Dragonblade Trilogy - 02 - Island of Glass (6 page)

She averted her gaze. “I do not
like the way he looks at me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He stares at me. Strangely. I do
not like it.”

“Is that why you hit him?”

She shrugged. “I hit him because
he touched me.”

Kenneth stood up from his crouch,
so fast that the movement startled Aubrielle.  He was standing over her, his
eyes like shards of glass. “You will tell me now. How did he touch you?”

Aubrielle had found herself in
many confrontation situations with St. Héver, but she had never been truly
frightened of him until now. There was something in his voice that was
inherently terrifying.

“When I tried to leave,” she
hated the quiver in her voice. “He put his hand on my arm to try and force me
to stop. So I hit him.”

Kenneth’s mercurial fury abated.
In fact, when he thought on it, he was surprised at how venomous he had felt at
the thought of someone other than himself laying a hand on her. Of course, it
was perfectly all right for him to physically restrain her, even lay on her if
necessary in order to control her, but in his mind he was apparently the only
one allowed to do so. He realized he would have killed Everett had the man’s
intentions been anything other than chivalrous. He looked down at the
frightened woman as his anger cooled, feeling like an idiot.

“He should have spanked you,” he
muttered.

“What was that?”

“I said that he should have
spanked you,” he repeated, loudly. “No, you are not evil or subversive in the
conventional sense, but I have never in my life seen such a headstrong female.
A good spanking would do you a world of good.”

Her expression hardened. A hand
drifted up to her shoulder, fingering the material of her gown. “If you are
thinking of beating obedience into me, do not bother.” She yanked the top of
her sleeve down, exposing a good portion of the top of her left shoulder blade.
“The monks of St. Wenburgh already tried.”

Kenneth could see the montage of
faded scars on her back. Someone had obviously taken a branch to her.  He’d
seen flogging many a time; he’d delivered more than his share. As a child, he’d
been the recipient of one or two rounds. It was a painful, ugly act. He didn’t
know why he was suddenly coming to regret being so harsh with her.

“How old were you?” his voice was
husky.

She pulled her garment back up on
to her shoulder, torn between embarrassment and indifference. “I was nine years
of age the first time.”

“The first time? There were
more?”

“Three.”

For the first time since they’d
met, his icy façade faltered. He exhaled slowly as he reclaimed his crouched
position. He’d never before seen such stubbornness, yet he found himself
admiring her for her determination.

“And still you dream,” he
murmured. “Will nothing short of death convince you to change your path?”

A smile spread across her lips.
“Have you never had anything that meant so much to you that you would brave
fire and brimstone to attain it? We are mere mortals, Sir Kenneth. Our lives
are finite. All we have are our dreams before our lives are quickly ended. If I
must endure tribulation in the pursuit of my dream, it is of little
consequence.  I could never live with myself had I not tried.”

He understood, somewhat. But the
concepts of dreams did not come easily to him. He’d never been allowed to have
them. “Whatever you feel you must pursue and however you feel you must achieve
it, you must understand that your ideas are unconventional.”

“I understand that. But
unconventional does not necessarily mean wrong.”

“Agreed. But it has taken many
hundreds of years to achieve the civility and society that we have now.
Unconventional ideas threaten the order of our world.”

She thought a moment, seeing an
open door for debate. “But did we not achieve such civility by pursuing
thoughts and dreams that, perhaps at one time, would seem unconventional? Did
we not learn by trying and by making mistakes?”

He could see where she was
leading. “Aye.”

“But still we forged on, with
bizarre notions and half-witted schemes that, perhaps when the time was right,
blossomed into fruition.” She smiled at him, sensing that he was open to her
logic. “All I ask is to be a part of that discovery process, to advance our
ideals of religion and the heights of our knowledge. I know that going to
Glastonbury to find the chalice of Christ must seem strange, but perhaps
believing in a man who preached the love of his enemy seemed strange a thousand
years ago to those people who eventually formed the basis of Christianity. But
it doesn’t seem strange now.”

Kenneth didn’t care that he was
actually listening to what she had to say. She was passionate and articulate,
and made a great deal of sense. But his inner demons began to fight him and it
was difficult to resist.

 “Your reasoning is sound, lady,”
he said softly. “But there were also those crucified for those unconventional
beliefs. Even now, heresy is punishable by death. No matter what your dreams or
beliefs, you must tread carefully.”

“I know,” she said bravely.
“Those marks you see on my back tell the tale. But it did not stop me.”

“What would?”

“Finding the Grail or die
trying.”

He sighed. “What makes you
believe that you can find this Grail that the great Arthur and his knights
could not?”

She seemed to back off. He could
see she was hiding something.  “I simply believe that I can, that’s all.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “That’s
not
all. Tell me why you believe you can find it.”

“I just do,” she leaned back
against the stone wall, coated with green growth. “May I ask you a question, sir
knight?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you intend to leave me in
this place all night?”

He thought a night in the vault
might help her see the error of her ways. But then again, maybe not. No matter
his indecision, she had to be punished for striking Everett.

“I do,” he replied steadily. “Do
you require anything to make your stay more palatable?”

It was a foolish question; the
woman had absolutely nothing but the clothes on her back. She wasn’t even
wearing shoes.

“No. I am quite content.”

She was lying, but it was a commendable
lie. Without a word, Kenneth quit the cell. He returned shortly with a lit
torch; night was falling and the weak light that strayed down the stairwell was
fading rapidly. Soon it would be pitch black. He propped the torch in the iron
wall sconce.

“I shall return with your
supper.”

“Do not bother.” She shifted,
laying down in an attempt to get comfortable. “I am not hungry. I simply want
to sleep. It’s been a busy day of thrashing knights.”

It was a humorous statement.
Kenneth looked at her as if she was mad, but inside, he was grinning. There was
no possible way that he was going to allow her to see him crack a smile.

He left the cell and returned a
nominal amount of time later carrying bread, a knuckle of beef, and a cup of
ale. Aubrielle still lay on the ground, her eyes closed, presumably asleep. He
stood there a moment, watching her quiver. It occurred to him that it must be
terribly cold on the hard stone. He simply couldn’t stand by and observe her
discomfort. If she would not allow him to bring her anything to see to her
comfort in her time of punishment, perhaps she wouldn’t object to what comfort
he could offer her.

He set the tray down and went to
sit against the wall, next to her head.  Carefully, he put his hands underneath
her shoulders and gently lifted. She was limp, like a sleeping cat, as if she
had no bones at all. She became lucid as he settled her head atop his right
thigh.

“What…?” she muttered.

“Shh, quiet,” he put his hand on
her head to silence her. “Be still now. Go back to sleep.”

The trauma of the day must have
been exhausting, for she fell back asleep without another word. Kenneth settled
back against the stone, his hand still on her head, wondering if he was going
above and beyond the call of his knightly duties. Was he overstepping his
bounds? Perhaps he wasn’t doing enough? She was his charge, after all. He’d
never had a charge in his life, especially not a woman. He didn’t want one,
even now, but he was strangely pleased by it. It was a peculiar situation.

Aubrielle shivered again and he
moved his hand from her head and put it on her arm; it was cold. In fact, the
whole dungeon was cold. He moved his hand back and forth, rubbing some warmth
back into her slender arm. Damn her for not allowing him to bring her a
coverlet. Now he would have to spend all night rubbing her flesh to make sure
she didn’t freeze. It would be a very long night.

The dawn came too soon as far as
he was concerned.

CHAPTER
FOUR

Highwood House was in flames.
Embers erupted into the night sky, dancing a macabre waltz with great clouds of
black smoke. The mixture lifted up to the stars until both smoke and spark
faded into oblivion.  Also accompanying this ghastly symphony was the scent of
charred wood and flesh.

Four men stood in the fortified
courtyard of what had once been a fine manor. Now it was ash. There were
several other men on horseback, patrolling the perimeter of the house, making
sure no one was left alive.  The four men in the courtyard watched the last of
the blaze; three of them were unrepentant about their deadly act, while the
fourth cowered. His ragged priestly robes contained a strange mixture of body
odor and incense, and his pale face wrought with grief. He was out of place and
nearly out of his mind with fear. He had begged the others not to commit this
foul crime, but to those who would kidnap a man of God, anything else was a
minor misdeed.

“Brother Grendel,” the man on a
massive black steed spoke to him. “Reclaim your mount. We ride to Kirk Castle.”

Grendel de Vais turned to face
the man who had ripped him from St. Wenburgh as one would have extricated a
rotted tooth.  St. Wenburgh was protected, holy ground, but these men from the
north had not heeded that inherent safeguard. They had ridden into the
Monastery, making demands and brutalizing the monks. They stopped short of
murder, but had used it as a threat. St. Wenburgh was a learning institution.
The men had been searching for something the monastery had in its possession.

Grendel, being a brother and not
a fully consecrated priest, had tried to reason with him as the others
cowered.  Being in a protected environment for a length of time left men
fearful to defend themselves, unused to the realities of the world.  But
Grendel had stood his ground, even when the men had beat on two of his
colleagues.

They called themselves
A Ordem
do Anjo Preto
. The Order of the Black Angel. A man named de Gaul was their
leader. Grendel never heard the names of the others, men who covered their head
with black hoods and wore mail that was rusty and broken.  Their chargers were
big animals, emaciated, yet exhibiting an unearthly strength.  The only way for
the monks to rid themselves of the terror was to give the men what they were
seeking. It came to a decision; the monks of St. Wenburgh betrayed another to
save themselves.  They were feeble men, unused to fright, and said many a
litany to beg God’s forgiveness for their faults.

But God’s forgiveness did not
help Grendel’s situation. He was in dire straits. Though Highwood House had
been burned to the ground with the occupants inside, still, the men did not
have what they sought. Grendel closed his eyes when he thought of the lady of
the House pleading for her life just before they cut her throat. He could not
erase it from his mind. After that, it occurred to him that he saw his own life
coming to a sudden end and saw no point in remaining quiet about his
predicament.  If they could kill a helpless woman, imagine what they would do
to a useless friar.

“Do you intend to attack Kirk
Castle, then?” he asked.

De Gaul snorted. “Not attack,
brother. But we have our ways.”

“What ways?” Grendel asked. “Your
quest has come to an end. As I have told you many a time, I am not entirely
sure that the girl even has it. But she had always shown great interest in
reading it. One day it was in our library, and when she left, it went missing.”

The dark warrior looked at him
with eyes full of fire and wickedness. “Logic is the better part of
progression, brother. If it is possible it went missing because she stole it,
then by all means, we must find out.”

“She will be protected at Kirk.”

       “As I said, we have our
ways. You needn’t worry. Once you verify that we have indeed located the Scroll
of Munsalvaesche, your part in this shall be complete.”

Grendel had known the Lady Aubrielle
di Witney for many years. She had studied under him, a voracious student of
learning.  He thought of her, a delicate beauty with an iron will. He didn’t
doubt for a minute that she had taken the Scroll of Munsalvaesche. She had been
fascinated by it. King Titurel, Lord of Munsalvaesche Castle, had authored the
parchment during the Dark Ages, times long ago where man and beast roamed in
realms of witchcraft and mystery. St. Wenburgh possessed many such parchments
from kings and scholars long dead.  Some were in languages lost to the ages.