Ryen hunched her shoulders, her bare feet treading delicately with each step as she moved down the murky hallway. She clutched the dagger in her hand, ready to do battle to escape. Anything to get away from Bryce. Her escape would humiliate him, as he had humiliated her.
She turned the corner, her white nightdress swirling about her ankles. The halls were strangely quiet. At her father’s castle, the sound of children’s laughter, the whispering of two maidens, or her father’s bellow could be heard at any given time. But here there was nothing except a strange silence, as if she were in the bowels of an abandoned hell.
Suddenly, her senses magnified. The hairs on the nape of her neck straightened and she froze, listening. No sound, no movement. Was it a trap? Every fiber in her body tingled with warning. Something was not right. Slowly, cautiously, she resumed her walk.
A grumble in her stomach, followed by a sudden onslaught of nausea, caused her to stumble. She grabbed the wall with her hand and bent over. The soup that had tasted so good rose violently in her throat and she vomited until dry heaves shook her body. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes as she wiped a hand across her mouth. Gasping, she leaned her back against the cool stones of the wall.
She heard a noise from behind her and slowly turned her head. A girl no more than twelve stood staring at her.
Ryen watched recognition wash over her young face. The girl gasped and ran away. Ryen knew she should move, that an alarm would be sounded soon, but her body suddenly felt heavy, like the floor was pulling her down. As she pushed herself from the wall, her muscles ached with protest. Every bone in her body objected as she continued down the hall and her mind reeled, causing her to stagger more than once. Finally, she paused and shook her head, trying to clear it.
“It’s the Angel of Death!”
Ryen looked up to see two knights. The shorter knight wore a full suit of chain mail, where the taller knight with the bright red hair and thick crimson beard wore only a tunic and leggings. They both stared at her in fear and awe.
Ryen’s senses cleared enough to recognize their hesitancy. She raised the dagger before her. “Back away or I will cut out your hearts.”
“She is only a woman,” the red-haired man said after a moment. “We can take her.”
“She is the Angel of Death, McFinley,” the second hissed, already backing away, his hand protectively covering his heart.
McFinley growled and stepped toward Ryen. Through the haze that had surrounded her, Ryen saw the respectful distance he gave the dagger as he circled to her left.
“Come on, girl,” he goaded.
The dizziness fell over her like a blanket and she stumbled, lowering the dagger.
He came at her, and Ryen reacted by instinctively lifted the weapon.
“Argh!”
Ryen pulled back and shook her head to clear it. When the haze retreated, she gasped at the sight before her. McFinley was slumped over, clutching his arm. Her dagger was on the floor, its tip marked with his blood.
Ryen inhaled sharply and stepped back. She turned to flee, only to run straight into Talbot! His fist came around fast. The impact numbed her cheek as the force of the blow spun her to the floor. Blackness invaded her vision, and Ryen clenched her fists, willing the darkness away.
“My arm!”
“How did she get out?” Talbot’s voice sounded in her head like a gunpowder blast. “Where did she get a dagger?”
Ryen felt the cold stone beneath her fingertips as she clutched at them for an anchor. Suddenly, she was pulled to her feet by her hair and held dangling before Talbot. Ryen tried to stop the pain that shot from her scalp through her body by standing on her toes. She grabbed her hair where Talbot held it to prevent another sharp burst of agony.
His voice rang in her ears. “Where did you get the dagger?”
Ryen fought the pounding that rocked her head. But when Talbot shook her, yanking her hair until it felt like it was going to rip out of her skull, the throbbing exploded into a million stars of pain. Ryen wanted to scream from the agony that seared across her head with each tug, but she held it in with all her willpower. She vowed she would never show such weakness to these English.
Talbot snarled. “Who gave you the dagger?”
Even under his abuse, she did not open her mouth. Her pride kept her lips tightly shut. Suddenly, the violent shakes ceased.
“Perhaps a flogging will loosen her tongue,” McFinley commented, eyeing her.
Ryen had witnessed many floggings, and fear stiffened her innards.
McFinley shoved his arm at Talbot. Blood dripped from the open wound and he snapped, “It is my right.”
Ryen saw Talbot nod before McFinley seized her arm and pulled her down the hall and down a flight of stairs. She could barely keep up with the knight’s large steps. She stumbled, only to be hauled back to her feet by his hold on her arm.
When they paused before the outer door of the castle, Ryen turned her head to see an immense group of people following. Some were knights, some servants. All looked angry. Some opened their mouths, but Ryen could barely make out what they were saying. Through her fear and sickness, her mind muffled and combined voices so that she could not understand the words.
The door opened before her and a small body dashed out into the dim sunlight, running down the road. Directly before her in the dusty courtyard she saw a small platform on top of which were two wooden poles, each with a rope dangling from it.
McFinley yanked her forward, drawing her toward the platform.
Stormy gray clouds rolled in, blocking the sun from view. Ryen saw lightning flash in the sky. A roar began in her head, and at first, Ryen thought it was thunder from the storm, but then, after it continued relentlessly, she realized it was the crowd. She twisted her head around to see that the large crowd was following them, streaming from the castle like jelly oozing from a spilled jar.
McFinley yanked her up the two stairs of the platform. Her nightgown entangled her legs and she would have fallen except for the knight’s viselike grip on her upper arm. As he pulled her between the two poles, the first drops of rain broke from the clouds, spattering the platform below her feet. The knight seized her arm and tied it tightly to the pole, wrapping the rope around and around her wrist, until the blood stopped flowing to her hand.
Ryen stood still, her chin raised, gazing off down the road. Villagers were coming, running up the dirt road, a horde of incensed English.
A pellet of rain struck Ryen’s cheek.
As McFinley tied her other wrist, the first villager reached them.
So did the first rock. The stone missed her by a foot, bouncing harmlessly on the wooden platform.
McFinley whirled on the villagers, his lips curled in fury. He held up his arm to show his cut. “First blood. I claim it. There will be no stoning.”
A moan of disappointment rippled the crowd. Ryen saw some of the villagers open their hands. Rocks fell out.
Suddenly, her hair was yanked back and she cringed as McFinley stuck his face into hers. “Fifty lashes, love,” he whispered before his snakelike tongue flicked out and ran along the length of her cheek. He released her and disappeared somewhere behind her.
She felt the neck of her gown being seized, and with a savage yank the back of the nightdress tore free from the front.
The downpour began, heavy and punishing. What was left of Ryen’s dress clung to her body, the material hugging her tighter with each drop.
The crowd became strangely quiet and Ryen saw the men’s eyes rake her. No one moved for cover from the rain. They wanted her hurt. They wanted blood. What kind of people were these? Ryen hated them. She had never hated the English as much as she did now. Her mind cleared, all sickness washed away by the cleansing rain.
She felt someone press against her back, heard a voice. “No, m’lord! She is ill! She will na last under fifty lashes!”
“Out of the way, Polly,” McFinley answered. “There is a traitor in our midst, and I am to find out who gave her the dagger.”
“But she is sick!” the woman protested. “M’lord Princeton will be furious.”
“Stand aside, old woman,” the knight’s voice was stern. “Or you will be next.”
Slowly, Polly backed away, wringing her hands.
Ryen heard the crack of the whip behind her. Instinctively, she stiffened, preparing herself for the pain.
The crowd swayed with anxiety.
“Whip her!” a faceless voice screamed.
Another crack of the whip sounded behind her. Someone laughed. The rain trickled down her forehead, over her eyes and cheeks and into her mouth. Ryen blinked it away.
The crowd gasped and she prepared to feel the bite of the whip, waited for the stinging lash to strike her, steeled her body for the pain…