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Excerpt
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Aberconwy’s Colwyn, North Wales 1299
He hung chained, dangling
from the restraints that reached high above his head to
connect him to the ceiling. Barely conscious from the
severe lashing he had endured, only a single, almost
imperceptible bob of his head indicated that he
struggled to remain alive. Then his head rested, chin
to chest, his thick black hair hanging in wet strands,
sweat pouring profusely from his entire body. His bare
feet lay partially tucked beneath him, his arm muscles
taut and bulging from their effort to suspend his
considerable weight. Not one sound had he uttered, not
one scream had issued forth from his sealed lips.
Bridgett silently crept down
the dank, musty stone steps leading to the dungeon. She
could not fathom the pain he must have endured. Huge
welts formed under the bloody, open wounds; gaping slash
marks made by the whip’s angry bite.
Beyond the obvious
desecration to his broad back, Bridgett marveled at the
demigod before her. Heavily muscled, he possessed
massive arms, broad shoulders, rippling stomach muscles,
and huge thighs. His body more resembled a full suit of
armor than one constructed of mere muscle and bone. He
wore only the loincloth given to him after his personal
items were stripped from his person. Openly staring at
him, Bridgett could well believe his reputation for
being fearless, powerful, and invincible. However, at
this particular moment, she wondered if he would survive
the night without her help. Thankfully, she could see
the rise and fall of his powerful chest, signaling the
fact that he still breathed.
It was his legendary
greatness, as well as her tremendous respect for his
misplaced bravery, that inspired Bridgett to attempt
this extremely dangerous rescue. She abhorred her
brother, Lothar, for the deceit he displayed in dealing
with Lord Wraith. He had come in good faith, led to
believe that an agreement was reached to end the
decades-old dispute between them. It was a known fact
that her brother hungered for everything Wraith owned or
had conquered. Wraith’s fighting skills were legendary,
his strength unmatched, and his reputation spotless.
She had watched him come
through the main portcullis of Castle Conwy only four
days earlier. Mounted on his fearsome, black destrier,
he entered alone as though he was impervious to any
danger. His head unhelmed and held high, his gaze
straight-ahead. He seated his horse with the power and
pride of a seasoned warrior. He entered without his
fabled sword, as a gesture of peace and a signal to
Lothar that he came unarmed. She was unable to see his
features from her vantage point high in the West Tower.
His face heavily shadowed, she could see only his
windswept hair moving about his broad shoulders and the
outline of his physique as it peeked out from under his
chain mail and hauberk. Awe soon turned to despair as
she witnessed her brother’s men wrestle him to the
ground and subdue him. She had hoped that, for the
first time in his life, Lothar could be trusted to deal
with Lord Wraith in an honorable manner. Apparently,
that was not to be, she realized, as she watched in
horror the capture and bondage of the celebrated knight
who had mistakenly trusted her corrupt sibling. She
made a vow at that precise moment to help him escape.
Careful to watch her footing
as she continued down the moist steps, her eyes remained
riveted to the motionless man who appeared to be
unconscious as he bled from his considerable wounds.
She brought with her a small clay pot filled with a
mixture of yarrow and comfrey, to aid in both his pain
and blood loss. She had learned the craft of utilizing
herbs from her mother and perfected her own potions for
use on her brother’s men. Living in a castle full of
armed soldiers presented plenty of opportunities to test
new concoctions and perfect old ones.
She carried with her now one
of her newest creations, an improved mix she hoped to
apply to Lord Wraith’s injuries. She simply could not
allow her brother to kill the renowned hero.
Night now approached and two
torches illuminated the consistently gloomy dungeon,
creating great shadows upon the lord’s body.
She had carefully laced a
large wineskin with enough sleeping potion to render to
the two hefty guards undisturbable for the remainder of
the night.
“Ivor, Morvran, what say you
pause from your betting game long enough to imbibe in
some spirits sent by Lord Lothar.” Bridgett remained
upbeat not wishing to alert the two to the scheme she
planned to hatch. The two gargoyles whirled around as
they heard the unusual strains of a sweet female voice.
“What brings you to the
bowels of hell, Lady Bridgett,” grunted one of the
grotesquely ugly men.
“’Tis no place for a lady,
this dungeon.” The other hideous creature chimed-in as
he revealed a smile of missing and rotten teeth. Even
as he protested her presence, he grabbed for the wine
vestibule with both filthy hands. Guzzling happily, the
ruby-red liquid dribbled down his neck and shirt, yet he
seemed not the least bit concerned that the lady of the
castle had personally delivered the refreshment to the
unlikely duo. Bridgett watched in disgust, as she
stoically remained composed throughout the ordeal. The
unsuspecting pair gratefully downed the drugged wine as
they passed the skin back and forth, never questioning
the unexpected treat as they slurped, sloshed, and
belched openly. Her eyes remained glued to them, moving
slowly from one to the other as she watched for any
telltale sign that their suspicions grew over the
forbidden luxury.
“’Tis a fine day,” she said,
intending to deluge them with female chatter as a matter
of diversion. “Mayhap you two should think about
straying into the sunlight occasionally. I hear ‘tis to
be a drama performed in the marketplace this very
afternoon. Do either of you play an instrument?” She
kept up the useless babble, even though neither
disgusting beast paid her any mind. Casually, she let
her gaze slip down to the battered form of his
lordship. Since the guardsmen’s area sat one level
higher than the prisoner’s, the sentries gained an
authoritative vantage point from which to view their
captive’s suffering.
“I’m sure you both need
something to wile away the time while you guard
prisoners; what better thing to take up your time than
practicing an instrument? Mayhap the recorder, lute,
harp, viol, organette, or dulcimer.” She continued to
chatter gibberish while the sight and sounds of the two
slobbering and drooling idiots turned her stomach.
“And with the muscles you
two possess, ‘tis a sure thing for you to enter the
joust at Forest Gate tomorrow eve.” This was definitely
stretching things a bit, but it kept their minds
occupied and she cared not.
Suddenly, one of the
behemoths stopped and pinned her with an intense gaze.
“Why would his lordship not send one of his henchmen to
deliver the wine instead of you, Lady Bridgett?” Fine
time for him to start thinking, thought Bridgett. Her
heart began to leap as her mouth fell open in surprise
at the sudden revelation.
“Make sno sense tha he
would send you, milady,” slurred the other goliath as he
stood abruptly to loom over her, knocking over the
chair.
Her eyes widened as her head
fell back, their gazes meeting. His body smelled, his
breath stunk, and he was beyond filthy. Scraggly hair
hung in oily strands about his face and his clothes
appeared soiled beyond repair. She feared something bad
would transpire if they suddenly acted on their
suspicions.
Bridgett’s fingers trembled
as she twisted the rough fabric of her skirt, her
anxiety steadily growing. She was on the verge of
jumping up and running, when the standing half-wit
suddenly toppled over with a crash to the floor.
“What tha?” Even as the
second giant started to rise from his chair, the spiked
brew took effect, causing him to fall heavily to the
floor with a loud thud.
Bridgett could hear her
heartbeat pounding in her ears. Mercifully, a crucial
portion of her plan had worked. Jumping out of the
chair, she swung into action. After nudging the two
with her foot, Bridgett bent to retrieve the keys
necessary to release Lord Wraith from his manacles.
Watching her footing on the
slick steps, she descended further into the depths of
the horrific chamber. Upon reaching the bottom step,
her hand flew to her mouth as she gagged at the sight
displayed on his tortured back. Blood oozed from gaping
slashes; revealing raw, open flesh where the whip had
torn into his skin. Quietly she sidled around to stand
directly in front of his bent head.
“Milord,” she whispered, her
lips only inches from his soaking wet hair. No movement
issued forth and she wondered if the tortured warrior
had indeed perished from his wounds. She continued
calling to him, this time increasing her whisper
slightly.
“Milord…I have come to
rescue you, but ‘twill be necessary for you to support
your own weight, if ‘tis at all possible.”
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