Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

breathing. Someone sobbing. And now there were doors, closed doors, bolted doors. What was this place? It smelled like…what was that smell? Henry wrinkled his nose. It smelled like the butchery at Jenova’s parents’ castle, the place where the animals were taken to be killed for the table.

It smelled like death.

They had reached the landing.

Thearoux was waiting there for him. His ugly face, which Henry had thought jolly, was full of gloating anticipation. The small black eyes fixed on his.

Henry hesitated on the stairs below, feeling the weight of that place about him, sensing that not many who came here ever left. “I want to go home,” he said, and his voice shook like the adolescent boy he was, and for once he didn’t care.

Thearoux watched him a moment, consideringly. And then he said, “Well, you’re here now. May as well stay a while, eh? This is your room.”

He opened a door. Inside, the room was hardly bigger than his trunk, in it a straw mattress and a candle and a bucket. A prison cell. A place of punishment. But what had he done?

Thearoux shoved him in and slammed the door. Henry heard the bolt slide home.

“Welcome, Beau Henri!” he cried, the jovial note back in his voice. “Welcome to le château de Nuit.”

“Henry?”

It was Jenova. Jenova’s sweet, melodious voice. It was like a balm, like honey poured upon a scold. The sound of it miraculously soothed the agony within him. Slowly, Henry turned his head to stare at her. He did not know how long he had been silent, how much time had passed. The solar was quite dark, and she had lit no candles. He could hardly see her face. He was not sure he wanted to.

“What sort of place was it? Henry, what happened to you there?” Jenova whispered, as if she did not feel it quite appropriate to speak loudly. As if the picture he had painted for her was far too horrible.

Henry cleared his throat, shifted slightly on his seat, rubbed a hand across his jaw and heard the scrape of his whiskers. When had he last shaved? Or changed his clothes? He could smell himself. He needed a bath. He had not realized that his life had begun to crumble about him like this, or perhaps he had just not cared.

He forced himself back to that place he had never wanted to remember again, but the memories were choking him. As if she sensed his despair, Jenova’s warm fingers slipped around his and gripped, hard, giving him strength. After a little while, Henry found his voice again.

“It was a wolf’s lair; savage and cruel. Thearoux lived there with his men, and at night they rode out into the surrounding countryside. He called them hunters. ‘We’re going hunting!’ he used to say, with such a look in his eyes. Their prey was anything they could find. Villagers, peasants from the surrounding countryside. Jesu, no wonder their doors had been locked when I rode past! They were terrified. They knew if they were caught out after dark they would be killed or raped, or taken back to the château to be tortured in that appalling room for the amusement of Thearoux and his men.”

He blinked at her, his voice struggling past the lump in his throat. “Thearoux cared nothing for these people, Jenova. He and his band lived to commit their evil. And the night after I arrived there, Thearoux told me that I was now one of them, and that if I did not take part in their grisly hunt, then I would be their next victim. ’Tis remarkable how the conscience can be silenced when you are staring death in the face. It was I who gave the poor wretch we hunted the coup de grace that night.”

“Oh, Jesu…”

Henry heard the shock in her voice, but he couldn’t stop. He knew if he stopped now, he would not be able to go on. And he had to finish this. He had to tell her everything. It was like opening a vein; the blood would not be stopped once it had begun to flow out. No matter what damage it did to the patient.

“So I rode with them.”

“Henry, poor Henry.”

“No, not poor Henry,” he reproved her.

“You were thirteen years old!”

“Maybe, but I was not the one to pity, Jenova. I was afraid, so I went with them and pretended I did not care. But that night I wept, sick to my stomach, and for many nights after. Aye, as time went on, I learned to pretend I was going to join in, and then I would hide myself away. Make out it wasn’t happening. I was a coward. Sometimes…sometimes I couldn’t hide and I couldn’t pretend, and then I saw everything. Those memories are my worst. Have you ever seen a hunt, Jenova? Of course you have! We Normans love to hunt and kill. The chase, the baying dogs and shouting men, the victim brought down and torn to pieces, or else throat cut. The blood, the endless, warm gouts of blood. Aye, ’tis a sight not to be missed.”

Silence. Henry closed his eyes. He had quieted her at last. He was doubly glad now that he could not see her face, that the room was in darkness. He could not bear to read what was in her eyes as the full impact of what he had done weighed upon her.

He cleared his throat, for he was not finished yet.

“Souris and I—he was another boy a little older than me—would sometimes be sent out to flush out the kill. Or to lure some poor creature from his or her home, and lead them to their death. I would try and save them, if I could. Once I hid a boy up a tree, and Souris knew, but he said nothing. He thought it was funny, Thearoux and his hunt riding around, seeking the boy, when he was right above their heads. It amused him. I amused him. But that was why I was there, for Souris’ sake.”

“Souris? This boy was as bad as the rest of them, then?” Her voice was a whisper in the darkness, her hand gripped his painfully hard.

“He was one of them. They called him Souris, the Mouse, because he was small and quiet. He was Thearoux’s son by some woman in the village who had been kept at the château for his use. Souris had been spawned in evil and weaned upon murder. What could you expect him to be like? And I had been brought to the château specifically to keep Souris company. He wanted someone of his own age to play with. Thearoux had heard of me from my mother, and she had given him permission to take me in. So kind of them to arrange it between them, don’t you think?”

“Oh Henry.”

He did not stop, he could not stop. “My friend Souris was not like me. He did not have to pretend to enjoy the hunts, he loved them. The bloodlust shone in his eyes. Thearoux’s blood ran true in him.”