Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“You’ll do us no good by starving yourself,” Clare observed as she paced from the window. Her back was rigid, her face more lined than Ware remembered. Still, he shoved away the trencher in front of him. His face was beginning to heal, and his pain had lessened to a dull ache that pounded through his skull.

The chamber was dark, lit only by a few sconces and the fire glowing in the hearth. Ware thought of grabbing some of the burning embers and hurling them at his captors when they came close, but each time they had entered the locked chamber, the soldiers had been careful. They had grabbed Glyn and held a dagger to her throat. She’d screamed, but hadn’t struggled, though she nearly fainted each time. No, Ware could not risk her life.

“I can’t eat,” he told his sister when she pointed at his trencher of untouched stew.

“You have no choice.”

But Ware wasn’t to be won over. Strahan had left two days before, and nothing had changed. There had been no chance of escape. The door was continually barred, except when a servant or guard brought in water, food, or slop pails.

Everyone in the room was listless. Glyn, had given up on her prayers and often sat weeping in the corner. Cadell, his bravado ebbing with each day, was picking through the rushes, searching for mice, and Clare, though she walked as if an iron spike had been driven up her spine, was losing her spirit as well. Her words sounded hollow, and Ware knew that all of the prisoners were counting on him to set them free.

But he was failing. The hours passed and he had no plan of escape, no way to free them. He tried to pretend that he was Garrick, for his older brother, he knew, would never be kept hostage.

The door opened, and Springan slipped through with a pitcher of water. She moved slowly, her gaze lowered, her gait unsteady.

“Hurry, wench! I’ve not got all day, and I have other duties I wish you to perform. Duties much more pleasing.” From the open doorway, Joseph’s voice boomed through the room before he slammed the door and threw down the bar. Springan visibly shuddered.

Ware felt sick. So Springan had become Joseph’s woman. From the looks of her, she was hurting. He watched as she poured water into the cups, and as she turned toward him he saw it — the bruise discoloring her face. Though she’d tried to cover the purple-tinged skin with her hair, the welt was visible, and Ware’s guts tightened at the thought of her pain.

“Springan, wait!” he said when she started for the door.

“I’m wanted, m’lord.”

Ware was on his feet and crossed the room quickly. “Stand still.” He brushed back her hair. She winced at his touch, and her face suffused with color. “Joseph did this to you.”

She wouldn’t look at him, dared not answer.

Ware felt a wave of self-loathing. Not only had he failed his brother, but he’d failed the servants as well. He touched her lightly on the chin, forcing her to lift her gaze up to his. “Springan, I’m sorry—”

“Wench!” Joseph called through the closed door.

“I must leave.” Panic rose in Springan’s eyes. “He doesn’t like it if—”

The door flew open to bang against the wall. Sir Joseph weaved into the chamber. He smelled of sour mead, and his face was flushed. The leather thong holding his breeches together was undone, and his manhood bulged against the partially opened fabric. “There you are,” he snarled when his gaze landed on the servant girl. “Not giving it to Sir Ware, are ye? Y’re my woman now!”

“Leave her be!” Ware ordered and felt all his youth and impotence wash over him in a pitiful tide.

“Shut yer mouth. Y’re not lord of the castle anymore,” Joseph pointed out. “Not that you were before. Git over here,” he yelled at Springan.

Eyes rounded with fear, Springan approached him and he laughed. “Not so saucy, are ye, wench? Not since ye’ve been warming my bed. I know how to handle a wo

man.” His arm snaked out, and he grabbed Springan’s hand. She dropped her tray, and all the cups clattered to the floor as he pulled her roughly to him. “Look at the mess you made, you stupid woman.” He shoved her hard to the floor. “Pick it up! But mind ye kneel as you do it.”

Springan’s jaw tightened, but she did as she was bid, and Ware watched in horror as Joseph stood behind her, his legs spread, his hands planted on his hips, his gaze on her rounded rump.

“That’s a girl,” he cooed, wiping the back of his hand over his lips. His eyes slitted into lusty stones, and drops of sweat beaded his eyebrows. His thin tongue snaked around his bearded lips. “Just the way I like to see you — on all fours with your arse in the air.”

“That’s enough!” Furious, Ware kicked a burning log from the fire. It rolled toward Joseph, and the big guard’s eyes left Ware for an instant. Without thinking, Ware sprang forward, catching Joseph off guard. His fingers slid around the bigger man’s throat, and he clutched with all his might. With a scream of rage, Joseph nearly lost his balance and clawed frantically at the hands closing around his massive neck.

But Ware was a man possessed, and his fingers were like the springs on a trap, tightening, tightening, threatening to cut off the flow of air to Joseph’s lungs as the bigger man bellowed and stumbled, trying to dislodge his attacker. In desperation, he groped for his sword, but Springan was quick and she leapt upon Joseph, biting his hand before he could unsheathe his weapon.

Footsteps pounded in the hallway and five men, guards posted by Strahan, rushed into the room. “Halt,” the largest man commanded.

“You halt,” Ware ordered, still hanging on to Joseph like a hungry dog on a bone. “I’m still lord of this castle.”

The soldiers hesitated, and that was all the time Clare needed. She stumbled over Springan, yanked Joseph’s sword from his scabbard, and swung it wildly. “Stop, all of you!” she commanded.

Cadell kicked the burning log at the soldiers. Embers exploded, raining fire and threatening to ignite the tapestries and rushes.