“This is containment,” Baldwin replied. “Until I decide if you are danger or fool.”
“Definitely a fool,” Eleanor whispered, grinning.
The castle rose like a dream,or perhaps a warning, from the mist-laced edge of the lake, each stone steeped in centuries of silence and storm. Beth stared as they passed through the iron-bound gates, her breath catching in her throat.
High curtain walls encircled the stronghold, their grey faces pitted and scarred by time, yet still formidable. Ivy draped the battlements like a velvet shroud, its green fingers clutching at the crenellations. Above them, pennants embroidered with silver falcons snapped in the brisk wind, their colors catching the sun in flickers of silver and black.
The portcullis groaned overhead as they entered the outer bailey. Inside, the castle teemed with life. The clanging rhythm of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed beneath the archways, mingling with the whinnying of horses from the stables and the uneven cluck and flap of chickens darting between boots and hooves. A boy wrestled a bundle of kindling toward the kitchens, and a pair of servants hurried past with baskets of linens, their arms full and their eyes wide.
The scent of baking bread hung thick on the air, laced with woodsmoke and the sharper perfume of trampled herbs in the garden beyond. The cobbled courtyard stretched wide, its stones smooth from generations of footfalls, leading to a towering keep that cast a long shadow across the yard. Arched windows peereddown like watchful eyes. A cluster of stone steps wound up toward the solar and great hall, where banners fluttered at the entrance like a herald’s welcome or a challenge.
Beth’s gaze lifted to the tower that loomed above all, its pointed roof piercing the sky. A weather vane shaped like a falcon spun lazily in the breeze. She felt impossibly small.
Inside the keep, shadows clung to the walls like old secrets. The air cooled instantly, rich with the scent of smoke from hearth fires and the earthy tang of dried rosemary and sage hanging in bundles near the rafters. Thick stone muffled the outside world. Her sneakers squeaked against the ancient flagstones, a jarring contrast to the muted thud of Baldwin’s boots.
He strode ahead without a glance, his cloak whispering at his heels, shoulders set with the stiffness of command. Beth followed, her breath catching in the hush, heart hammering like an intruder’s. The walls narrowed as they climbed, torches guttering in iron sconces, casting flickering patterns that danced across tapestries depicting knights, saints, and beasts she couldn’t name.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped before a thick oak door banded in black iron. Turning, he fixed her with a gaze that held no trace of warmth.
“You will remain in this chamber. You will not leave without permission.”
His voice was low, clipped. Final.
Beth’s eyes darted to the door as he shoved it open. The chamber beyond was austere but not cold with smooth wooden floors softened with a faded woven rug, a narrow bed tucked beneath a high, arched window, a small hearth with embers still glowing, and a single wooden chair beside a desk cluttered with parchment and quills. A pitcher of water sat on the sill, catching what little light filtered through the cloudy glass.
She turned slowly. “And if I need the restroom?” she asked, too sweetly.
Baldwin blinked, clearly thrown.
“The what?”
“The garderobe,” Eleanor said from behind him with a sigh, appearing in the corridor. “Saints, she’s daft.” Her eyes rolled heavenward as she turned on her heel and disappeared down the stairwell.
Beth sighed. “You’ve no idea.”
The door clanked shut behind her with grim finality, and she jumped. A bolt slid into place. Beth leaned against it, slid to the floor, and exhaled.
Castle? Check.
Knight? Grumpy and brooding. Double check.
Chance of survival?
…To be determined.
CHAPTER 3
Baldwin stood in front of the narrow window in his solar, watching the mist rise off the lake below Glenhaven’s walls. Dawn had barely broken, painting the eastern sky in hues of amber and rose. His hand rested on the cold stone, fingers tracing the familiar groove worn by years of this same contemplation.
Even after bolting the door to the chamber where the strange woman now lay, Baldwin had not retired. Her speech, filled with odd turns and foreign words, had tangled with her outlandish garb. Hose like a knight’s under-armor, some strange tunic clinging to her frame, stitched without visible seams. Ridiculous. Yet it was none of that which needled at him most. It was her gaze. Those fierce green eyes, alive with fury and no proper fear, stared back across the hours, mocking his command of his own thoughts.
He’d spent the long hours alone in his solar, a fire guttering low beside him while he reviewed ledgers, looked through accounts from the larder, and read thrice the stiffly phrased letter delivered the prior eve by the king’s chamberlain’s man. The ink blurred. Always, his mind drifted back to the green-eyed mystery Eleanor had plucked from Glenhaven’s woods.
A rap sounded at the heavy oak door. “Enter,” he called, his voice rough, barely scraped together.
Sir Roland stepped into the chamber, the lamplight drawing lines beneath his red-rimmed eyes. He looked like a man who’d drowned in his own winecup and barely crawled free. “My lord,” he began, his tone too close to amusement, “the woman somehow opened her chamber door and tried to flee.”
Baldwin rose from his chair, his shoulders stiff beneath the white linen of his shirt, unlaced at the throat. Over it, he wore a padded gambeson, plain, but well-fitted, the sleeves quilted in slate grey, and dark woolen chausses tucked into worn boots. A leather girdle hung at his waist, the empty hook waiting for the steel that now leaned against his chair.
