitewashed walls rose around her, with open-sided, roofed walkways supported by dark wooden beams wrapping around the upper levels.
Dozens of people scurried through the yard, carrying trays and chairs, decorations, artifacts, lights.
Nobody paid her any attention. She hovered on the outskirts for a few moments, watching and listening, and then made her way into the keep.
The entry was bright and inviting, with the same arches, white walls, and wood beams from the courtyard. It opened into a large hall, filled with tables and tapestries and even more people, who seemed to be converged on a single young man in the center of the room.
“No, no, no,” he was shouting in Romanian. “I told you, nothing pre-Romanesque. This is clearly Ottonian—what about that says ‘Gothic aesthetic’, hmm? Use the space! And what is that doing here? I said period pieces only!”
That was an upright piano, which two men had just wheeled into the hall on a furniture dolly. The men froze, and Louna picked up an unattended clipboard from a side table and stepped casually into the silence following the outburst.
“Oh my,” she said, in French-accented English. “You really do need help.”
The young man swept a cool look over her. “Excuse me?”
“Maria Constantin,” Louna said, extending her hand. “Event planning. I was sent over when we heard of your... troubles.”
“Is that so?” the man said, frowning. “And what troubles have you heard of, exactly?”
Louna gestured to the piano. “The first piano was created by Bartolomeo Cristofori in 1700. You’re right, the 18th century is far too late for this space.
For a more authentic sound, I would suggest harpsichords and dulcimers, and of course panpipes.
You simply cannot have a party without panpipes. ”
The young man blinked at her, his large brown eyes taking in her professional pencil skirt and clipboard.
He had curly blond hair that gave him a sweet, youthful look, which made his scowl seem more petulant than punishing.
She smiled, and he heaved a dramatic sigh and waved at the room.
“Nobody here understands my vision. The florists tried to bring in roses. What would be your suggestion?”
“Well,” Louna said, sniffing politely. “Roses are... acceptable… for most parties. For something like this, I would have gone with peonies.”
“Yes!” the man cried. He gave her another appraising look and took her hand, his eyes shining. “Oh, please, you must help me. The party is on Saturday, and I cannot get anyone here to give me any kind of significant help.”
Louna flashed him a bright smile. “That’s why I’m here, Mr.…?”
“Cristian Ardelean,” he said. “But please call me Cristian. May I call you Maria? I feel such a strong connection between us already.”
“Of course.” Louna flipped a paper up on her clipboard and sighed. “I’m not sure I can trust any of the information I was given. Start at the beginning, Cristian. What is your vision for this event?”
He beamed at her. “Now that you’re here, I know it will be exactly as I imagined. It isn’t every day one turns twenty-two, after all. My father wanted me to hold the celebration at our estate, but what is the point of owning a castle if you can’t use it?”
“That’s exactly what I always say,” Louna said, and Cristian let out a titter of laughter.
“You’re an angel,” he said. “Come with me. I must show you the state of the decorations, and you can tell me if they can be salvaged.”
Louna smiled. “Of course. Lead the way.”