Chapter Twelve #2
When the poor beast started puffing and blowing, Dunstan stopped by a small creek to water it.
He cupped his hands and drank his fill, then rose to prowl restlessly along the stream’s edge.
He pulled out some bread and chewed it absently, but it tasted like dirt in his mouth.
By faith, would nothing ease this unfamiliar ache?
He sank down on the bank, feeling as though his chest were a bellows from which all the air had been sucked.
He missed her.
It was more than lust, Dunstan admitted.
During the past week he had become accustomed to Marion’s presence, and lately, he had grown quite used to touching her often—to keep her from falling, among other things.
Her quiet strength, her sometimes foolish, ofttimes clever wit, her gentle pride—all these made up the lady known as Marion. And Dunstan missed them.
When she smiled, revealing those impish dimples, and turned those huge, dark eyes upon him, it seemed as if, somehow, something was right with the world.
The knowledge gave him a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Telling himself it was hunger, Dunstan finished the rest of his bread with a low growl of annoyance.
But he was in trouble, and he knew it.
* * *
By the time Dunstan reached Baddersly, night had fallen again, and he was weary, not only in body, but in soul.
Numberless times in his life, Dunstan had been bone-tired on the road, sick of sleeping in the open, chilled and hungry.
This evening, there was something more to it.
Anxiety had crept into his blood, tainting his every thought and action.
He told himself that it was only natural to worry about the wren, for she was his charge, entrusted to him by his sire.
Once he saw that she was well and truly home, then this almost debilitating concern would ease.
After all, it had nothing to do with taking his leave of her, with never seeing her again… .
Dunstan’s name got him through the gates and into the great hall, but there was something about the castle that made the hair on the back of his neck rise in warning.
From the first words of the surly guard to the atmosphere in the cold, dark building, Dunstan felt danger.
It was as if he had walked, unarmed, into his neighbor’s hold.
Grimacing, he told himself that Marion’s deluded ramblings were affecting his perceptions.
Harold Peasely could hardly wish him ill, for Dunstan had done naught but perform an errand for the man.
Although Marion’s uncle might not have been pleased to discover his niece was roaming the countryside by herself, still she was alive and well, with no harm done to her… except the loss of her maidenhead.
Dunstan had not stopped to think what might be in store for him if Marion related that choice bit of information to her uncle, but he knew that the theft of her virtue was not a killing offense.
If worse came to worst, he could always marry the wench.
A surprising thought that, but the more Dunstan considered it, the more palatable the idea seemed.
After all, it was time he got himself an heir, and Marion would do as well as any other woman in producing one.
Smiling tightly, Dunstan mused upon the possibilities, not the least of which was the opportunity to bed Marion again, and decided to bide his time.
First, he would see what her uncle had to say, and then, if need be, he would present his suit.
Although he might not be as wealthy as she, Dunstan could not imagine Peasely turning away his proposal.
He was a titled, landed knight, and though he usually did not dwell on it, he also stood to inherit the vast holdings of Campion one day.
Secure in his own worth, and with the mighty support of his family and King Edward behind him, Dunstan expected no trouble from Harold Peasely, but still the odd threatening feeling persisted.
And Dunstan had lived too long and through too many battles to ignore his instincts.
He kept both eyes open and his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Dunstan’s gaze swept the room, and he felt more uneasiness.
Peasely’s men were drinking and dicing in one corner, their language foul, their voices loud.
It was a far cry from his father’s hall, where warmth and peace reigned.
With a sudden pang, Dunstan realized just how much he admired his old home and his family.
His own castle seemed cold and lifeless by comparison.
What he needed was children of his own, boisterous boys racing through the hall and…
Collaring his errant thoughts, Dunstan concentrated on his surroundings.
Now was not the time for woolgathering. He was alone with many long, treacherous miles to go before he reached Wessex.
He had planned to ask Peasely for an escort, but from the looks of them, these were coarse, undisciplined men he would not trust at his back.
They looked more like outlaws than soldiers, and the hair on Dunstan’s neck rose again as he remembered Marion’s tale of murder and mayhem on the road.
“This way,” said a voice, and Dunstan turned to face an evil-looking fellow who sported a gold ring in his ear.
Something nudged at the back of Dunstan’s mind, making him tighten his grip on his hilt, as he followed the man forward for an audience with the master of Baddersly.
But his attention was soon focused solely on Harold Peasely.
Marion’s uncle sat in a huge, ornately carved chair on a dais at the end of the hall, just as though he had delusions of royalty, and Dunstan noticed that, like his men, he had been drinking.
His face was flushed and puffy, suggesting that he made a habit of it, to his own detriment.
Dunstan’s eyes narrowed at the discovery, for too much wine dulled a man’s wits.
Before Peasely even spoke, Dunstan found him wanting.
To his surprise, Marion’s uncle seemed to feel the same about him. Fixing Dunstan with a beady glare, Peasely grunted, “Who the devil are you?”
Dunstan’s jaw clenched at the rude greeting. By what right did this…caretaker question him? With deliberate care, he framed his answer. “Dunstan de Burgh, baron of Wessex, son of Campion, earl of Campion.”
To Dunstan’s astonishment, Peasely burst out with a sharp laugh.
Was the man so full of drink that he had forgotten Dunstan’s errand?
“Perhaps you will recall that I was charged by my father with the task of escorting Lady Warenne from Campion to Baddersly,” Dunstan explained, hanging on to his temper with some effort.
“If that was your errand, then you have failed!” Peasely shouted.
Dunstan bit back a sharp retort and tried to think of how Geoffrey, the diplomat, would handle such a recalcitrant host. When he spoke again, his voice was level, despite his exasperation. “My train was set upon by assassins, with only myself and the lady escaping. We traveled on foot until—”
“Lies, lies, lies,” Peasely said, his mouth curving into an evil smile.
“Hear you this offal?” he cried to several of the rough fellows who stood nearby.
When they murmured their agreement, Dunstan suddenly realized how dangerous the situation could become.
He was alone in a roomful of hardened men who might turn upon him without a moment’s notice.
As if to confirm Dunstan’s impressions, Peasely lurched to his feet, shouting, “This is an outrage! This arrogant filth claims to be a de Burgh!” He laughed loudly, his men joining in, and Dunstan saw two females, an old woman and a younger one, back away from the dais, obviously anticipating the eruption of violence.
“I am Dunstan de Burgh,” he affirmed, his voice even.
“Then get you back to your papa and tell him that I will have his neck for this! If he does not return my niece at once, I will march upon him,” Peasely said, shaking a fist into the air.
Dunstan’s chest constricted tightly. Marion was not here? The now-familiar panic for her struck him like a blow, and he drew a slow, shallow breath before he could speak. “Are you saying Lady Warenne is not here?”
“Why would you think so?” Peasely asked, sneering. Dunstan’s eyes swept the room, taking in, with heightened unease, the suspended dice game. The drunken soldiers lounged against a wall, watching him insolently, and Dunstan looked behind Peasely for another exit, should he need one.
A movement in the shadows there caught his attention, and he saw the old woman he had noticed before.
She stared at him, her eyes hollows in her white face, her mouth working soundlessly.
And Dunstan knew in that moment that Peasely was lying.
“She is here, and I wish to speak to her myself,” he said with certainty.
“She is not here! Toss this peasant out upon his ear!” Peasely screamed. “You have not the look of even the lowest knight, let alone a baron, about you. Methinks you are naught but a common knave trying to stir up trouble. Begone with you!”
Dunstan could hardly contain his rage, but a look at the approaching group of soldiers told him that he had better keep it in check.
If he could get his hands around Peasely’s neck, by faith, he would wring the truth from the bastard!
He took a step forward and halted. “If you hurt her, I will kill you,” Dunstan warned evenly.
“Begone!” Peasely shrieked.
Turning on his heel, Dunstan strode across the hall, followed by Peasely’s men, who rained taunts upon his head that made him clench his jaw in frustration.
At the doorway he swung around, hand on his sword and fire in his eyes, and they stepped back, spitting and cursing, though none was brave enough to make good his threats.
Flushed with that small victory, Dunstan stepped outside into the bailey, blinked in the darkness and wondered what the devil he was going to do next.
“Pssst. My lord. My lord, here.”
Turning toward the whisper, Dunstan saw a white hand beckoning him from the shadows. It was the old woman from the hall, and Dunstan was at her side swiftly, merging with the blackness himself.
“Where is she?” he hissed, without preliminaries.
“Hush, my lord.” The woman’s voice was strained with fear, her eyes darting like a cornered hare’s.
“She is locked in her room in the south tower, the second window up.” Dunstan glanced around, picking the tower out of the night, but before he could ask how the devil he was supposed to breach it, the old woman had disappeared, seeming to fade into the very stones.
Biting back an oath, Dunstan surveyed the bailey. It was quiet but for the occasional bark of a dog or tramp of a sentry. Then, suddenly, the hall door opened, spilling light out around the entrance, and Dunstan flattened himself against the wall.
Two men stepped forward, one tall and lean, the other shorter and burlier, and Dunstan recognized both of them as Peasely’s. “Where is he?” asked the tall one in a hushed, angry voice.
“Halfway to Campion, if he’s smart,” answered the shorter fellow in a low drawl, thick with drink.
Dunstan’s eyes narrowed as he realized they discussed him, and his instincts screamed afoul.
Were it not for the old woman, he would have been headed toward the gate.
What mischief would these two plan behind his back?
“Be still!” the tall one ordered. “Where is Aylmer?”
“Asleep. He has watch later.”
“Good. At least he will be sober. Wake him. Take Aylmer and find our guest,” the tall one said. “And make sure he never reaches his father.”
Dunstan heard the guttural laugh of the burly fellow. “And how shall we do that, Goodson?”
Although he could see naught but figures from where he hid, Dunstan could swear he heard a smile in the tall one’s voice. “The roads can be so treacherous at night, especially for one lone man. Brigands and the like would find our visitor easy prey,” he answered. “See that they do.”
The door closed, taking the light with it, and Dunstan loosed a low breath, harsh with fury.
So they meant to murder him, did they? Perhaps they would find him not such an easy mark.
He had half a mind to lie in wait for them and slit their throats, but he had more important business waiting.
With the speed and silence of a battle-hardened warrior, Dunstan moved among the shadows until he stood below a square tower at the southern end of the building.
Was this where Marion was being held? He glanced upward, discerning the darker outline of a window, and higher, another.
Although it was narrow, Dunstan suspected he could fit himself through, if only he could reach it.
Clenching his jaw in frustration, he looked about him and then back to the hall.
Most of Peasely’s men seemed to be drinking and dicing, oblivious to a stranger in their midst, but just how lax were they?
Stealthily, Dunstan moved toward the next building, intending to find out for himself.
* * *
Marion sat hugging herself in the darkness, wondering just how much time she had.
All during the long ride home she had tried to think of a way to escape, but Goodson and his men kept a close watch upon her.
He was her uncle’s minion, hard and lean and cold as driving sleet, and he knew, more than Dunstan had ever dreamed, just how much she did not want to return to Baddersly.
There had been no opportunity on the way home, nor had there been a chance since her arrival, for her uncle had taken one look at her and had her locked away.
How long would he keep her here? Marion froze in horror when she considered that he could starve her to death.
But no. She would find a way out before then.
She had escaped before, and she would do it again.
If only she were not so tired; she could barely think properly. The old fears that had been so much a part of her life at Baddersly crept back insidiously, and a keening grief at the loss of Dunstan waited to overwhelm her if she would but let it.
Just when her mind threatened to break, a silent and stiff Fenella brought her bathwater and some food, and Marion bathed and dressed in clean clothes. That small luxury revived her, and hunger forced her to eat, even though she wondered if each bite was laced with poison.
When no summons came from her uncle, Marion lay down upon the bed, fully dressed, intending to form a plan of escape, but her mind was soon crowded with thoughts of her long dead parents, the de Burgh brothers and Dunstan.
At least he was alive and away from here, safe and well, she thought, taking her only comfort in that before she drifted into a restless slumber.