Nature of the Beast Page 11

Bethan’s feet faltered. Her stepfather’s dire predictions of rape and murder echoed through her head as the nagging flaw in her plan crystalized in her mind. Freeing these men could very well place her own safety, her own life, in grave danger. She closed her eyes, fighting back the sickening queasiness in her stomach as the jeering grew louder, the comments cruder.

  “Be quiet. All of you.”

  The sound of a commanding voice from the shadows instantly silenced the jeers. When it was quiet, the speaker stepped to the forefront, into the circle of firelight cast by her torch.

  To her surprise, Bethan saw a man far younger than the rest of the prisoners, a lad probably only a few years older than herself. A handsome lad, with short dark hair, gray eyes, a jutting nose, and a strong jaw. It seemed impossible that he was their leader and yet he exuded an air of power and command that far exceeded his years.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “I have come to help you escape,” Bethan proclaimed breathlessly.

  Instead of the surprised excitement she expected, the men hooted with laughter. All except the younger one, the one who had posed the question. He was silent, watching her with studied interest, his gray eyes hooded, revealing nothing of his emotions.

  “Why would you do such a thing, demoiselle?”

  Bethan swallowed. As much as she wanted to reveal the truth, she worried at the men’s reaction if she told them they were to be executed in the morning. “Do you wish for your freedom, sir? Or shall I journey to the dungeons on the north side and find others who would be grateful for my assistance?”

  “Is that what you seek? Gratitude?”

  “No. I seek justice.”

  “A strange quest for the daughter of de Bellemare,” the lad retorted.

  “He is not my father!” Bethan’s face flushed with emotion.

  “Aye, the lass speaks the truth,” one of the men concurred. “I heard the guards speak of how de Bellemare took this place a few years past without any bloodshed. He married the widowed Lady Caryn. The girl is too old to be his get.”

  Those piercing gray eyes grew thoughtful. “So this is an act of revenge against your stepfather?”

  Bethan shook her head vehemently, denying the charge, though inwardly she admitted there was some measure of truth in the question. She did want to strike back at de Bellemare, but she also felt a great need to try and prevent some of the senseless violence he seemed so intent on inflicting.

  “Lampeter was a joyful place before Agnarr de Bellemare arrived. Releasing you is but a small attempt on my part to restore some of the dignity and honor my stepfather has stripped from us.”

  The leader was silent, his face pensive. But the others were most vocal with their doubts and suspicions.

  “’Tis a trap, I say! A trap! We shall all be gutted the moment we climb those stairs.” The prisoner who spoke, a large brute of a man with thickly muscled forearms, wiped his mouth, then gave Bethan an amused smirk. “We’d be fools to trust her.”

  “Or fools to so easily scoff at her offer.” The leader looked at each of the men in turn, then returned his gaze to Bethan. “Agnarr de Bellemare does not need the excuse of escaping prisoners to kill us. He can order our deaths at any time.”

  Bethan inwardly flinched, amazed at how he had correctly deciphered the truth. Though she willed herself to remain expressionless, she must have done something that revealed her true emotions. The leader’s expression changed, his voice grew urgent. He stood up, drew closer, his expression alert.

  “Is that it, lass? Is he planning to kill us?”

  “Aye. You and nearly a hundred others.”

  The cell became very quiet. A few of the men seemed angry, others concerned, while one gave her a skeptical look. Yet to a man, they turned to the lad for guidance.

  “What is your name, demoiselle?”

  “I am Bethan of Lampeter.”

  “And I am Haydn of Gwynedd.” He inclined his head in a gesture of courtly gallantry. “How can you aid us?”

  Bethan’s fingers curled around the heavy iron key she had hidden in her pocket. Slowly she withdrew it, holding it out so the light spilling from her torch would illuminate it. “I have the key that will unlock your cell.”

  There was a hiss of an indrawn breath, along with a whistle of excitement. The men began to press forward against the iron bars. Choking back the cry that lodged in her throat, Bethan dug her heels into the hard-packed dirt floor and stood her ground.

  “How many guards are there aboveground?”

  “There is but one soldier standing guard at the entrance to this passage.”

  “One!” a man exclaimed. “We can easily overtake him.”

  Bethan shook her head. “No. Once outside that door, you must pass through the great hall in order to exit the castle. ’Twas difficult enough for me to manage the task. With your numbers, you will never slip through undetected.”

  “Then we will have to fight our way out. Can you get us some weapons, lass?” the largest man asked.

  Bethan’s eyes widened in alarm, but before she could answer another of the men spoke. “Don’t be daft, man. Eight men against a garrison of de Bellemare’s soldiers? We’d be cut down before we reach the castle walls.”

  A murmur of agreement went through the men. Bethan waited a moment, then spoke. “I know of another way out.”

  Once again, her words produced an instant silence.

  “Another way?” Haydn asked.

  “There is another passage, one that leads to a trapdoor in the stables.”

  “Then that is our route of escape,” Haydn declared. “Will you lead the way, Lady Bethan?”

  She nodded. Bethan fumbled with the key, her hand shaking noticeably as she tried to fit it into the lock. Behind the bars, the men were pacing in the cell like beasts on a leash. With freedom so near, their agitation was palpable.

  But palpable also was Bethan’s fear. Faced with the reality of the reckless act she was about to commit, she trembled with doubt. The men could easily attack or kill her once they were free.

  As if sensing the warring thoughts within her mind, the leader reached through the bars, closing his hand over hers. She gasped and looked up. His eyes gleamed in the frail light.

  “You have nothing to fear from us,” he assured her. “I give you my word that you will be safe.”

  A sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “My fate is in God’s hands now.”

  Once unlocked, the cell door swung open easily. The men pushed forward, eager to be free. Bethan felt a hand at her elbow and was relieved to see it was Haydn. He had placed himself protectively between her and the other men. Slowly, she exhaled.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  She lifted her chin to indicate the direction. “The passage is very low and narrow. We must form a single line and be very, very quiet.”

  With a confidence she was far from feeling, Bethan led them along the shadowy corridor. Mice and rats scurried over their feet, cobwebs caught on their hair and faces, but no one uttered a sound.

  Finally they reached the base of a narrow, wooden staircase. Regretfully, Bethan extinguished her torch, plunging them into total darkness. Biting her lip, she started the slow climb up the stairs, but was quickly pulled back.

  “Let me go first,” Haydn commanded. “You do not know what you will find above us.”

  It took two tries to dislodge the trapdoor. Once it was pushed aside, Haydn easily pulled himself through. After he had successfully cleared the opening, Bethan followed, poking her head out. The smells of straw, horses, and manure let her know they had reached the stables. Blinking hard, she reached up and allowed Haydn to help her out. The rest followed quickly behind her.

  “We would be harder to catch on horseback,” one of the men suggested as he stroked the back of a sleek mare who stood contentedly in her stall.

  “No!” Haydn ordered. “If we try to ride out we will alert the guards and be pursued. Our best chance is to escap
e on foot.”

  “He is right,” Bethan agreed. “You can slip over the wall on the south end. From there it is but a short run to the forest, and freedom.”

  They left the stable under Bethan’s guidance, avoiding the watchtower, keeping to the darkest shadows of the buildings. The ground, wet from the recent rain, was soft beneath their feet. They came to the south section of the wall and Bethan halted. The moon, low in the sky, cast a few weak rays through the primeval forest that loomed just beyond, the tops of the dark, thick trees lashing in the wind.

  Silently, the men hoisted themselves over the wall, until only young Haydn was left. He turned to face her and Bethan felt her breath catch.

  “I owe you a debt I fear I can never repay. But have a care, Bethan of Lampeter. If de Bellemare ever learns of your part in all this…” His voice trailed off.

  Bethan swallowed hard as she acknowledged his warning. She saw the sincerity in his eyes, heard the genuine note of concern, and felt vindicated in her actions. This young man did not deserve the cruel death her stepfather had decreed and she was pleased she had been able to save him.

  “I will be careful,” she replied. The rain began, a steady drizzle that quickly soaked her gown. “Godspeed, Haydn of Gwynedd. I shall pray for your safe deliverance from this place of evil and I shall pray even harder for the rain to cease and bright sunshine to greet the day.”

  “Sunshine?”

  “Aye, sunshine. I do not know why, but ’tis the one thing that always keeps de Bellemare indoors. If he learns of your escape, he will give chase, leading his men until you are found. He is vengeful, ruthless, and possessing of powers beyond mortal men. He will not return without you. Or your mutilated bodies.” She swallowed hard. “But if there is sunshine tomorrow, he will send his soldiers out alone and if you have run far and covered your tracks, you might yet succeed in eluding them.”

  He nodded, though she worried that he did not fully understand the danger her stepfather presented.

  “Farewell,” he whispered.

  Then to her utter astonishment, he executed an elegant bow, vaulted over the wall, and headed toward the open fields. Bethan scrambled on top of an abandoned oxcart and watched, her heart thumping with fear. She could see the other men had fanned out through the fields, all scurrying in different directions, hoping to increase their chances of survival if they were pursued.

  Yet it was so open, so bare. If any were sighted, they would be easily captured. And most likely tortured before they were killed.

  Bethan shuddered with revulsion, but knowing there was nothing more she could do, she climbed down from the cart. Carefully, silently, she made her way back to her bedchamber, her mouth moving in prayer with each step she took.

  Haydn ran through the clearing toward the thick grove of trees. He pushed himself until the burning in his lungs became a constant, unbearable pain, but he did not slow until the tall trees and dense thickets had swallowed him. Still keeping a steady speed, he glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see no one.

  The scent of spicy pine drifted around him, normally a comforting scent but the tension inside him seemed to crackle in the air. Panting, his breath coming in deep gasps, Haydn allowed himself a moment of rest. He strained, listening for the sound of horses’s hooves, the baying of dogs, the thundering rhythm of marching men in hot pursuit. But he heard nothing. Only the groaning of the trees as they fought the wind and in the distance, the hooting of an owl.

  He picked up the pace, his leather boots slipping on the wet pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. Rain fell in torrents, splattering Haydn’s face, making it difficult to see. He lowered his head and thrust himself forward, determined to make progress, knowing if he reached the outer edge of the forest it was but a short sprint to the base of the rugged hills.

  He ran for hours, until every muscle in his body ached, every bone jarred. Blinking against the pelting drops, he lifted his head. Lightning forked in the sky and thunder boomed through the forest, illuminating the mantle of darkness. And then he saw them. The stark, bare, stone hills.

  Freedom.

  Rain lashed from the sky, pummeling the ground. But Haydn barely felt it. With renewed strength, he pushed his wet hair from his eyes. For the first time since he had been captured two long months ago, he smiled.

  They would not be able to track him once he began to climb, even if de Bellemare led his soldiers on the hunt. He remembered the earnest expression on Bethan’s face as she told him she would pray for sunshine so her stepfather would not pursue him.

  As for Haydn, well, he would pray for light rain and a dense fog. Bethan knew only that de Bellemare was reluctant to be in the sunlight, freely admitting she was unaware of the reason.

  But Haydn knew. He knew that once bathed in sunlight de Bellemare would burst into flames and burn until he was consumed. He knew de Bellemare was cursed. He was not alive, nor was he dead. He was undead. He could breathe, his heart beat, he ate, drank, slept, but most importantly he could not easily die.

  De Bellemare was a vampire. He could live forever, with his amazing strength and cruel, evil countenance, as long as he had blood. Human blood.

  Haydn knew that de Bellemare could go mad with bloodlust, killing humans as well as other vampires. Haydn believed that was what had happened to his parents—de Bellemare had gone on a rampage, had broken a taboo held for centuries among his kind and slaughtered every creature that drew breath within Haydn’s family manor.

  Haydn knew this, understood this, because he too was a creature of darkness, a vampire. A twist of fate had saved him from sharing the same gruesome end as his family. He had been away from the manor at the time of the attack. He had tracked those responsible for the carnage and been caught and imprisoned.

  The need to avenge this evil wrong, to destroy his sworn enemy was the force that drove Haydn. Much as he wanted to, he knew it was madness to challenge de Bellemare now. Haydn was young, his abilities not yet fully developed. Therefore he knew he must wait, he must build his strength, harness his powers, and in due time, gain his revenge.

  Thanks to young Bethan of Lampeter’s courage, he would have that chance.

  Two

  Ten years later, early spring

  “I have decided that you shall marry within the month, Bethan,” Sir Agnarr de Bellemare decreed. “I am done with your paltry excuses and maidenly foolishness.”

  The self-proclaimed Lord of Lampeter made his announcement as the evening meal was being served. The hall bustled with activity, people, and noise, but Bethan felt several pairs of eyes turn to her. She imagined her stepfather had raised his voice intending to be overheard, intending to demonstrate yet again that he, and he alone, ruled this land and all who resided within it.

  Bethan clutched her hands together in her lap so no one, especially de Bellemare, would see them tremble.

  “Precisely who am I to marry, my lord?” she asked cautiously, trying to force a light, uncaring note into her voice. “’Tis over a year since any acceptable men have presented themselves to me as potential suitors.”

  “The fault for your lack of suitors does not lie with me,” he spat out.

  To her dismay, Bethan flinched. His words had struck a chord. At three-and-twenty she was well beyond the age when most women married. As she matured, there had been some interest, but any man that she was willing to consider quickly changed his mind when he tried to negotiate a bridal contract with her stepfather.

  In the end, Bethan had not been too despondent, for she knew the one characteristic she required in a husband, above all others, was his ability to stand up to the Lord of Lampeter. Unfortunately, that man had yet to be found.

  “I have been far too lenient about this matter,” de Bellemare announced. “I will select the groom myself and you will be pleased with my choice.”

  “Your choice?” Bethan said in a clear voice that easily reached the end of the hall. “I agreed to an arranged marriage, my lord. Not a forced one.”
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br />   “Damn your insolent hide!” Lord Lampeter slammed his fist upon the trestle table so hard his goblet of wine shuddered, tipped, and fell over. The rich red liquid ran like a river to the edge, then trickled over the side.

  Bethan straightened her shoulders. “Three years ago you agreed, sir, that I would have the final choice as to which man becomes my husband. Surely, you do not mean to break your promise to me, an oath sworn before God and our people?”

  He glowered at her and Bethan felt a rising fear. ’Twas not prudent, or safe, to push his temper beyond a certain point, but she had to reestablish her rights in this process in front of witnesses. It was her only chance.

  “You know your stepfather is a man of his word,” Lady Caryn said quietly. “He would never dishonor himself in such a fashion by breaking his promise.”

  Bethan turned to her mother in gratitude, grateful for the support. The answering smile of encouragement she received nearly broke her heart. The once lovely Lady Caryn was thin to the point of gauntness, her complexion pale, bloodless. She was in so many ways a shadow of her former self, but her instinct to protect her daughter remained strong.

  “I need no defense from you, lady wife,” de Bellemare grunted in disgust. “If you had given me a son, a proper heir, this matter would not be of such grave importance.”

  Cowed, Lady Caryn bowed her head. The Lord of Lampeter never missed an opportunity to berate his wife over her failure to produce the requisite heir. Bethan felt it was especially unfair, since her mother had literally tried for years to bring forth a living child, becoming pregnant nearly every spring, and either miscarrying or burying a stillborn babe by fall. So much sadness and difficulties, both physical and emotional, had taken a toll on her health and spirit.

  For a time Bethan thought he might put aside Lady Caryn and take a new wife, but surprisingly that had not come to pass.

  Without a son to inherit, Bethan was heiress to Lampeter, a vast property of sizeable wealth. But de Bellemare had no intention of letting control of the property slip from his grasp any time soon. Though he left his true motivation unspoken, even a fool knew that Lord Lampeter meant to mold her bridegroom into his image, intending to train him to do his bidding.