The Devil's Bargain Read online

  The Devil’s Bargain

  Allegra Gray

  For my dad, who dreams big and likes castles.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Also By Allegra Gray

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chateau de Chillon, Savoy, November 1202

  The hangman’s platform dropped, the crack resonating an unnaturally long moment in the still air. A moment of hushed silence, and then the body of the prisoner swung free.

  The crowd jeered and applauded, throwing stones at the lifeless form.

  Celia Lyndon was going to be ill. Twelve more men awaited execution. Her father was next in line.

  Three days ago, she’d sat happily at his side in the front of their loaded cart, excited for the opportunity to sell their freshly made cheeses and wines at the great castle on the lake. Their timing couldn’t have been worse. She’d been thrown to the ditch as the little cart was swept up by a wave of marauders, then watched helplessly while the heavily armed castle guard put down the attack and rounded up the men responsible—including her father. It was over before the dust had cleared. She hadn’t seen him again until today.

  The executioner led Robert Lyndon up to the gallows. His wrists were bound, his hands clasped in prayer. He closed his eyes as the rope was lowered about his neck.

  The executioner began reading the formal list of offenses for which the prisoner was to be hung. Celia prayed as never before.

  A commotion near the gate turned the heads of the crowd, and she was jostled aside as a mounted outrider plunged through the gates and into the throng. He flung himself from his horse and ran to the dais where the Count of Savoy sat to oversee the executions.

  Celia couldn’t hear their exchange, but the count stood suddenly and raised a hand.

  “Halt the executions.” The authority of his tone rang throughout the courtyard as the crowd lapsed into stunned silence.

  Her knees sagged in relief. Only the press of bodies around her kept her from sinking to the ground. She couldn’t see the count’s face over the heads of those in front of her, but she did see her father’s gaze rise skyward, and she knew he was thanking God for this timely answer to his prayers.

  “For the safety of the castle and all in it, I want these men questioned further. It appears this attack may be linked to a larger plan. Until I am satisfied they have shared any knowledge they possess, the executions are stayed. For the safety of all, the gates will be closed as soon as the crowd has dispersed.”

  The count and the outrider approached the black-garbed executioner, who frowned as he lifted the rope from Robert Lyndon’s neck.

  The prisoners were led away under heavy guard, leaving those in the courtyard to grumble their disappointment. Most began milling toward the chateau gates to exit, but Celia hung behind.

  This might be her only chance.

  Staying out of sight, she followed the trudging line of prisoners as they were herded back to the castle, though a narrow opening and down a set of stairs that must lead to the dungeon. One guard remained at the top, watching the procession with unhidden amusement, using dirty fingernails to pick nits from his hair as he watched.

  When the last prisoner had disappeared, she approached. She opened her mouth, but the guard spoke first.

  “No entrance.” The filthy guard directed his ultimatum toward Celia’s breasts rather than her face. He grinned, displaying a mouthful of blackened and missing teeth.

  “You have my father in there!” Celia smelled sour spirits on his foul breath, despite the early hour.

  “No entrance,” he repeated.

  An unearthly howl of pain echoed from somewhere behind him. Celia cringed and closed her eyes for a moment, trying not to imagine what had led to that sound. She had to get her father out.

  “But I’ve been sent to retrieve him for questioning,” she lied, remembering the Count of Savoy’s reason for interrupting the hangings. Perhaps if the guard were distracted... She tossed her head so that her dark tresses rippled down her back, then brazenly let her cloak fall to the sides to afford the guard a better view of her bosom, suppressing her shudder of distaste.

  The guard looked momentarily confused, but recovered. “My master sees to all the questioning, an’ it takes place right down there. Mistress, I can’t say what mischief you’re about, but I got my orders. No entrance. Anythin’ else is for the count to decide. ‘Course, you’re welcome to stay and make friends. Maybe if you’re real nice to me, I could make some exceptions.” He gave her a leering grin.

  She couldn’t suppress her shudder at that idea. There had to be a better way. Savoy. The nobleman who ruled Chillon. She would seek him out and explain the situation. Surely he would let her father go. After all, this was all a terrrible mistake. Her father was a merchant, not a warrior, for mercy’s sake. “Where might I find his lordship?”

  The horrible man looked surprised, but pointed toward an arched opening in the courtyard. She quickly walked away. She slipped through the arch and found herself in a second courtyard, somewhat higher than the one near the entrance to the dungeons. This one was paved with cobblestones and filled with soldiers. Several were practicing, slashing their swords at one another in mock battle. Scant days before, those swords had been engaged in more deadly matters. Some men bore fresh wounds to prove it.

  At the far end of the yard stood a door, guarded by a man whose tunic bore the Savoy cotte d’ armes. A thin scar ran the length of his cheekbone. Shaking the worst of the dirt from her skirts, Celia approached him cautiously. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am looking for the count.”

  “And what be you wanting with his lordship?” he asked.

  The way he said “you” made Celia wonder if she had suddenly turned into a worm. The guard looked her up and down. She squirmed in her travel-worn, homespun clothing, wretchedly aware how far outside the bounds of propriety she must seem. A peasant girl, requesting audience with the great Savoy lord?

  She thought fast.

  “Er, I was given a message to bring to him.” She prayed he wouldn’t ask her to actually produce it. To distract him, she nodded toward his arm, which was bound in a rough wool sling. “You must be brave. Were you hurt when those horrible men attacked?”

  His lips thinned. “No. ‘Tis an older injury.” He didn’t elaborate, but gave her the information she needed. “His lordship’s in council. Through there.” He jerked his head behind him. “If you wait, you might be able to pass along your message when the council ends.”

  She nodded and hurried past, her panic mounting. Only by a turn of Fortune’s wheel was her father still living, and yet she couldn’t get to him. Please, God, she prayed, don’t let them hurt him. Each person she’d spoken to so far had led her in a different direction. She’d done her best to be patient, but what she really wanted was to storm past that dungeon guard, find her father, and leave Chillon for good.

  Couldn’t someone simply give her directions to the count that didn’t lead her into a labyrinth of courtyards and hallways with which she was totally unfamiliar? Every moment wasted was a moment her father might be chained. Or tortured. Or worse. />
  The door she’d entered led, not to an internal chamber as she’d expected, but to another courtyard. This castle was a veritable labyrinth—if she ever accomplished her mission, she’d be lucky to find her way back out. This yard was much smaller, with a few ladders up to the parapets and several closed doors. Two bore heavy locks, but the third was cracked open. She slipped through cautiously and found herself in a dim entryway. A spiral staircase to her right had lit rushes burning along the walls. The hushed and heavy atmosphere told her she was close. She followed them, and at the top there found another corridor that ended a doorway guarded by a sentry.

  She sighed. There were guards everywhere in this castle, it seemed. Oh well, there was nothing for it. “Pardon me, but I must speak with the count. ‘Tis most urgent.”

  “His lordship is in council, mistress. No disturbances.”

  “Sir, the matter cannot wait. ‘Tis imperative I speak with him at once.” She did her best to sound authoritative—not like a terrified girl with tears gathering in the back of her throat.

  The sentry was unmoved. “You might try the seneschal’s assistant for an appointment, but Savoy is meeting with his war council. He abides no interruptions,” he told her condescendingly.

  She wanted to scream. Her father was being held prisoner, had nearly been executed, for God’s sake, and she was being met with obstacles at every corner. Blood pulsed at her temples as her temper rose.

  She took a deep breath. Being meek was getting her nowhere. She would have to play dirty. Celia bit her lip, pretending to think for a moment, then leaned in toward the man as though she meant to tell him a secret. He fell for her ruse and leaned in as well.

  “I wish to see his lordship...” she murmured in his ear, “NOW!”

  Yelling the last word, she rammed her knee into his groin with as much force as she could muster. Having brothers had taught her a thing or two about men’s weaknesses. She generally hated resorting to such low tactics, but at the moment she was beyond caring. She had only one purpose, and that was to plead with the Count of Savoy to release her father. If one measly sentry had to fall along the way, so be it.

  The guard doubled over in pain, his protest only a whimper as Celia rushed headlong past him into the room. It was not large, and had only two small windows high on the walls. Burning torches in sconces on the walls provided light for the eight men gathered around a long wooden table, across which was scattered several maps and scrolls. The men’s low conversation came to an abrupt halt as Celia burst through the door. Several looked annoyed, others simply bewildered.

  She knew a moment of panic as she realized she didn’t know what the count looked like. She’d caught glimpses of his formal robes through the crowd that morning, but never a good look at his face.

  A quick survey of the room now told her that the elderly gentleman at the end, holding a quill and wearing a serious expression, was her best candidate. She turned to address him.

  “My lord, I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m quite desperate. You see, my father and I came to sell our goods at Chillon the other day when the attack happened, and my father was taken prisoner by mistake—he was nearly executed this morning. The guards won’t release him on my word. They won’t even let me see him. Will you help me?” She curtsied for good measure, though, given her method of entrance, the gesture seemed out of place and inadequate.

  The old man looked at her with a mixture of concern and amusement. “My dear, as much as I appreciate your deference and am sympathetic to your plea, I think it would be better directed to the count.” He nodded meaningfully at a younger man at the other end of the table.

  Celia’s face grew hot and she wished, for a moment, the floor would simply crack open and swallow her up.

  Not only had she burst in on their meeting, but she hadn’t even addressed the right person! Anxiously she followed the older man’s gaze and—heaven above, he was the count? Her mouth went suddenly dry, and she nervously licked her lips. Of course he was. When she’d first glanced around, she’d dismissed him because of his youth. Now that she took a second look, the power and authority emanating from his stern countenance made him the obvious ranking presence in the room.

  A tingling awareness spread throughout her body, beginning in her very center and spreading to the tips of her fingers and toes. The Count of Savoy appeared to be in his late twenties, maybe thirty, with dark brown hair that fell in waves to his shoulders and a face full of defined planes, nobility and pride stamped across his features. The count, she realized, was quite handsome—and in the next moment she wondered where that foolish and inappropriate thought had come from.

  A pair of startlingly green eyes assessed her in return, and Celia averted her gaze, embarrassed to be caught gaping. She was suddenly, painfully aware of how shabby she must look—and smell. Her coarse homespun kirtle was old and faded from hours in the sun, except where she’d let down the hem. It stood in stark contrast to the dark green doublet of softest linen worn by the count.

  To make matters worse, her garments smelled strongly of the cheese she’d slept next to in her father’s cart. Gruyère cheeses, though recognized as some of the best on the continent, produced an overwhelming smell when all packed in a cart. It seeped into one’s clothing, hair, everything. After traveling with the cheese for days, Celia had grown immune, but others could not fail to notice. She’d rushed to the castle that morning, and into the meeting just now, without a single thought for her appearance or how she ought to present herself. She’d thought only of her father.

  Now it occurred to her that disregarding propriety might not help her case. They would look at her and see an unkempt, ill-tempered child. She just hoped the count was far enough away—or that he had poor enough eyesight and a congested nose—so he wouldn’t notice. If it were possible, she knew her cheeks were growing even redder.

  As the nobleman opened his mouth to speak, the sentry she’d tricked limped into the room, still obviously in pain.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” he wheezed. “She”—he threw a frowning nod in Celia’s direction—“kneed me in my particulars ‘fore I knew what she was about. I’ll have her removed immediately.” He made to grab her.

  The count raised his hand in a simple but commanding gesture. “Stop, Pierre. The young miss seems to be in distress. Are we holding any merchants prisoner?” His voice was calm and well-modulated, his face betraying no emotion.

  Celia’s eyes widened. After the gaffs she’d made, she’d half-expected him to tell the guard to toss her into the dungeon as well, or at least have her thrown from the castle.

  “One, sir, what claims he is. Had a little bag of cheeses with him when we pulled him in, but that don’t say he weren’t paid off to trick us into letting down the bridge.”

  The count nodded thoughtfully. “He has a point.” He turned measuring green eyes towards her as though awaiting a response.

  Celia shook her head desperately. It was true the attackers had used her father’s arrival—and the consequential lowering of the drawbridge—as the opening for their attack. But how could her father have known what would happen?

  “No! My father would never—that is, he is not so foolish as to attack one of the most important customers of his trade!”

  He inclined his head a notch. “Also a reasonable point. I will direct the guard to allow you into the dungeon long enough to identify the man in question. Afterward—and after I conclude my council here—we’ll address the question of his involvement in the attack.” He nodded to the sentry, who took Celia by the arm and began pulling her from the room.

  “Merci. I am most grateful, my lord.” She attempted to curtsy again but lost her balance as Pierre tugged on her arm. She stumbled out of the doorway and was none-too-gently guided down the stairs.

  Nicolas of Savoy stared after the brash maiden who had first ignored him and then blushed so enticingly.

  Across the table, a throat cleared. “Nicolas, are you mad?”

>   Snapping out of his trance, he gazed levelly at his eldest advisor—the one the maiden had mistaken for him. “Giles, you have known me since I was a child and been my trusted advisor for years. Do you now doubt my sanity?”

  Giles looked properly chastised. “No, my lord,” he spluttered, “But will you actually release the man?”

  Nicolas shrugged. “I said nothing about releasing him.”

  “You must realize that using a merchant as a ploy to gain access to a castle is one of the oldest tactics in siege warfare.”

  “I do.”

  “And the timing of his arrival and that of the attack were so perfectly coordinated, it could hardly be coincidence,” another knight chipped in.

  “That is a problem,” Nicolas admitted. He folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Still, men who engage in such tactics don’t generally involve their daughters in their plots.”

  “Maybe. Comely thing, though, weren’t she?” This was said by the man next to him, one of his military councilors and a lifelong bachelor.

  Nicolas grimaced. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Though obviously distressed and rumpled from travel, the girl was stunning. She’d stood there with that magnificent dark mane flying about from her rushed entrance, making her demands as though she had every right to be there. She had courage, and was obviously clever, or she’d never have gotten past his guards.

  For a moment his mind flashed back to the battle. There’d been a moment when, from atop his steed, he’d caught sight of a cloaked woman standing on the fringe of the action. Her hood had concealed most of her features, though he recalled dark strands of hair escaping the hood to whip wildly in the wind. From the way she’d held his attention, he’d thought her a sorceress...but then the spell had lifted and he’d plunged back into the fight.

  Now, from the men’s reaction to the female intruder, he wondered if his first assessment had been correct. Up close, he’d been spellbound by her eyes—a deep, deep blue that sparkled from within. He thought of cornflowers, or maybe stormy water, unsure how her eyes could remind him of both. Eyes that had begged him for help, even after she’d mistaken Giles for him. Skin like porcelain, flushed from her determined and, he chuckled to himself at Pierre’s expense, creative entry and her faux pas in addressing Giles as the Count of Savoy. He’d seen her cheeks redden after she’d realized that mistake, seen the delicate pink tongue that darted out to wet her lips, and it had stirred his body in ways he didn’t care to admit.