Читать книгу Beauchamp Besieged - Elaine Knighton - Страница 8

The Marches of England and southern Wales, 1180

“Slow down—I must lead!”

Raymond de Beauchamp ignored his brother Alonso’s snarling command. As of today he was a full ten winters old. As of today he was one year closer to being a man—a true warrior. And even Alonso could not prevent that.

He galloped his stout cob through the forest, heedless of Everard the Fat’s cries of distress at the pace. On a Welsh pony, little Percy bounced along behind, willing to follow anywhere if his three elder brothers let him.

Raymond gloried in the crisp air against his face. Golden leaves swirled and tumbled in the wake of the ponies’ hooves. Ahead was an open hill, with crags of rotten stone that broke apart as they trod upon them. At the top lay the dolmen. A forbidden place, where evil spirits lurked and wicked lads might forever disappear. At least that was what old Nurse Alys said.

The stone slab seemed impossibly large and heavy. Raymond halted and stared, caught up in its mystery, in its implications of age-old, sacred blood.

Alonso strutted its length, a lock of gilded hair falling over his eyes. He challenged the two youngest boys with his gaze. Blue, gleaming, sharp as a blade. “Raymond and Percy! Let us make an offering, like the old ones, upon this stone.”

Raymond stilled. So this was the price for winning the race through the forest. Everard, a chubby version of his older brother, stood next to his pony, twisting the reins around his hands. “Nay, ’twould be blasphemous to do such a thing.”

Alonso narrowed his eyes at Everard. “Did I ask you, knot-head? It will not be if I say it is not. Percy. You will do, for you are the sweetest and the softest. The crones who come here to dance this eve will feast upon you with delight.”

Grinning, he swung the child onto the slab.

The rosebud color drained from Percy’s cheeks. Raymond’s stomach tightened into knots of outrage. Percy was but a wee lad. Why, he still had creases of baby fat where his hands met his wrists. Loathing for Alonso filled Raymond, but he held himself in check, fiddling his sore, loose milk-tooth with his tongue. “Put him down, Alonso. He thinks you mean it.”

Alonso merely bared his teeth and continued preparing to tie Percy up. Raymond clenched his jaw despite the ache. His brother’s familiar, leering grin marred a face so fair that to all who did not know him, Alonso was surely a young man of nobility and honorable intent. But he had the heart of a carrion-eater, Raymond knew full well.

His blood pounded in a red wash of fury. He rammed his elder brother with his shoulder, fists pounding ribs. Alonso, taller, heavier, and more experienced, kneed Raymond in the belly, kicked his head, then dragged him upright by his hair.

“Never interfere with my pleasure, fool.”

Staring into ice-blue eyes, Raymond struggled to draw breath and longed to batter that sneering face. But Percy needed him, he must hold back. The child sat on the stone, his straw-colored hair awry, rubbing his eyes with dimpled hands.

Alonso unsheathed his dagger. “Well then. Someone has got to be it. If not Percy, then who?” He cut a length of rope and started to wind it around Percy’s wrists.

The lad turned a frightened gaze upon Raymond, who found it impossible to wink or smile in reassurance. He cleared his throat. “You desire a sacrifice? Let it be me.”

Alonso smiled. “’Tis always more pleasing to the gods when the victim is willing. Get off of there, Percy.”

The child stayed put, his lower lip trembling. “Nay. I will not let Raymie die for me.”

Alonso simply tossed Percy to the ground. The boy scrambled up and ran weeping to Raymond, who brushed the gravel from his small palms. “Hush! I am not going to die.” Raymond heaved himself onto the stone and hoped he’d spoken the truth.

“On your knees, Brother. We must do this properly.”

Raymond’s insides twisted as the cords bit into his wrists. “My hands are going numb.”

“Get used to it.” Alonso pulled harder.

Raymond began to struggle in earnest as his brother drew the bindings from his ankles around each thigh. Raw panic chewed at the last threads of his confidence, and sweat dampened his brow. “Alonso. I will not be hamfasted.”

“You already are. Everard, help me get this knot right.”

“Perhaps this is excessive.” Everard’s statement was more whine than protest.

Alonso jerked Raymond’s feet and hands together for the final stage of his bondage. “Everard, hamfasting is an art. Do it properly—you are going to be a churchman, are you not? So, you must know how to persuade your flock to confess!”

Everard pushed Raymond’s face against the stone slab. Now his wrists were behind him, lashed to his ankles. His heels were tight against his buttocks, and each ankle was bound to its respective thigh. The worst sort of criminals were hamfasted like this, before they were…Raymond fought down the terror welling within him. He would rather die than let them see it.

“Hurry up and be done, you swine!” He thrust his tongue into the painful socket of his tooth, which refused to let go.

“But, Brother, you are not in the true spirit of things.” Alonso’s eyes glittered in the lowering rays of the sun, and a new thought occurred to Raymond. Demons. It was the only explanation for Alonso’s extraordinary cruelty. Something evil must have slithered out of these woods and possessed him.

The shadows of the forest edge grew and touched the rim of the stone, even as ravens spiraled in to roost among the half-clad tree branches. The western sky glowed pink, but in the east lightning already flickered amidst rumbling, blue-black clouds. Night would bring new horrors to this place.

“Now, for the shedding of blood.” Alonso picked up his dagger and sighted down it, testing the edges with his thumb.

“You’ll be sorry you started this. I will come after you.” Raymond’s words belied the churning in his stomach. The rough stone scraped his cheek as Alonso rolled him onto his back, and his thigh muscles stretched to the point of pain. The skin of his throat was exposed to the cooling air.

Alonso breathed against Raymond’s cheek. “Father has not yet succeeded in drawing a single tear from your eyes, but mark me, it will come to pass. I have sworn to break you.” He straightened and laid his knifepoint at the soft hollow beneath Raymond’s jaw. “For what do we make this sacrifice, Brothers? Success in battle? Infidel’s gold? The power of kings? Or the guaranteed salvation of our souls, so we never have to sit through one of Father Brenner’s stupid catechisms again?”

Raymond’s heart thundered. The dagger-tip trembled against his skin, a deadly point of heat. Alonso hissed, “Perhaps to be rid of a damned sight of trouble in future?”

“Finish it, then,” Raymond growled.

“Nay!” Percy darted up and grabbed Alonso’s elbow.

The older boy jerked free of the little one’s grasp. The blade slipped into Raymond’s throat. Percy screamed.

Raymond swallowed his tooth. He gasped and howled out his rage until he choked, his mouth full of metallic-tasting blood. Seeping warmth coursed around his neck. Alonso’s gaze grew soft and liquid, as though he was charmed by the picture before him.

“We will leave him thus. ’Tis too perfect.”

Raymond burned, a hot, malevolent pool of hatred swirling within him. Percy’s cries grew into thin shrieks—high, piercing animal sounds that would not stop. Alonso wrapped one hand about his neck until the child was silent but for a few gurgling sobs. “Let us away.”

Hooves clattered against the rocky ground, then a shroud of silence settled upon Raymond. At first he could not believe his brothers had truly left him behind. But the twilight crept closer, winding chill, blue-gray fingers about the dolmen.

The darkening sky wheeled overhead, faster and faster, until nothing existed but his unvoiced scream. Soon the wolves would come, and he would die. Alone. An offering, a human sacrifice, meant to stay the heavenly wrath Alonso was surely accumulating.

Then, unbidden, like a gift from some ancient spirit of the dolmen, a cold blade of resolve cut through Raymond’s anguish. A new hardness permeated his heart, as if it were a piece of red-hot iron plunged into water. He welcomed the numbing calm, embraced its deadly resolution.

I will live. And one day, Alonso will not.