The Devil's Bargain Read online

  “Bet she’s a handful,” Giles said, still looking amused.

  “Wouldn’t mind a handful o’ that myself,” another man put in.

  “If I had a daughter what looked like her, I’d keep her locked up at home. Eyes like that can’t mean a thing but trouble,” one of the older advisors averred.

  The other men’s frank appreciation of the girl made Nicolas want to grind his teeth. It wasn’t as though he had any claim to her. Hell, he didn’t even know her. She was a merchant’s daughter, if her claim was honest, and likely an innocent one, for God’s sake. By the rood, he hadn’t been that long without a woman. There were plenty of castle wenches and even some soldiers’ wives who would be more than willing to cater to his baser desires, were he so inclined. More and more, though, such encounters left him cold—he'd barely stayed long enough to straighten his clothing after tumbling that buxom laundress last week. The initial exploits of youth, followed by an emotionally and physically barren marriage, had taught him not to look for anything beyond brief physical pleasure from a woman. But he wouldn’t mind experiencing that pleasure with the fiery maiden who’d just interrupted his council.

  Unable to believe the direction in which his thoughts were straying, Nicolas returned the conversation to the matter at hand.

  “She was striking. You all may be right about the father. Still, the man’s timing may have been coincidence. Stranger things have happened. We’ll see what he has to say for himself. At the very least, his story may provide valuable insight about the attack.”

  Several of the men exchanged dubious glances at this, but none dared contradict him.

  “Now, as I was saying before we were interrupted,” he looked around the table and saw the rest of the men straighten in attention, “my primary concern is finding out who was truly behind the attack. This morning, one of the outriders caught wind that the attack may not have been so simple as we first thought. The marauders bore no colors of their own, and obviously knew little about our defenses or they would never have staged a siege with so few men and so little weaponry. My man tells me one of our greater enemies put them up to it, but his sources would not reveal who was responsible.” Now that the rush of battle was over, Nicolas had curbed his initial desire to retaliate immediately, favoring instead a more strategic response.

  He prided himself on the security and prosperity of his holdings. Yesterday, someone had threatened both. He would see them pay.

  “The Hapsburgs?” his seneschal, Arnaut, ventured. “We routed them but good last year. They’re bound to be sore for a while.”

  “Oui, it’s possible, though our peace negotiation with them went well. I doubt they’d wish to raise our ire again so soon, unless they’ve gained some strength I don’t know about.”

  “No, my lord. Our riders near the border say nothing to that effect,” another argued.

  “Geneva, then.”

  Nicolas nodded. “That is my guess as well. We’ve been warring with Geneva off and on for years and we never seem to come to satisfactory terms.”

  “But they usually send their own—men far more trained,” the seneschal interjected.

  “True, though I doubt this current attack was meant to do us any serious harm. More likely they were merely reminding us that they have not forgotten our quarrels,” Giles replied.

  “Wisely spoken, Giles,” Nicolas said. “I agree that was just the intention. At most they hoped to gain knowledge as to our numbers and strength.”

  “How shall we respond?”

  “First we must verify if it was indeed the Genevans.” Nicolas turned to address a sallow, thin man with a bald head and dark beard. “Hans.”

  The man’s eyes flared briefly in response to his name, but he continued to sit silently, waiting for instructions.

  “What have you learned from the prisoners?”

  Hans’ lips curled in a sinister smile. “Only that they are not so brave as they once thought, particularly now their number has been reduced. A few babble so incessantly their words hold no meaning. Most fear to speak.” The smile disappeared as he fell silent again.

  “Interrogate them again this afternoon. See what you can learn about their motives. One at a time, ‘twill be more effective.”

  The man called Hans broke his grim silence. “And if they refuse to talk?”

  Nicolas paused. Something in the other man’s voice unsettled him. Dungeon-keepers were a strange lot. His larger holdings all had men in that position, and every one of them was more than a little creepy. He figured it was the nature of the job.

  “Do not kill them. Make them talk.” He couldn’t afford to lose any more of the prisoners just yet, for he needed the information held by those who remained. Nor could he afford to be soft with his enemies. Hans was efficient and disciplined.

  “Aye, my lord.” Hans responded with a half-smile that closely resembled a snarl.

  Nicolas shrugged it off. Soft-hearted men made for poor dungeon-keepers.

  Satisfied the men understood their duties, Nicolas drew the meeting to a close, leaving him alone to ponder the deep, sparkling blue eyes and long dark curls of the maid who’d so brashly interrupted his council. For some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he had a craving for a piece of fine, aged cheese.

  Chapter 2

  The sentry she’d temporarily unmanned half-led, half-dragged Celia toward the dungeons. She was certain he wished his orders had been to toss her down there with the other prisoners, but, after a quick word with the hideous guard, he left.

  This time, the dungeon guard stepped aside, though not without a leer, allowing her to pass. A foul stench greeted her as she descended the worn stone steps. The guard smirked as Celia used the wide hem of her sleeve to cover her nose and mouth. She cast a longing glance backward, but the sight of the guard watching, relishing her discomfort, was enough to steel her to her purpose.

  She peered through the gloom, appalled at the human misery before her. A small gate prevented her from descending completely into the dungeon, forcing her to stand on the steps and look out over the prisoners.

  The room before her was large but squalid, filled with prisoners in various states of agony. Large stone pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, and to these, many men were chained. She saw no individual cells—criminals of all kinds were kept in the same area, though some were more heavily restricted than others. She recognized a few as the attackers who’d barely escaped hanging that morning, but other prisoners had obviously been there much longer. The clothing of the latter had deteriorated to filthy rags, and they hunched in silence as they were left to rot away the remainder of their miserable existence. She even spotted two women in fetters.

  Few of the captives looked up at her, most too absorbed in their own distress to bother. The straw scattered across much of the floor had obviously not been replaced in months, and a number of chamber pots were in desperate need of emptying.

  “Papa?” she called, trying not to gag at the air that assaulted her nostrils the moment she removed her sleeve.

  Several men looked up, including one who’d been curled up in a corner. Relief flooded her as she recognized the face of her father. Thank the Virgin.

  Celia rushed forward, but the metal gate at the bottom of the stairs prevented her from going further. She grasped the bars and shook fruitlessly—a heavy lock ensured it remained shut. Her father stood and shuffled toward her instead, dragging a thick chain. Her relief at finding him alive was quickly replaced by worry as she noted the chalkiness of his face. She pressed forward, reaching through the gate to embrace him awkwardly.

  “Papa! I’ve been ill with worry. Are you all right? What is to happen now? After this morning—” She broke off as her throat clogged.

  “Celia.” Her father squeezed the hand she’d reached through the bars as though reaching for a lifeline and offering comfort simultaneously. “Daughter, what are you doing? You should not be down here. I knew I should never have let you come with
me on my travels. Are you in danger?”

  “No, I’m well. Papa, there was no one else to come with, you know this. Henri and Jean have homes and families of their own to tend. And you know I have the better head for keeping your ledgers.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “The road—let alone a dungeon—is no place for a maiden, merchant’s daughter or no. Better you’d stayed in the village and married Bernard.”

  Celia crinkled her nose. “Any wife of his would have to bow to the whims of his mother, for he’s not yet let go of her skirts.” She tossed her head in impatience, unwilling to waste her thoughts on the village shepherd. As a child, she’d sat at her father’s knee as he spun tales about his travels—yet he could never understand that a girl raised on tales of adventure could long for more than home and hearth. Just once, she’d wanted to experience it for herself. Even more than the adventure, she’d wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps, learning the trade that had always kept a roof over her head. She’d never dreamt her travels would bring her to this dungeon.

  “Papa, that hardly matters now. Were you alone, who would see to your freedom?”

  His eyes lit up. “Freedom? They’ve agreed to let me go?”

  “No, only to let me identify you. But soon, Papa, I’m sure of it.” She hoped.

  His face fell. “I fear ‘twill not be easy, for they believe I had a part in the attack. That is why...this morning...” he swallowed hard.

  “I know,” she said miserably. “The count said as much. I must convince him otherwise.”

  “The count? You actually spoke with Savoy?”

  “Oui, Papa.” She spared him the details of how she’d gained audience.

  “Perhaps, then. But what can we say?”

  She bit her lip in consternation, unable to answer.

  His gaze slid away from hers and his fingers worried the edge of his tunic.

  The tiniest twinge of doubt pricked at her conscience. Was it possible? No. Her father was an honest man. But that night they’d stopped at the inn…they’d been eating when a young lad approached her father and spoke with him in tones too low for her to hear. He’d told her later that the boy had warned of an outbreak of fever in the village near Chillon.

  When they arrived to trade at Chillon the next day, the bridge had been drawn. Her father, wary, had gone on ahead while she remained behind with their cart. The moment the guards had let down the bridge for him, the marauders had stormed the castle, and her father disappeared in the fray. Could he have conspired with that boy at the inn?

  Celia shook her head at her foolish thoughts. She had no reason to believe he’d lied. “Papa, I’ll find a way. You’ve traded here before. Could anyone vouch for you?”

  “Maybe. The seneschal could vouch that I’ve sold here before.” He shifted his weight. The movement distracted Celia from her doubts as she realized his limp was caused by more than his chains.

  “Are you in much pain? Whence came your injury? I tried to find you during the battle, I tried so hard, Papa, but I couldn’t get to you.” Tears of frustration and fear—the same tears she’d refused to shed earlier—spilled over.

  Her father reached awkwardly through the bars to brush rough fingers at her tears. He had a way of finding the good in the very worst of times, and now was no exception. “Hush, dear one. ‘Tis a difficult situation we are in, true, but one of us could have been killed in that battle. As it is I have suffered only minor damage, and you are safe. All is not lost.”

  The kind touch of his cracked and leathery hands on her cheek brought on the threat of a new flood. She bit her lip to hold back the tears.

  “I’m not in too much pain,” he told her, but she knew he was lying by the lines of strain and the paleness of his face. “You know the cauldrons the soldiers were dumping? One splashed me. ‘Twas only water, thank the good Lord, but ‘twas boiling and burned my leg. There’s been no doctor—they wouldn’t spare one for their enemies when they’ve their own soldiers to attend. Don’t you worry. I shall endure.”

  Celia saw he’d torn away strips of his long tunic to use as bandages. She bent closer, pretending to brush some dirt from her hem so he would not see how closely she was scrutinizing his wound. His chausses were torn where the boiling water had struck, as if he’d hurriedly ripped the hot fabric away. The makeshift bandages peeped through the gaping tear, and she could see a few red, angry welts in the area the bandages didn’t cover. Celia decided there was probably nothing else she could do to ease his pain until she secured his freedom. At least he didn’t have it as bad as some of the other prisoners, who were chained to pillars and walls.

  “What did they do?” She couldn’t help but ask, nodding to the chained men.

  “They chain up the ones what make trouble. Even that wasn’t enough to quell the ire of one man. When he kept making threats, they threw ‘im down there.” He gestured at the far end of the room, and Celia saw two iron grates on the floor. No doubt the troublemaker was contemplating the errors of his ways from the bottom of one of the narrow pits beneath the grates. She shuddered.

  Her father looked up, and Celia felt movement behind her. A man jostled past, not bothering to beg her pardon. She had to retreat up two steps to make room, separating her from her father, who had retreated in the other direction and was hunching over as though trying to make himself invisible. The rude man unlocked the gate at the bottom of the stone steps and passed quickly through, letting it clang shut behind him.

  A deathly stillness fell over the large room as he swept through. His bald head shone above a greasy black beard, and his long black tunic hissed softly as he moved. Celia recognized him as one of the men who’d been at the count’s table when she’d interrupted his council. She took in the thin gold chain that stretched from shoulder to shoulder, the way the prisoners avoided his gaze. She shivered inwardly as he disappeared into a passageway on the opposite side of the dungeon. Almost immediately the room filled with the low mutter of anxious conversation. Her father returned to the gate, looking troubled.

  “Who is he?” she whispered.

  “Keeper of the dungeons. Hans. They say the count gives him free rein. They say he is evil—that men confess quickly to crimes they know naught of, preferring the quick and certain end of the gallows to his interrogation. Perhaps our fate is to be decided soon.”

  A howl of pain echoed throughout the dungeon and Celia shuddered a second time.

  “What on earth was that?”

  A hollow look came into his eyes. “Interrogations,” he whispered.

  “What do they do?” she asked, also in a whisper.

  He shook his head. “I know not. The first time they finished with me quickly. They had others able, and willing, to tell far more than I could. He comes for us, one by one. There are other chambers, deeper in the dungeons. Sometimes it is quiet. Other times...I hear the screams, horrible screaming.” He drew a deep breath as though fortifying himself to go on. “When they return, none of them will talk. And some have not returned.”

  Stark horror deprived her of words.

  “No one has approached me yet. I do not know how long it will be.”

  Celia’s ears buzzed as the terrifying reality of his situation sank in. She leaned her forehead against the cold bars of the gate. Her father looked back at the corner he’d been sitting in when she’d arrived, as though he were anxious to retreat back there, where he would be less visible if the dungeon-keeper passed by again. But Celia wasn’t ready to part with him.

  One of the prisoners began coughing with a dry, hacking sound, drawing her attention momentarily away. The captive was a young woman, wrapped in a tattered cloak, her feet bound in rags. She huddled in a corner, as far as possible from all the others. In between coughs, Celia heard the sound of her sobbing.

  “Who is that?” At least she could keep him talking.

  Robert Lyndon followed his daughter’s gaze. “They brought her in an hour or so ago. From Ville Neuve. A Jewess, they say. Or a
witch. Rumor is, she’s causing the little ones to catch fever. It’s not the season for summer fever, so the villeins believe it the result of some evil sorcery.” He shook his head. “Imagine. I haven’t talked to her, myself.”

  “Do you think it could be true?”

  He shrugged. “What I think counts for nothing around here, else I’d be a free man. I don’t see how a wretch like her could be capable of bringing such harm, but folks’ll believe anything they think will keep their young ones safe.”

  She looked again. The woman appeared truly miserable, but just as Celia was on the verge of calling out to her, she felt movement behind her. She smelled the foul scent of stale alcohol and knew the guard approached.

  “Daughter, you must go. This is no place for a maid. I will survive, I promise. Do your best to plead for my freedom, and I’ll do mine to stay alive.”

  The guard’s hand clamped down on her shoulder, turning her around. “I ’magine you’ve seen enough, ‘less ye be wishful of remaining here.”

  His other hand came to her ribcage as he marched her up the stairs, and she tried not to cringe at the proximity of his fingers to the underside of her breast. He released her at the top. She stood for a moment, gulping in the fresh air.

  What a dreadful place. It was hard to believe the lovely chateau housed such horrors beneath. At some level, Celia knew the count had to punish those who threatened the peace, but knowing it and actually seeing the dungeons were two different things.

  “Was that him? Yer pa?” the guard asked.