Chained (Chained Trilogy) (18 page)

“Let me go, wench,” he said, his voice a rough and low growl, “or you will come to regret this.”

Gwen crossed her arms over chest as the others were chained and forced to stand. “And allow you to go running back to your friends so that you can continue ravaging Dinasdale? I think not. If you will not tell me the truth, perhaps the hospitality of our dungeons will loosen your tongue. Take them.”
The knight went docilely, but his murderous glances told Gwen everything she needed to know. Had he been free of his shackles, he would have made good on his promise to wrap his hands around her throat.

Gwen grasped the arm of the gaoler as he and the guards began leading the prisoners away. “I do not want them tortured,” she whisp
ered. “Do not treat them poorly. Should the need arise to ransom them to Lord Theodric, I want them whole and healthy. Have them seen to by the healers and take the one who lost his arm to the cleanest cell and ensure the he is tended first.”

“Aye, m’lady,” he answered.

Gwen froze as she realized the knight was staring at her again. This time, he watched her as if puzzled, his jaw ticking spasmodically. Gwen realized that he’d heard her directions. He nodded, once, as if satisfied.

“Thank you, wench,” he mumbled as he was led past.

***

“You are a damned bloody fool,” Guyar chastised. His voice was soft in the darkness of the dungeon cell they shared. In other cells on either side of them, the rest of his men were in pairs, chained to the wall
s in the rooms so narrow, Caden couldn’t even stretch his arms out. The ceiling was low and they could not stand; it was either crouch or lay in the rushes, which were mercifully clean. A slop bucket in the corner held Guyar’s piss, which filled the tiny cell with a pungent odor. “Why didn’t you tell her who you are? Surely being a high lord’s son would have gotten you a tower room under lock and key as opposed to a dungeon cell.”

Caden shrugged. “A cell is a cell, whether it be in a tower or a dungeon. I will not suffer imprisonment in luxury while my
friends languish underground. Besides, I do not trust them with my identity. As Lord Theodric’s son, I am a valuable hostage, one that Lord Clarion and his vassals could use to bend my father to his will. If Father knows that I am a captive, he will send the whole of his strength to Seahaven.”

Guyar shrugged. “Would that be so terrible? We are caught, our men scattered, a large portion of
them slaughtered. Your father is the only one who can save us now. He will ride anyway, once Asher’s body is delivered to Minas Bothe. First to Heywick, then here.”

Caden shook his head. “In the process, he could instigate a war that would set A
lemere on fire. We cannot allow that to happen. We traveled this far to investigate, and have learned much. Heywick has been put to the sword, and now Lord Clarion’s sons are missing, likely dead.”

“I cannot say that I blame Lady Gwendolyn for imprisoning us,” Guyar mused. “For those reasons you just cited, we have been made to look quite guilty.”

Caden stroked his jaw thoughtfully, annoyed by the clink of the shackles chafing his wrists and the chain rattling between them. “Made to look guilty … but by whom and to what end?”

“So you have surmised the same thing I have from this.”

“Aye. Either one of my father’s vassals has betrayed us, or someone else is looking to stir up war between Dinasdale and Daleraia by agitating a decades-old feud.”

“House Durville remains ever loyal to House Maignart,” he said.
Caden could not see Guyar in the dark, but could feel the raw emotion behind his words. “We would never seek to betray Lord Theodric.”

“I know,” Caden replied. “I do not believe Lord Goodwin is capable of such
either. But what else am I to believe? Who would gain from war in Alemere?”

“Dinasdale,” Guyar offered. “Their marriage to Lerrothe makes them powerful … even more so than King Merek and the Arundels.”

“It makes sense, but for the fact that Lord Clarion’s sons have been lost. What do you make of that?”

“Are they lost?” Guyar whispered. “Or is the lady lying about that, as well as other thing
s? Could be they have gone to Lerrothe with Prince Gaiwan?”

Caden thought on that for a moment. Before they’d been set upon by Sir Brennus Toustain and his men, they’d discovered that Prince Gaiwan’s ship had departed
a fortnight ago, after the betrothal ceremony between he and Lady Gwendolyn. “Suppose they have gone,” Caden said, his mind turning the facts over and over in his mind. “To what purpose?”

“The Bainards have a fleet. Hundreds of warships that they could launch on a moment’s notice. If they mean to take Daleraia, they
could sail them into Brodernil Bay and storm Daleraia. We could not stop them, not when we aren’t equipped to meet them out on the open sea.”

Guyar was right. Daleraia had no naval power … but Dinasdale did. “If Lord Clarion and King Henry of Lerrothe join their fleets, they could wash over Daleraia like a tidal wave.”

“Aye. You are my liege lord’s son, and I would follow you to the ends of the earth. What you command, I will do. Nonetheless, be certain before you command, or all will be lost.”

“I will sleep on the matter,” Caden said as he lowered himself onto the rushes and the stone floor beneath them. “For now, let us attempt to rest. The journey has been tiring, and if we plan for escape we will need our strength.”

“Aye, a fine idea.” Caden could hear the sounds of Guyar settling among the rushes as well. “And mind your tongue around Lady Gwendolyn … she’s a fierce one. If she beats the sense out of you, we will never escape this place.”

Caden scowled at that. Lady Gwendolyn Toustain
was going to be a problem. When they’d been captured and brought to Seahaven, Caden had hoped they would be brought before Lord Clarion. He’d been expecting a wizened old lord, not his sharp-tongued daughter. She was no more than a tiny slip of a thing—petite but willowy, with wide, doe eyes set in an angular face. Caden had been fooled by her appearance just until she’d cuffed him for speaking out of turn. In that moment, he’d caught the flash of willfulness in her eyes. Had Caden been allowed to speak with her father, a resolution of some kind could have been forged, but women were emotional creatures. If Lady Gwen had it in her head that they were guilty, he would never be able to reason with her. Escape was their only option, but how? Seahaven’s defenses were nigh impenetrable, but Caden didn’t need to get in; he needed to get out.

He lay back amongst the rushes, struggling to find comfort with the iron shackles chafing his wrists and the chain connecting them to his ankles. Yes, Lady Gwen was going to be a problem … but Caden had never met a man or woman he could not best.

Steel yourself, wench,
he thought, closing his eyes and waiting for sleep to overtake him,
this is one fight you’re going to wish you hadn’t picked.

Chapter Eight

“Milady, the prisoner has persisted in his attempts at escape. We cannot contain him.”

Gwen’s hands clenched into fists in her lap as she narrowed her gaze upon Espan. These were not the tidings she wished to hear over her morning repast. When Lynet came to her and said that the steward had arrived to speak with her on an urgent matter, Gwen had steeled herself for the worst. In the seven days since she’d taken the Daleraian knight and his men as prisoners, he had been the bane of her very existence. Five escape attempts had left several of her guards dead or injured, and given Gwen a splitting headache that refused to break.

“He is in irons, in a cell beneath a well-fortified castle,” she ground out from between clenched teeth, her spoon poised over her bowl of porridge. “What do you mean, we cannot contain him?”

Lord Espan shifted uncomfortably, jerking at the neckline of his surcoat. “If we allow this to go on, our guard numbers will diminish night by night. Just last night he strangled one of the guards with his chains!”

Gwen felt a
tiny shiver of fear rolling down her spine at the thought. One hand came unconsciously to her throat as she dropped her spoon to the table, her appetite gone.

“What do you suggest I do?” she asked, taking a sip of honeyed ale. “
I cannot release them without knowing why they were on our lands, or until the riders we sent out return. It will take weeks, at the very least, and I won’t risk them running off to meet with their cohorts. Heywick was first … the gods only know which of our cities is next. We cannot allow it.”

“Put him to death,” Espan said. “It will frighten the others into submission, and we may squash their little rebellions before it is too late.”

Gwendolyn gasped, taken aback by Espan’s matter-of-fact tone. He spoke of executing a man as if commenting on the weather. “Then you’ve noticed it as well,” she said, “the way they defer to him.”

Espan nodded. “Aye. He is their leader, someone of import. When we que
stion them, none will give their names, so we cannot be sure whom.”

“We cannot be sure of anything, when they will not talk.”

“That is exactly why executing him will work to our advantage. It will open their mouths, if for no other reason than their want to save their own skins.”

Gwen shook her head, standing slowly to her feet. “Or it will turn them against us even more. No, I will not risk it.”
`

“Then
what will we do, milady?” Espan asked, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.

“
Cut the head off the snake. I want him brought to me. Here, now. Also, double the number of guards on every watch and separate each prisoner into his own cell. Spread them as far from each other as possible. I do not want so much as a whisper passed between them. The first man of them to attempt escape again shall receive ten lashes.”

Espan nodded in approval. “As you say, milady.”

The steward retreated, leaving Gwen alone in her chambers. She’d chosen to take breakfast alone, in the small solar off her bedroom, mainly to avoid her mother. Breakfast in the great hall was strained without Jorin’s smiles and Evrain’s jests. Her mother was miserable without her sons and sick with worry. As much as Gwen wanted to comfort her, she found she did not know how. Her relationship with Lady Enid had always been tense. Her way of coping was to remain busy—stocking Seahaven’s stores in case of siege, insuring that the city was well guarded, caring for her father’s people in the way he would have wanted. Anything to keep from facing the harsh reality: her brothers were likely dead. Lady Enid’s way was to cry and sob, which Gwen found irritating after an hour or so. She understood her mother’s grief, but could allow herself to fall into despair. Not with all of Seahaven—no, all of Dinasdale—depending upon her.

Gwen left her solar when she heard footsteps and the rattle of chains from the room beyond. S
quaring her shoulders, she steeled herself for what was to come. This Daleraian knight was going to try to get under her skin as he had during their first meeting. Gwen told herself not to let him.

It was hard to keep her composure when she first laid eyes
upon him. Her hand came over her mouth as her eyes clashed with his icy blue ones—which met hers through a mottled twisting of green and purple bruising. Blood trickled from a gash just over his eye, drying and crusting on the hair lining his jaw. More blood seeped from his split lower lip, which was considerably swollen. A large bruise had formed over his ribs, and was beginning to turn yellow at the center. He wore nothing more than a pair of breeches, stripped even of his boots. He was bound with iron shackles around his neck, wrists, and ankles, all connected by a series of chains that left him nearly immobile. Gwen flinched as the guards threw him at her feet.

She glared at the gaoler. “What did you do to him?”

The gaoler removed his helm and bowed, though Gwen did not miss the agitation that flashed in his eyes. “He brung it on himself, m’lady,” he said gruffly. “Only thing this one heeds is the butt of a spear or a curled fist. A mad, bloody fool.”

The knight had eyes only for her, his narrow stare murderous, but he said nothing. Gwen avoided hi
m and turned to Espan. “Have my orders been delivered concerning the other prisoners?”

“Aye, milady. The others are being parted from each other as we speak. What do you want done with this one?”

Gwen came forward tentatively, slowly.
He’s in irons, you ninny,
she reminded herself,
he cannot hurt you.
Still, Gwen edged toward him as if courting a rabid dog. She held no delusions when it came to this Daleraian. He was a dangerous man, and if given half a chance he would grab her and snap her neck before the guards could stop him. Her eyes lowered to his great hands—large, bleeding knuckles and long fingers—and shuddered.

Kneeling in front of him, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “You are quite a rabble-rouser
, aren’t you?” she said gently, sympathy pricking her as she observed his beaten and bloody face up close.

He smirked despite his split lip. “Aye, wench. Did you think you could keep me in your cells forever?”

Gwen shook her head slowly. “No, I suppose not. What am I to do with you, Daleraian?”