Nature of the Beast Page 10

  “Then we are where we are supposed to be, my brave dark hero.” She grinned when he blushed. “So easily undone by flattery.”

  “I am nay a hero, Evanna. I stepped wrong so many times and both ye and David nearly lost your lives whilst I was supposed to be keeping ye safe.”

  Evanna shook her head and then kissed him. “The word to note in that humble speech is nearly. We are both alive and I willnae hear ye demean your part in accomplishing that again. So, do ye mean to marry me, then?”

  “Aye, as soon as we can drag a priest here.”

  “Nay too soon as I mean to have a bonnie dress ere I stand before a priest.”

  “Ye would look verra pretty in sackcloth.”

  She felt herself blush and lightly swatted his arm. “Ye are getting verra good with pretty words, sir.”

  “Good. Ye deserve them. I am about to make ye share my life in the shadows, more shadows than ye and David have ever lived in.”

  “I would share anything with ye, Berawald, and be happy. I can still see the sun if I have a mind to. Although I will grieve a wee bit that ye arenae by my side when I do.”

  “Dinnae grieve, my Evanna. I dinnae need the sun. I hold all the sunshine I need right here in my arms.”

  Evanna felt tears clog her throat and knew she had two choices. She could weep like a bairn over those beautiful words or she could thank him for the sentiment by making love to him until his eyes crossed. Knowing full well what her dark hero would prefer, she kissed him.

  Bride of the Beast

  Adrienne Basso

  One

  Lampeter, Wales, spring 1220

  The swirl of wind was steady, yet not too strong. The light mist of rain that had been falling for the past week had finally stopped, but even at this early hour of the morning the clouds hung dark, low, and heavy. Thirteen-year-old Bethan of Lampeter stood on the highest rampart on the south edge of the timber castle, her mother at her side, her eyes pinned to the scene below.

  The view down to the fortified bailey was unobstructed and Bethan watched with growing puzzlement as her stepfather, Sir Agnarr de Bellemare, walked among the hundreds of prisoners, barking out orders and separating them into groupings.

  “Whatever is he doing?” Bethan questioned, leaning forward to get a closer look.

  “I suppose he is arranging them into new squads of workers,” her mother speculated. She pulled the windblown veil away from her face and tucked a lock of honey-colored hair beneath it. “He told me yesterday the foundation of the new castle has finally been completed, so the stones must be moved in order to begin construction on the lower half.”

  “All he thinks about is building his wretched castle,” Bethan grumbled. She looked beyond the wall that surrounded the village and the dwellings protected within those walls to the acres of cleared land stretching between the forest and the manor. “A portion of those men should be working the soil. We are already weeks behind. The fields need to be plowed and planted now or else we shall all go hungry this winter.”

  “There are some furrows awaiting seed,” her mother replied, pointing to a small section where mounds of dirt sported neatly dug rows.

  “’Tis a pittance,” Bethan countered. “I see but one oxen straining mightily to pull a single plow and less than a dozen villeins toiling behind. If this does not change soon, we shall once again be racing against time and weather to harvest whatever meager crops reach maturity.”

  “Goodness, Bethan, such gloomy thoughts. When I was a girl of your age I thought only of my needlework, my prayers, and my future husband.”

  “I have not that luxury, Mother,” Bethan replied with honesty. “Nor would I wish for it. I want only to see our people safe and prosperous.”

  “As do I,” her mother whispered, a tremble of emotion in her words.

  Guilt instantly washed over Bethan and she silently cursed her wicked tongue. She had not meant her remarks as a criticism. She knew there were many within the walls of Lampeter who blamed her mother for inflicting de Bellemare and his iron-fisted rule upon them all. Life, while never easy in this harsh, rugged climate and wild countryside of Wales, had been good for nearly everyone when Bethan’s father had been alive.

  To the surprise of many, within days of her husband’s death Lady Caryn had married Sir Agnarr de Bellemare, a man who spoke the Norman French of England’s noble class, yet fought with the ferocity of his Viking given name. For the past three years, discord, discontent, and fear were the predominate emotions among those who lived within these walls.

  The soldiers, tradesmen, even some of the peasants thought Lady Caryn a weak female, frail in figure, spirit, and mind. In their eyes she did little to stop her husband from his often abusive behavior toward them.

  But others knew the truth, including Bethan. Lady Caryn had no choice in the matter. If she had not accepted de Bellemare he would have laid siege to the castle and taken it by force. Many would have died; all would have suffered horribly.

  “Come, Mother. Let us walk out to the fields and see what crops are being sowed today. The fresh air will do you good.”

  Taking hold of her mother’s arm, Bethan led her slowly down the winding staircase. Lady Caryn’s thin frame seemed more frail and fragile this morning, the burden of her swollen belly almost too much for her to carry. The constant sickness she had experienced since first quickening with child had weakened her previously strong constitution. Each day she seemed to wilt more and more.

  Bethan worried about her mother, resenting this unborn child for myriad reasons. The very last thing she wanted was a blood tie to a whelp of de Bellemare. Still, Bethan was astute enough to realize there were times when it was only the promise of the child her mother carried within her body that kept them safe from the worst of her stepfather’s wrath. The knight had made no secret of his desire to have a son and heir, regardless of the toll it took upon his wife’s health.

  When Lady Caryn had miscarried two other infants, de Bellemare’s anger had been felt throughout the castle, but he saved the majority of his displeasure for his wife. Though she never spoke of it, Bethan knew her mother feared what would happen if she could not successfully deliver the son her husband demanded.

  As they strode through the large wooden front doors of the keep, Bethan saw her stepfather heading in their direction, the captain of the garrison at his side. She quickly steered her mother out of his line of view, hoping to escape an encounter.

  Unfortunately, de Bellemare stopped before entering the keep. Bethan braced herself for his comments, but he apparently did not take notice of them, for he turned his back and spoke directly to the captain.

  “Kill them,” he commanded in a deep, emotionless tone. “Start with the group on the left and finish with those I have placed in the center. I want them all dead and buried by tonight.”

  “But my lord, we need these men to move the stones,” the captain protested.

  “I culled out the larger men for that job. They will carry the stones and begin building. The rest can be eliminated.”

  The captain frowned. “Moving the stones is an enormous task. All these men are needed.”

  “If you need more workers, then press more of the villeins into service.”

  The captain frowned. “We have already recruited every able-bodied man on the estate. There are none left who are strong enough to do the work. Grumblings have started among the people because there are no fit men to till the fields and plant the spring crops.”

  “I do not give a damn about the peasants’ complaints!” De Bellemare dragged his hand through his hair and cursed loudly. “I will grant you this day to complete the moving of the stones. Tomorrow morning I want those men killed.”

  The gasp of shock and horror that Bethan had struggled to contain burst forth and squealed from her throat. At the sound, the men turned toward her. The gleam of annoyance in de Bellemare’s eyes was unmistakable. The unsettling feeling prickling in Bethan’s belly deepened, but she did n
ot lower her gaze.

  She could not allow this to happen. She could not! Helplessly, Bethan cast her eyes beseechingly toward the captain of the guard, hoping for support, a voice of reason to state an objection. He cleared his throat, then lowered his eyes, avoiding her imploring gaze.

  She next turned to her mother. Lady Caryn’s eyes were wide with distress, her hand lowered to hover protectively over her swollen belly. She licked her lips in obvious distress, yet remained silent.

  “Please, my lord, I beg of you to show mercy. You cannot possibly kill all these men,” Bethan cried, fearing her protests would fall upon deaf ears, yet unable to stop herself. “’Tis unthinkable.”

  “These men are prisoners, captured after I defeated them in battle,” de Bellemare snorted, clearly unfazed by her reaction. “Their fate is in my hands.”

  “But they are innocent of any crime. You have no right to slaughter them.”

  “Innocent? They are my enemies. They are your enemies. You would hardly call them innocent if they pulled you from your warm bed in the dead of night and raped you repeatedly before gutting you through with a knife from belly to neck, now, would you, little Bethan?”

  Dismissively, he turned and stepped around her, stalking away. Fear and revulsion coiled in Bethan’s belly at the image of such a brutal act against her, yet she would not be deterred. True, warfare existed between the Welsh tribes. And those living along the border fought long and hard against the Normans and their English allies, defiantly resisting invasion. But even those captured warriors were not treated with the kind of savagery her stepfather intended.

  Bethan had not missed the tension surrounding de Bellemare’s features, the annoyance at her interference. Common sense told her to let the matter drop. And yet her feet propelled her forward.

  “Please, please, my lord, you must reconsider,” she begged. Racing ahead, she slumped to her knees in front of him. Tamping down the fear that rose to choke the breath from her lungs, she forced herself to confront him. “’Tis a grave sin to shed so much blood in such a fashion. I fear this atrocity will bring us all great suffering.”

  “Thor save me from feebleminded women and their meddling ways,” de Bellemare growled.

  Bethan ignored the mockery in his tone. Lifting her chin, she stared at his face, schooling herself not to react as his pale, soulless eyes pierced her own. Inexplicably she remembered the first time she had seen him. He had been sitting atop an enormous horse, leading his soldiers through the gates of Lampeter, a broad-shouldered knight with wind-tousled, overlong hair that gleamed as dark and glossy as the richest fur.

  The women around her had sighed and giggled, exclaiming over his handsome face with its strong dark brow, blade-sharp cheeks, and stern jaw. But for some unknown reason the sight of him had sent a shiver of distress through her entire body.

  “My father would never have ordered such a barbaric act.” Bethan spat the words at him without thinking, desperation clearly overtaking reason.

  The light blue of de Bellemare’s eyes first flashed with astonishment, then darkened with anger. “Your father is no longer here to make these decisions. The last time I recall seeing him, he was lying on a battlefield in a puddle of his own blood, a lance planted squarely in the middle of his chest.”

  Bethan remained perfectly still as she absorbed his goading comment. She thought herself used to his ever-growing cruelty, yet he so often proved he still possessed the power to wound. But she refused to allow him to see he had upset her. Instead of tears, she permitted the indignity she felt to flair within her.

  How dare he speak so ill of her beloved father? De Bellemare was not fit to wipe his boots. She rose to her feet, squaring her shoulders in a pose of confidence she was far from feeling. “My father was a great warrior. He labored hard to keep this land, and his people, prosperous and safe, secure in times of trouble. He inspired love from his family and loyalty and admiration from his people. A feat few men can claim, especially you, my lord.”

  At that instant lightning flashed and thunder cracked. The menace in de Bellemare’s eyes glowed red hot. She saw his gloved hand reach for the gleaming hilt of his sheathed broadsword and Bethan knew she had pushed him too far. Thinking he might strike her, she braced for the blow. But it never came.

  She realized then that her mother had stepped forward, placing herself between them. Lady Caryn’s face was pale as whey, save for the dark patches beneath her eyes. “Forgive her wicked tongue, my lord. She is but a young, tenderhearted female who knows nothing of the ways of the world, understands nothing of the business of men. We all know ’tis you who keep us safe, you who provide us with all that we need, and we are all most grateful.”

  “Your daughter’s opinion is of no consequence to me,” de Bellemare proclaimed, yet Bethan believed her barb had stung him more than he wanted to credit. “But her insolence is something I will not tolerate. If you know what is good for you both, keep her from my sight.”

  His eyes burned into Bethan and she felt her knees begin to tremble. In anger, de Bellemare was a menacing expanse of muscle and ruthless power. Her breath quickened as she struggled to stay calm and expressionless, knowing her stepfather would take great amusement in her fear.

  “You are needed on the practice field, my lord,” the captain of the guard interrupted.

  Lord Bellemare grunted his acknowledgment of the message. Throwing her a final dark scowl, the knight turned and stormed away.

  “Whoreson,” Bethan cursed under her breath, the moment he was beyond her hearing.

  “Bethan!” Lady Caryn pulled frantically at her daughter’s arm, fearful her words might have carried on the wind. “Saints preserve us, would you anger him further? You put us all at grave risk with your wicked tongue.”

  Bethan’s answer was an embarrassed silence. Her mother was right; ’twas sheer madness to provoke her stepfather, especially when his ire had already been pricked.

  Hanging her head, Bethan meekly followed her mother. The rain had steadily increased, so it was no surprise Lady Caryn elected to go indoors. They retired to her mother’s solar, where Bethan diligently plied her needle to the small garments her mother was crafting in anticipation of the baby’s birth.

  She later accompanied her mother uncomplainingly to evening Mass, where she prayed sincerely for forgiveness and guidance. She spoke not a word during the evening meal, taking her customary place on the dais beside Father William, the manor’s resident priest.

  She tried all day to push the incident from her mind, yet as she lay in her bed that night, sleep would not come, for her mind would not rest. The fate of the condemned men weighed heavily on her conscience and as each hour passed the need to take some sort of action pressed against Bethan’s heart.

  A few hours before dawn she made a decision. Dressing quickly in her warmest wool gown, Bethan stepped over the elderly maid who slept on the pallet in front of her bedchamber door and crept from the room. She met no one as she moved through the dark corridors, arriving quickly at her destination. Isolated from the rest of the castle, the small room where her father had gone over the estate accounts was no longer used, but the cupboard where he had stored a second set of keys remained.

  Snatching what she needed, Bethan retraced her path, but instead of returning to her chamber she went down to the great hall. Moonlight crept in through the high windows and she blinked several times to adjust her eyes to the dimness.

  Sleeping servants were stretched on pallets against the far wall, their even breaths telling her they were deep in slumber. After a careful scan of the room, Bethan was relieved to find no dogs among the prone forms, knowing they would never have allowed her to enter the room unchallenged.

  With great care, she crept slowly along the outer edges of the great hall, her steps muffled by the clean, herb-scented rushes on the floor. Luck was on her side when she saw the young soldier guarding the door was dozing, his head lolling against the wall. Moving with as much stealth as she could mus
ter, Bethan maneuvered around him and then slowly, carefully opened the heavy wooden door that led to the lower depths of the castle. Being a slender girl, she needed but a few inches of space to squeeze herself through.

  After three attempts she was able to light the torch she had brought. Taking a deep breath, she quickly recited a simple prayer before descending into the castle depths.

  Though she had hoped to do more, Bethan was well aware that it would be true folly indeed to attempt to release a great number of the condemned prisoners. Which was why she had chosen this path. It led to a small, isolated cell carved deeper underground that was sectioned off from the other dungeon.

  Given the vast numbers of prisoners her stepfather had taken and now housed, it seemed likely this cell would be occupied. As she moved forward, the stench of unwashed bodies and damp earth suddenly filled her nose, letting her know her assumptions had been correct.

  Heartened, Bethan pressed on, one hand holding the wall of solid earth on her left to keep her steady on her feet, the other hand raising her lit torch higher, illuminating the way. Thin snakes of smoke curled up from the flame gathering on the arched corridor of the shrinking ceiling, and she soon realized she would have to bow her head if it got any lower.

  After a few minutes, she reached the bottom. Ten steps forward and she found what she had been seeking. A single cell with long iron bars stood in the damp corner of the small, nearly airless space. Inside the cell were six, perhaps eight men. The light from her torch caught their attention and slowly they turned to investigate.

  The stillness in the air changed to something tense and dangerous. Bethan instinctively took a step back.

  “My, my, what do we have here? Have you come to poke at the animals in the cage, little miss?” one of the men asked.

  “Get close enough and I’ll give you a right proper poke,” another mocked, and several men grunted with lecherous amusement. “One you won’t soon forget.”