Endearing (Knight Everlasting Book 1) Page 28

  Feeling foolish for getting worked up over nothing, she raced along nonetheless, once again hearing something behind her. She reminded herself that this castle was her home and she shouldn’t get creeped out in its twisting back hallways. Even in that time, the place was over a hundred years old, and it was impossible not to wonder about ghosts sometimes. Though it made her feel silly, she knew she had to look back over her shoulder again to assure herself she wasn’t being followed by a specter or a party of rats.

  When she turned this time, something grazed the side of her head, hard enough to knock her to the ground. Her eyes watered from the pain and her ears rang from the reverberation of the thing that hit her. When she blinked to see what had happened, she saw a bit of gray cloth, a hand, then a flash of something blackened flying toward her face. She ducked, but too late, and it crashed down on her. More pain exploded behind her ear, but only lasted for a moment, then she felt nothing at all.

  *

  Fay woke up to splitting pain in the back of her skull. She tried to reach for her head, finding her arms leaden and difficult to move. Blinking rapidly to make sure her eyes were open, she soon figured out she hadn’t been blinded by the blow to the head. It was only pitch dark wherever she was. Cold permeated to her bones. The longer she was awake, the more different parts of her started complaining. She was on what felt like filthy cobbles. The stones prodded into her and the smell nearly overwhelmed her as it finally registered. The foul odor, more than anything else, made her drag herself to a sitting position, feeling around until she came to a wall, also rough, cold stone. Also slimy and freezing cold.

  “Hello?” she called, her voice coming out dry and creaking. She swallowed and tried again. “Help!”

  That was stupid, she thought. Whoever put you in here isn’t going to help you.

  A faint light emanated in a thin line a few feet away from her and she crawled to it, ignoring the pain that made her brain feel like it had been jarred loose and the grimy stones under her hands. A door. The crack under it was too small to wedge her fingers, but the small bit of light comforted her so she stayed there.

  Where was she? Who had done this to her? She’d been knocked out cold and had no idea how far away she’d been taken. If she’d been gone more than a few hours, someone back at the castle would be searching for her by now. Especially as Batty and Catherine had been adamant she try on her wedding dress after they were done basting the seams.

  Oh, God, what if she’d been out for more than a few hours? The thought of the wedding dress reminded her of her deadline. What if she couldn’t get out of here in time to break the curse?

  “You have to let me out.” She pounded on the door with the back of her hand. It was so thick, she barely made a weak thumping sound and panic’s claws dug their way into her nerves. “I have to get married,” she called. “I really have to get married.”

  Taking a deep breath, which was cut off halfway by the rancid smell of the place, she tried to take stock to keep the panic at bay. Her head throbbed, but the pain seemed to be receding. She could move around, so no bones were broken. Trying to ignore her fear and confusion, she consulted her stomach. Despite the terror of being trapped in this dank place, she was a little bit hungry, but not famished. Only a few hours had passed, then. Certainly not the whole night. Her father and Tristan would be combing the grounds and beating down the neighbors’ doors to find her. She would be found.

  Confidence somewhat restored, she drew up her knees and huddled into her skirts to try and conserve warmth. As time passed, she began to shiver, and crawled her way around the cell to see if there was a bench or something so she could get off the frigid ground. There wasn’t, and her hand landed in a foul pile of something both crusty and squishy for her efforts. Back near the door, she huddled up again, trying to wipe her hand on the stone wall. Her head hurt too much to cry, and her hands were so dirty she didn’t dare wipe her face with them. She continued to call out, turning and kicking at the door until she exhausted herself and lay panting on the stones, giving up for the moment.

  A bright light glared down at her and she shook herself, realizing she had dozed off. Something skittered terrifyingly in the corner, but she didn’t care. She only had eyes for the light. A small slot had opened in the door, far above her head, and she shakily got to her feet. As soon as she advanced to try and look out, plead with the person who’d opened it for some food or drink or answers, it slid shut again. She scraped at the area with her fingers, but it was locked tight.

  “What do you want from me?” she called. “A ransom? My father will pay it, I promise you. Please let me go.”

  She pressed her ear to the splintery wood but heard nothing but the wild thumping of her own heart. She scraped some more at the viewing slot, but her fingers were numb with cold and she soon felt her nails tearing. With a final frustrated whack, she gave up and slid back to the floor.

  The cold made her forget her hunger, which in turn made her forget her pain. With nothing left but fear to occupy her thoughts, she forced her eyes closed and drifted off to sleep again.

  It might have been minutes, hours, or days when she shook herself awake. “Probably have a concussion,” she muttered. The sound of her voice made the skittering start up again in the corner, but as long as it stayed to its side, she was too weak and listless to care.

  The slot in the door slid open and when she tried to stand, she realized how stiff she’d become. No sooner had she managed to unfold herself from the ground, the slot slammed shut again, a click signifying whoever opened it had locked it up tight. Still, she hauled herself to the door and scraped away at it, trying to pry it open.

  “Are you still out there?”

  She coughed, her throat closing up from dryness. How long had she been in here without food or drink? Her shaking hands and twisting stomach told her too long, and she prayed the person who’d dumped her in here and kept checking on her would toss in a crust of bread. Why keep checking on her if they weren’t going to feed her?

  Her empty stomach lurched. “What do you want?” she pleaded, kicking the door.

  That act of defiance used up the last of her strength and she collapsed back onto the floor, jarring her hip on the cobblestones. As she drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, she tried to remember what had happened. She had been hit on the head with what she thought might have been a cooking pot. What else could she recall? A hand. A pale hand. She snorted dispiritedly. In the bitter bowels of winter, everyone in the castle was as pale as the snow that piled up along the sides of the walls. A bit of gray fabric, but again, that led to too many culprits.

  Time passed, the slot continued to slide open and shut after long intervals, and eventually she gave up trying to communicate with the person on the other side of the door. She grew too weak to get up and kick or pound on it. She slept and woke, shivered and wished for food until her stomach simply stopped nagging her with hunger spasms. Sometimes pitch darkness surrounded her and sometimes the faint light flickered through the crack. She tried to piece together clues, try and figure out why she was being held a prisoner, but eventually gave up. It was too taxing to her half-starved brain and she put her head down on her knees, waiting.

  Chapter 32

  Tristan reined in his horse, certain he’d seen something waver in the trees to his left. Brom pulled up beside him, his eyes scanning the area. They’d been over every acre of the woods outside the castle, back and forth, searching under the craggy, exposed tree roots, in the odd cave, poking at snowdrifts. Too many days had gone by without a ransom demand. He wouldn’t admit it to himself, refused to admit it, but he knew at this point, Brom and the others had stopped hoping Fay was alive. They were searching for her body.

  Some of Sir Walter’s men came from the direction of the river, and they all met in the snow-covered training field behind the castle. The place he’d first shown off for Fay. Their eyes told him the answer was the same as it had been yesterday, and the day before that, and the d
ay before that. The sun was almost set, and he hated the thought of her being alone in the dark.

  He only ate at the urging of Sir Walter to keep his strength up to continue the search. At supper they discussed where they had gone, who they had spoken with. They were repeating what they’d already done. Sir Walter had news from some of the surrounding landholders, but none of them had heard anything. They were, indeed, shocked to find Lady Fay had gone missing.

  She wasn’t in the forest, or any of the farmers’ tiny houses or outbuildings. No one had seen anyone abducting her or even reported any visitors passing through the village. Everything was shut up tight against the constant snow and icy winds. As he paced the floor of his chamber, he listened to the gentle patter of the snow against his window covering. It was deceptively peaceful, but it made the search all the more difficult, covering tracks, keeping people indoors so they didn’t know what went on in front of their own noses.

  He slammed his fist into his open palm. Who had taken her? And why hadn’t that person made their demands known? If it was money they were after, he knew Sir Walter would have paid any price. If it had to do with the recent attacks on the outskirts of his land, then the marauders would have gloated over their revenge if they had taken her. The castle was dark and quiet. Unable to sleep, he set out once again, this time on foot.

  With every step, he prayed to find her miraculously safe and warm. She’d laugh at him for worrying, having only wandered off and got lost while looking for birds’ nests or some other wild story. He found a clearing where the moon shone down on the untouched blanket of snow and fell to his knees in it, feeling around until his hands went numb. He’d seen the others beating the bushes and poking the white hillocks, thinking she’d frozen to death while trying to seek shelter. The first two days they’d called her name until they were hoarse, but now they just rode and searched silently. He was the only one who still called for her but now here he was, so tormented by the unknown that he was willing to think the worst. Had his love not been enough and the curse she so feared finally claimed her?

  He stood and looked at the churned up mess he’d made of the tranquil clearing. His heart told him she was still alive and that he should move on, continue searching. The snow continued to fall until he could barely make his way through the deep drifts and he headed back to his chamber, exhausted enough to fall asleep at last.

  *

  After a scant bit of restless sleep Tristan dragged his weary body out of bed. A quick bite to eat and he’d be good to go again. He hadn’t liked the hopeless look in Sir Walter’s eyes the night before and was afraid the man was giving up. He didn’t think he’d be able to accept that. Before he reached the doors to the great hall, he saw Batty, the master of the horses’ wife, and Lady Anne’s maid Marjorie huddled together on a bench, looking like they were in a heated argument.

  He looked at the closed doors, knowing the warmth of the great hall awaited him, but also those hopeless eyes of Sir Walter’s. He stayed in the drafty hall and walked over to them.

  “It’s altogether possible,” Batty insisted, glancing at him. “Sir Tristan, you’ll agree. I’ve had the most—I don’t know if it’s a good or awful thought.”

  “What is it?” he asked, making her flinch with his harsh tone, yet he couldn’t soften it. Not if she had an idea where Fay might be. “Tell me at once, girl.”

  She glanced at the stable master’s wife and that woman took her hand. He rolled his eyes, but tried not to shout with frustration. Finally Batty stammered, “It’s only that she’s so absent-minded sometimes.”

  He looked to the other women. Marjorie refused to meet his eye, but Mrs. Merrick nodded vociferously.

  “It’s true,” she said.

  He sighed. Fay had told him a little about this, when they’d further discussed the curse she was under. Even now, fully believing her, his mind reeled when forced to think of it. It seemed when she arrived from her own time, she, of course, didn’t know anything. It must have been the same for the poor lost souls who came before her. As such, she’d been labeled, unfairly according to Fay, a bit flighty. He himself had thought so, and worse. He’d thought she might be going mad.

  “Very well,” he agreed cautiously.

  Batty clasped her hands together. “She sometimes got lost, especially in the back part of the castle. Of course, that’s mostly for servants so there’s no reason she should be back there often, but still … she’s lived here all her life.”

  “One time, months ago this was,” Mrs. Merrick cut in. “She asked me where the dungeons were. Can you imagine?”

  He stared at them. Marjorie twitched and looked worriedly behind her, as if she wished more than anything to be away. He agreed with her, wishing he had bypassed these tittering hens so he could get back to searching.

  “Don’t you see, Sir Tristan?” Batty asked, reaching for his arm. Her big, round eyes were full of tears. “There hasn’t been a ransom, and your men along with Sir Walter’s haven’t found a hair of her outside. What if—what if she was poking around somewhere in the castle and possibly hurt herself? Fell down some stairs or—” she put her face in her hands, trying to keep from crying in front of him.

  He patted her shoulder. It was just the kind of daft thing his Fay would do. He no longer believed she was on the verge of losing her mind, but she was altogether too reckless. He felt his cheeks heat up as he thought of how deliciously forward she’d been their first night together. And he was the only one who knew she hadn’t been living at that huge, rambling castle her whole life. It would be very easy for her to get lost.

  “You may be on to something, Batty,” he said. “Where do you think she might have gone?”

  “Do you really think she’s been lost somewhere inside for five days?” Marjorie asked incredulously. “Even Fay isn’t that …” she trailed off at his look and bit her lip. He continued to glare at her until she bobbed a curtsey and turned to flee. “I suppose I can start looking for her.”

  He watched her trot away, then turned back to Batty and Mrs. Merrick. “Can you both start looking?”

  “I’ll check the north tower at once,” Batty said. “We never go over there, it’s just old, broken furniture and supplies the physician uses sometimes.”

  “Very good. I will speak with her father about this.”

  “I’ll search the kitchen cellars and the servants’ quarters,” Mrs. Merrick said, hurrying off.

  Batty looked up at him gratefully. “I pray I’m not wrong. And I pray we’re not too late. Oh, my poor Lady Fay… You were supposed to be married yesterday.” She fled for the stairs.

  Why had neither of them thought to check the dungeon when Mrs. Merrick had expressly mentioned Fay asking about it? He shook his head, wondering why she would ever be curious about such a place, but that was his Fay. He’d have to learn to understand her because, as odd as she was, he couldn’t live without her. His anxiety wasn’t lessened to learn she might be within those very walls. It had still been five days and, if she was hurt badly enough that she couldn’t find her way back from wherever she was, things were no less dire than they had been a few moments before.

  The two women had taken off with the speed of a freshly loosed arrow, but Marjorie had gone straight down the hall and wouldn’t be far. He’d find her and ask her where the dungeons were. He couldn’t believe he was beginning to feel foolish for not having thought of it on his own, and much sooner. But who got lost in their own home?

  He sighed. He had to remember who it was he really loved. It wasn’t Lady Fay Grancourt, but plain Fay Driscoll from hundreds of years in the future. She said she had worked at a shop. It fairly made his head want to burst to imagine such a thing, but it didn’t dampen his love for her at all. He felt a sense of pride that he’d found such a unique woman. Pride and luck. Now if only the luck would still be going strong.

  He saw Marjorie turn down a dark, narrow side hall, but before he could call out to her, she disappeared.

  “
What in all the saints’ names?” he murmured, hurriedly following to see what had become of her.

  It turned out the hallway abruptly ended in a sharp corner. Behind the corner was a wooden door set with wide hinges and a heavy bar across it. It was ajar, just enough for the slight Marjorie to get through. As he made his way down a steep, curving stairway, he realized he had inadvertently set himself on the proper track to the dungeon. The cold, dank smell the further down he climbed gave its identity away.

  It was almost completely dark as Marjorie and her single candle were so far ahead. He wondered how she moved so swiftly without falling face first down the old crumbling stairs. He was pleased one of the girls had half a mind to her, and wanted to call out for her to wait, but didn’t want to startle her into tripping. His stomach churned as his descent continued, half-hopeful and half-terrified of what they might or might not find.

  Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, the terrible smell nearly overwhelmed him and he wasn’t particularly fussy about such things. His heart ached that Fay might have been stuck down here all that time with her sensitive nose. He stood at the landing, a small, round room that led off into three short hallways. He saw the candle bobbing at the end of the center hall, so decided to check the one to his right and took a step into the darkness.

  “Oh no,” Marjorie gasped. He hurried back toward her, not daring to wonder what her exclamation was about. “Are you still alive?” she then asked. He burst into the dank cell she had entered. She jumped and shrieked at the sight of him, then pointed to the lump on the floor. “It’s Lady Fay,” she said shakily. “I just saw her move.”

  “Dear God,” he uttered, not sure if he was praying or cursing. He dropped to the filthy floor and pulled her into his arms. Her head lolled against his chest and she made a dry, rasping sound. Her frail hand reached for him, but dropped once again to her side. “Fay, love. My dearest. Open your eyes.” Her lashes fluttered and he turned to Marjorie, still standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and fearful. “Run for help. Leave the candle,” he demanded.