Word of Honor (Knights of Valor Book 1) Page 5

  “Let me see what I can do.” Merryn tugged with all her might, but the arrow had sunk deeply into the tree. She sank to her knees next to him.

  She was afraid what might happen if she did dislodge it. She knew an arrowhead was secured to the stripped branch using tendons and sinews. Once it hit a man or beast and became wet from blood and fluids, it would loosen and separate from the shaft. If she pulled and only the shaft slipped free, the arrowhead left behind could prove disastrous. Thanks to its rough edges, any movement could inflame and aggravate the injury.

  That could turn into an abscess. And infection.

  Which could lead to death.

  She couldn’t lose Geoffrey. Not after waiting so long for him to come home. Not after what she had discovered about love last night. She refused to.

  No one had emerged from the woods to claim responsibility. Merryn feared whoever shot the arrow had no idea what a catastrophe he’d created.

  “You must go for help,” he told her. “I cannot move. ‘Tis barely a trickle of blood that flows. The arrow has plugged the wound for now.” He took her hand and gave her an encouraging smile. “I shall be fine, my love, as long as I don’t move about over much. I will wait for you patiently to bring back others. You are the healer. You know what ‘twill be needed once I am freed.”

  She tried to put on a brave face, but a few tears escaped. Geoffrey wiped them away with his thumb and cradled his palm against her cheek.

  Merryn leaned in and kissed him. “I won’t be gone long.” She gave him a smile. “And this little scratch shall not be an excuse for you to lay abed and boss me about as some invalid might dare.”

  He returned her smile. “Nay. I fear I shall never be able to order you about.” He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “’Tis I who will always dance to your tune, Wife.” He brushed his lips against her knuckles.

  She covered him with the blanket from their feast and left wine within his reach in case he grew thirsty. She mounted Destiny and gave Geoffrey a cheery wave before she turned and rode like the wind back to Kinwick.

  The tears flowed freely now. She pushed aside her fears. She couldn’t think about what might happen. She needed to make sure of what did happen. And that was bringing back enough men to free her husband.

  Merryn made a mental list of the things she would need to treat him, both at the spot upon his release and once she had him back safely in their bed at Kinwick. Once they unlocked him from the tree, she would need clean cloths to staunch the bleeding. She wondered if it would be wise for him to ride since that might jar the wound and cause excessive bleeding. But a litter might take too much time.

  She prayed as if she never had before, imploring the Christ to help her make the right decisions and keep him alive. He was a good man—the best of men—and he would be an excellent lord to the people of Kinwick.

  And the best of husbands.

  Merryn thought she’d loved Geoffrey while he was away. His image often came to her in quiet moments, bringing her a great longing to be in his presence. But now they were married? Sharing a physical love that joined them as one had deepened her girlish adoration to a new plain. She would do anything in her power to protect this man of hers.

  Anything.

  After a long, hard ride, she came within sight of the castle, breaking from the forest to cross the meadow. To her left, a group of riders emerged from the woods. She recognized the hunting party, which must be returning to the keep.

  Merryn dug her heels in and urged Destiny on.

  She spied Geoffrey’s cousin Raynor and his father Ferand and rode straight toward them. She began waving her arms and calling out. They halted their horses at first, then both men rode to meet her.

  “’Tis Geoffrey,” she said, her breath coming in gasps. She paused and swallowed, slowing her breathing, trying to remain calm.

  Raynor gave her an impish grin. “We noticed the two of you appeared to have become lost. I knew—”

  “No!” she cried. “’There’s been an accident. Geoffrey’s hurt.” Quickly, she explained what had happened and how the arrow had penetrated his shoulder and bound him to the tree.

  “We shall ride at once to the hunting lodge,” Ferand said.

  “I’ll need my bag of herbs and cloth to bind the wound once you’ve freed him from the tree. And a knife. I shall need to make an incision and enlarge the entry wound so I can slide my finger down the shaft. It will allow me to feel the depth of his wound and see if any of the arrowhead has lodged in his bone.”

  “You’ll need to try and remove the head and shaft as one piece,” Raynor said. “I can help with that. I’ve done it after a battle twice now.”

  “I’ll send someone back to Kinwick for what you need.” Ferand motioned to a rider and gave him instructions what to get and where to bring it. The man took off. Ferand sent all but a gathered few back to the castle, and the group turned their horses in the direction of the lodge.

  They made better time returning with Ferand leading the way. He knew a few shortcuts that Merryn hadn’t, so they reached the lodge more quickly on their return trip. Mystery stood where Geoffrey had left the horses.

  But Geoffrey was gone.

  “He was here,” Merryn insisted. “We both tried to free him. He couldn’t possibly have done it himself.”

  “Maybe he loosened it and is now inside,” Raynor suggested.

  She sprang from her horse and ran into the small abode. “Geoffrey! Geoffrey! Where are you?” The ground floor was empty. She raced up the stairs to check both bedchambers. Her husband was nowhere in sight.

  Fear washed through her.

  Merryn hurried down the stairs and returned to where the men gathered under the tree, examining it.

  “’Tis some blood on the bark. And here. Some on the ground,” Raynor pointed out. “Mayhap someone happened by and helped him. But who?”

  “And where is he?” Ferand spat out. “Why not take him on his horse?”

  “He knew I was going for help. He would not have left here,” Merryn insisted. Her stomach twisted painfully.

  “Mayhap he’s been taken back to Kinwick,” one man suggested.

  “Let us return at once,” Ferand commanded.

  They mounted their horses and rode hard back to the castle. As the hooves echoed, nausea filled Merryn. Something wasn’t right.

  Geoffrey wasn’t at Kinwick. No one from the gatekeeper to the servants in the Great Hall had seen him since that morning.

  Ferand immediately organized a group of search parties to go out and hunt for his son.

  Raynor took her aside. “I am a great tracker. I shall find him, Merryn. Never you worry. Have faith.”

  She watched the men ride out. Hours later, she still stood rooted to the same spot in the bailey as each group returned with nothing to report. No signs of Geoffrey. Anywhere.

  It was as if he’d vanished off the face of the earth.

  CHAPTER 9

  Geoffrey sat under the large oak, dealing with the dull throbbing in his shoulder. He’d quickly figured out how to breathe in a shallow manner so as not to move his body. It seemed more an inconvenient ache versus real pain at the moment.

  But he knew that wouldn’t last. Once Merryn returned and had help in removing the arrowhead, it would be a different story.

  She wouldn’t be gone long. He would pass the time thinking of happier things. He was grateful to be home from the wars in France. He had married a beautiful, spirited woman. They had a lifetime ahead of them. He’d been groomed for war but now at home, his father could tutor him on all the intricacies of running a vast estate such as Kinwick, for one day he would be its lord and must keep it thriving.

  A snapping noise drew his attention to where Mystery stood. He watched a stranger step from the woods. Possibly a soldier from his bearing.

  But as the man approached, something in his eyes told Geoffrey he should not trust him.

  “Spot of trouble yer in? Mayhap I can help.”
<
br />   He held his left arm out stiffly, his palm facing the man to halt his progress. “My wife has gone for help.”

  The stranger’s eyes gleamed. “I know. I saw her leave.”

  A rush of adrenaline flooded him. This man could not be trusted. Then he understood.

  “You put this arrow in me,” he said, his tone flat.

  “That I did, my lord,” the man confirmed, an evil smile playing about his lips. “A nice crossbow accomplished the task.” He crossed his arms against his broad chest. “Stronger than a bow and arrow. More force behind it. Had plenty of practice in Aquitaine with it. You might say I’m a true master of the weapon.”

  Geoffrey sensed something behind him. He turned his head since his body was pinned fast. He caught a blur—another man—who crashed something into his head with great force.

  Bright stars exploded against a field of black. The world spun about him. A second blow came.

  And then the darkness.

  ***

  Geoffrey awakened, a loud roar whirling in his head, making him dizzy and nauseated. His shoulder screamed out in pain, competing for his attention.

  He forced his eyes open and saw darkness with but small shafts of light around him. A constant bump jostled him. He was being brought down a flight of stairs.

  Into a dungeon.

  He spied a young boy in front of him and wondered who he was. The boy looked over his shoulder once, and their eyes met. Then he turned away and hurried down the last of the stairs.

  When they reached the bottom, the earl of Winterbourne awaited them.

  He fought to make sense of the scene.

  “Go. Get the healer, Hardwin. Be quick about it. And not a word to anyone lest I flay the skin from your back,” he threatened.

  Hardwin. That was Berold’s youngest. Geoffrey thought him about ten and two. With Barrett’s death, he would be heir to Winterbourne.

  The boy rushed past, not meeting Geoffrey’s eye when he passed.

  Now the two soldiers who held fast to him dragged him down the remaining steps and brought him into a cell. They pitched him on the floor. One cuffed his wrists to shackles chained to the wall while the other locked restraints around both his ankles. They stepped from the cell but left the door ajar.

  His eyes adjusted to the dim light. Only a couple of wall sconces flickered.

  “Excellent work,” Berold praised. “I must be certain, though, for ‘tis a sensitive matter you’ve been entrusted to this day. You’ve told no one of your task? Not another soldier . . . nor a pretty serving wench?” He looked from one man to the other.

  “Nay, my lord,” they answered in unison.

  “That must remain so. I thank you heartily for your labor this day. You will receive your just reward in time. Leave—and tell no one what you participated in.”

  The men nodded and turned to depart the dungeon. Before they’d taken two steps away, Berold drew his sword from its sheath and moved to the one on the right. Without warning, he swung the sword behind the man’s back and sliced his head clean off.

  The second of the pair turned, a look of horror upon his face. Berold ran his sword into the man’s gut and twisted it. He yanked it out as the soldier fell to his knees, blood bubbling from his lips. Then he fell face down.

  Geoffrey watched in shock. The earl acted so swiftly, the violence was over before he could even shout a warning.

  He watched as Berold dragged each body off into the darkness a good ways away before he retrieved the severed head and tossed it in the same direction.

  The nobleman returned and stared at him. “Let the rats feed on their remains and their bones turn to dust.” He stepped into the small cell. “No one—no one—can know you are here.”

  A sinking feeling overpowered him. Geoffrey sat mute, only starting to comprehend the evil plan unfolding.

  He heard voices approach from a distance.

  “’Twill be my healer. She will get the arrowhead from you. She will tend the wound. There’s magic in her old fingers.” Berold studied him. “I’ve heard said many times over that you are a man of your word. Give me your word now that you will allow her to care for you and not harm her in any manner.”

  Geoffrey knew that to escape, he must live. And to live, this arrowhead must be removed and the wound tended to so that infection wouldn’t set in. He needed the skills of this healer.

  “On my word of honor, I vow she shall not come to any harm by my hand.”

  As he finished speaking, Berold stepped from the cell. Geoffrey saw Hardwin and the healer had arrived. She moved into the cell, a bag in one hand and a knife gleaming in the other. No words were spoken between them as she shoved a wadded-up cloth into his mouth.

  She called for the boy and light. He stepped forward, holding a lantern high. She cut into his flesh. Geoffrey groaned into the cloth. Her fingers probed. Indescribable pain shot white lightning through him. He thought the agony would never end.

  He must have passed out. His eyes opened. The cloth sat in his lap. The healer finished her last stitches and then packed a poultice onto his shoulder. Winding cloth round and round his shoulder and arm, she secured it. She picked up her goods and left. No dismissal was necessary. In the silence, he heard her slow tread up the stone steps, echoing till it ceased. A faint grating noise occurred. He assumed she shut a door from far above.

  Hardwin had exited after her. He stood cowering in the shadows, having left the lantern in the cell.

  “Come,” Berold commanded, motioning his son with two fingers. Hardwin moved to stand next to his father. Berold placed an arm about the trembling boy.

  “Look upon the man who murdered your brother. He tells the tale another way, but he knows what he took from me.”

  Berold took a step closer, bringing the reluctant boy along with him.

  “This man took my beloved son from me,” he hissed. “My heir who would one day rule Winterbourne. I shall now take from him.” He spat upon the ground in distaste.

  “Yesterday was the happiest day of this man’s life, Hardwin. The rest of his life will be lived here. In darkness. In loneliness. In misery.”

  Icy fear coursed through Geoffrey’s veins. Berold must be mad to think he could get away with such a scheme.

  “I shall feed him every day. Enough to survive. I don’t want to kill you,” he said conversationally. “You must live many years. In suffering and anguish. To atone for what you did to my boy. My flesh and blood.”

  The earl turned and gripped his son’s shoulders roughly, shaking him. “You must never, ever, come here again, Hardwin. No one shall know what became of this man. Not your mother. Not your sisters.”

  He paused. “And upon my death? You shall take over and do the same. If he lives, then your son shall do the same. Until the bastard is dead.”

  He released Hardwin and looked back at Geoffrey. “You stole the life of my eldest. Now I’ll steal your life. I allowed you to have a wedding day so you would know what you were missing as you spent days and weeks and months and years, here in this prison. You’ll grow old and never see another face but mine.

  “Your comely wife will either go mad with grief at your unexplained disappearance, or she’ll grow old before her time. Her beauty will wither. Emptiness will fill her heart. And she, too, will die, sad and alone, wondering what happened to her handsome husband. You’ll never even hear your name again. For down here, you are no one.”

  Berold moved his hand in a sweeping gesture.

  “Welcome to your new home.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Geoffrey lay on the stone floor. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d been brought to this Hell. He’d been feverish for what he assumed to be days. The healer came periodically. Inspected his wound. Changed his bandages. Bathed his face with a wet cloth. Forced him to drink.

  But she never spoke to him.

  The fever had finally broken. His body no longer burned with fire. Even his shoulder had calmed from a raging inferno
to an ugly, dull ache. So he knew he wouldn’t die from it.

  What awaited him was a living death.

  Now that he was in his right head again and could think coherently, he could see no way out of this prison. True to his word, the earl brought food as he’d promised. Not enough to fill his belly to satisfaction, but far from starving him.

  How could he escape?

  A sound came from a distance. His ears had attuned to the quiet of the dungeon so he could hear a rat scurrying about in the darkness.

  Someone was coming.

  Hope sprang in his heart. And just as quickly fled.

  The earl of Winterbourne appeared at the cell’s locked door. He opened it and put the day’s repast before him. He never came close enough for Geoffrey to touch him, always staying just out of where the chains could reach. He would eat later. He didn’t want Berold to see how hungry he was nor how dependent he’d become on him.

  “You should be able to remove your bandages.”

  Why would the earl say that?

  He knew the answer in his heart but said, “I’m no healer. She should do so to see if I’ve made good progress.”

  “She’s assured me you will be fine.” He paused. “She won’t be returning.” Berold locked the door again and hung the key on the wall opposite his cell. Folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “They came here today.”

  They?

  But once again, he knew without asking. This time he remained silent.

  Berold’s eyes met his. “Your father. Your cousin. And . . . your wife.”

  Geoffrey’s fists tightened. Thoughts of Merryn flooded through him.

  His captor frowned, as if concerned. “She didn’t look well. She was quite pale, in fact. She looked as if she hasn’t slept in—”

  “Enough! You aren’t to speak of her. Ever.”

  The nobleman took his outburst in stride. “I sympathized with them, of course. Kept my expression grave. My tone hushed and respectful.” He smiled. “And all the while I wanted to shout to the heavens that you resided below in my dungeons. That you’d survived the crossbow attack. And would never see daylight again.”