Chained (Chained Trilogy) (17 page)

“Tell me, Espan,” she said without preamble, “
how many men-at-arms can we spare to search for them without compromising Seahaven’s defense?”

Espan joined her in
studying the map. “No more than five hundred, milady.”

Gwen nodded. “I thought as much. Very well, I want it done. Send one hundred and fifty to comb the woods between Freyvale and Heywick. Send one hundred and fifty more
from Heywick to Vor’shy. Another hundred along the river to Brodernil Bay. I would know if my brothers met with our ships.”

“And the other one hundred, milady?”

“They will board the fastest vessel in Seahaven’s port and sail for the Isle of Camritte. I want a messenger sent with them as well, with a letter I will pen to King Merek. If my brothers never made it to their ships, then there is still the matter of reaching King Merek with news of the Daleraians’ treachery. We can now add this to their list of offenses. Pen a letter to the king, then bring it for me to inspect and fix with my father’s seal.”

Espan quickly scribbled his notes on the parchment he’d placed flat on the table. “Very well, milady.”

“As well, have messengers dispatched to all of our vassals, and every smaller hold upon Dinasdalian soil. I want the messengers protected, as they will carry my commands.”

“What message will they carry, milady?”

“Henceforth, no Daleraian will cross our borders. Should any be encountered upon these lands, they are to be captured and brought to Seahaven as prisoners. I would know what happened to my brothers.”

Espan nodded. “A wise decision, milady.”

Gwen accepted his praise with doubt. She was sure she was acting as her father would have, but even then could not be certain that her decisions were wise ones. Was this how it felt to rule?

“Will you adjourn for the day?” Espan asked when she did not speak again.

She shook her head. “No. All who have come for an audience will be granted one. Send your apprentice to take your place in the hall while you carry out your tasks.”

Espan bowed silently and retreated. Within minutes, Gwen was back in the hall, seated upon her father’s chair. The rest of the morning and afternoon passed
in a blur that Gwen hardly recalled when it was over. She dealt with the trifling needs and complaints of those under her care, and offered Seahaven’s hospitality to several who had come for shelter, fearful after the atrocity committed in Heywick. Gwen turned no one away, and by the time the last need had been met, the time for dinner had come. Espan returned with word that the men-at-arms would be ready to depart at first light the next morning. She read and signed the letters he’d penned to King Merek and Dinasdale’s vassals, and pressed her father’s seal into the red wax to bind it before retreating to her chambers to dress for dinner.

As it was,
Gwen knew she would hardly be able to think of anything but her brothers. Were they dead? Captured? Would she soon receive a demand for ransom, or was this Daleraian plot far more nefarious?

“Are you all right, m’lady?” Lynet ask
ed as she helped Gwen dress for dinner.

“No, Lynet,” Gwen answered honestly. “
No, I am not.”

Chapter Seven

“M’lady! M’lady, you must wake up. Quickly, there are riders at the gate. Lord Espan has sent me for you.”

Gwen blinked her bleary eyes as Lynet’s wide-eyed face slowly came into focus. In truth, she was grateful to the maid for awakening her. Her dreams were full of death and blood. For her brothers there was death at the hands of the Daleraians. For her, blood … virgin’s blood spilled upon sheets and the pain of Gaiwan’s possession.

The room was dark, except for the candle Lynet held between them, illuminating her bright blue
gaze. “Lynet?” she mumbled as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What’s happened?”

“I do not know, m’lady,” she said. “I was only told that riders
have come from Freyvale, and you are needed.”

Gwen leap
t from the bed. “Quickly, Lynet, a gown … any gown. It must be word of my brothers,” she said as she hurriedly unbraided her hair and combed her fingers through it. Whatever was coming, she must bear it with the dignity befitting the daughter of a high lord. She accepted a simple linen kirtle from Lynet, donning it over her chemise before topping it with a black surcoat and leather belt. She left her hair unbound, falling down her back.

“Send for wine,” she told Lynet before she left her chambers. “I
have a feeling I will need it when I return.”

Gwen dashed down the corridor to the stairs, only slowing her steps just before
entering the great hall. When she did, it was with her head held high and her shoulders squared. Her steps nearly faltered at the sight that greeted her. A group of about thirty Dinasdalian men-at-arms surrounded a troop of battered Daleraians, whom were bound hand and foot, forced to kneel in the rushes. Gwen’s eyebrows rose as she approached the assembled men. What was this? Her men-at-arms had not even been dispatched yet.

As she drew closer, Gwen recognized her
second cousin, Brennus Toustain, her Uncle Orrick’s son. He removed his helm as she approached, and Brennus, along with his other men-at-arms, bowed reverently to her. He was broad, with skin as dark as midnight, like all Toustain men. His braids were pulled into a knot of sorts at the back of his neck, his clean shaven face a hard mask of disdain for his prisoners. Upon his breastplate was the archer, etched beautifully into the polished metal.

“Cousin,” he said, his deep voice reverberating from the walls of the empty hall. “I apologize for waking you at this late hour, but
I was told that you are acting as castellan.”

Gwen nodded. “Aye, I am. What is this?” She frowned as she
gazed down at the prisoners, ten in all. They were a pitiful lot—splattered with dirt and mud. They stared defiantly back at her, many from eyes ringed in bruises. One man had lost an arm and his skin had taken on a ghostly pallor. Despite his condition, his glare was as defiant as the others.

“Since the atta
ck on Heywick,” Brennus said, “our patrols in Freyvale has been doubled, and our city well-guarded. We caught this lot slinking about near the River Tyryn.”

“We were not slinking
,” growled one of the Daleraians. He sneered at Brennus from where he knelt, a trickle of blood dried in the corner of his mouth. Gwen studied him closely. She realized immediately that though this man had been forced to kneel, he did not think himself beaten. Everything about him spoke of arrogance, despite his battered face. “We were—”

One of the other men-at-arms clouted the Daleraian on the side of the head. He reeled from the blow but didn’t topple, his narrowed glare turned murderous as he set it
upon the man who’d struck him.

“Be silent!” Brennus commanded. He turned to Gwen. “Whatever they were about, they sought the cover of darkness and the shelter of the trees. I was not inclined to allow them to slip away and cause further mischief.”

“It is good that you did,” Gwen answered. “Just this afternoon, I issued an edict that all Daleraians found on Dinasdalian soil will be imprisoned and brought to Seahaven for questioning.” She leaned close to Brennus and whispered so that only they could hear. “We received word that my brothers have disappeared, somewhere between Heywick and Vor’shy.”

Brennus drew in a sharp gasp. “All four of them?”

“All but Jorin,” she replied. “He managed to escape to Lord Mador.”

“Gwendolyn, you must—”

“Please, Cousin,” she said, stepping away from Brennus and turning back to her prisoners, “I know that your men must be tired after the long ride from Freyvale and the skirmish that undoubtedly led to the capture of these brigands. Espan.”

The steward came forward.
“Yes, milady.”

“Please see to the comfort of my cousin and his men. But first, wake the gaoler and send for as many guards as you can find. Bring them from the ramparts if you must.”

Espan hurried to do her bidding, and Gwen turned back to her prisoners. Brennus and his men remained silent as she approached the bound men. Her eyes locked on the defiant one. Somehow, she knew he was their leader. He showed no reverence, no remorse … not even an ounce of fear. He was large, that much Gwen could see, even from his place at her feet. One of his eyes was quite swollen, though she could still see it, a blue slit of narrowed rage. The other was wide open and just as blue … just as angry. Furrowed brows, black as a raven’s wings, matched the days’ worth of beard growing on his jaws and the closely cropped hair on his head. His shirt had been torn to shreds in the fight that led to his capture, and hung in rags from his shoulders, which were broad and thick with muscle. His arms appeared powerful enough to snap the ropes holding him captive, which was enough to cause Gwen to pause more than an arm’s length away from him.

“Tell me, Daleraian,” she coolly. “What is your business here?”

He sneered, white teeth flashing startlingly. “My business is with the High Lord of Dinasdale, wench,” he said, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely too confident for one who had just been beaten and captured.

Brennus
struck him this time, using the back of his gauntleted hand against the Daleraian’s square jaw. He reeled from the blow, but again, maintained his balance; a spray of blood stained the rushes. He glared at Brennus, this time growling low in his chest.

“Do not strike me again,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Or yours will be the first neck I snap when I escape these restraints.”

“You will escape nothing,” Gwen declared, daring to come closer in her anger. “As for the High Lord of Dinasdale, you are in his presence, for I am the one who speaks with his voice.”

A dark eyebrow arched as the Daleraian smirked. “I would have expected Lord Clarion’s voice to be much deeper and more commanding.”

Gwen’s teeth clenched tightly and she trembled with anger. Her hand flew out before she could think, her palm connecting with his bearded jaw. Her palm stung from the impact, but it did not lessen her satisfaction. More blood spurted from the wound on the Daleraian’s lip, some of it staining the hem of her gown.

He grunted. “
I do not threaten women, wench, but I might make an exception if you do that again. Yours may well be the second neck I wrap my hands around.”

Gwen stayed her hand
; not for fear of him, but because she knew that if she struck him again she wouldn’t be able to stop. He was a singularly infuriating person. “You will respect me, Daleraian,” she said coolly. “I am not ‘wench’, I am Gwendolyn Toustain, daughter of Lord Clarion and castellan of Seahaven. You will answer to me, and you will do so respectfully or hold your tongue.”

He scowled. “If you want respect, you will grant me the same. I am not your whipping boy, and my men are not to be mistreated. I am a knight of Daleraia, as are many of the men presen
t. I want your word that they will not be mistreated.”

“That will depend upon you, Sir,” she said. “Tell me what part you’ve played in the disappearance of my brothers.”

The knight’s scowl deepened. “What bloody brothers? I know naught of what you speak.”

Fury raged within Gwen, and she was sorely tempted to strike him again. She leaned down toward him, until they were nearly nose to nose. “Sir E
vrain, Sir Leofred, Sir Achart … all vanished after a skirmish in the forests between Heywick and Vor’shy … a skirmish with Daleraians.”

His eyes widened in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “Vanished? Milady, no Daleraians have been dispatched to Dinasdale to instigate a fight. I am here—”

“Then explain this!” Gwen bellowed, finding the pin she’d been carrying in the pocket of her kirtle. She threw it down to the floor between them with a snarl. The mountain of Maignart stared up at them from the rushes, deep brown enamel with a snowy white peak.

If at all possible, the knight’s eyes grew even wider. “Where did you get that?”

“In the woods of Seahaven,” she said. “I plucked it from the body of one of your dead comrades. They came to ravage our lands, raping and murdering. Heywick is a burned ruin, and our people saw your banners with their own eyes—the ruby of Quaos, the crossed swords of Haleah, both flying beneath the standard of Maignart.”

He shook his head. “Milady, upon my honor, I swear to you that Lord Theodric has ha
d no part in this. If Daleraians are responsible for the massacre at Heywick, then word must be sent to him. You must allow us to depart this place so that we can bring the men who have broken the peace to justice. It must be made right.”

Gwen studied him with outward calm, but inwardly she was reeling. Her decision now could tip the scales of an impending war in one direction or
the other. “You are right,” she said slowly, thinking over every word. The gaoler and his guards arrived, their chainmail hauberks gleaming in the light of the candles. Iron chains rattled and shackles clinked as they surrounded her prisoners. “Justice must be done, and so it will. Guards, chain them.”

The knight tried to rise to his feet, roaring as he drove his shoulder into Brennus’ middle. Brennus recovered quickly, driving his fist into the Daleraian’s face once more, knocking him back down to his knees as the chains were brought forth. The knight glared up at her as he was shackled hand and foot.