Not five minutes later, a sound on the other side of the stall startled him from the edge of sleep.
Heldred lurched to sit up, peering in vain through the darkness. Something wasn’t right. The lads never moved around after Garth’s call for rest. The hair prickled on the back of his neck at the sound of crackling straw. He listened more carefully and heard a man’s voice crooning softly to a horse. There was still no light. Then came the creak of leather, as if from a saddle being cinched.
A horse-thief? It couldn’t be; the castle gates had been locked against traders, travelers or anyone not of the castle since before Mistress Catherine left…
Pulling himself to stand in his hunched-over position, Heldred stumbled quietly to the edge of his stall, squinting as he ducked under the rope and into the aisle. His eyes had by now adjusted to the dimness enough to see the shadowy outline of a man in the next stall, furtively tightening the bridle of the mare he’d just saddled. Grabbing a shovel from where it leaned on the wall, Heldred raised it and prepared to strike.
But before he could move, the man spun around, grabbing the tool from Heldred and hitting him hard in the throat with a closed fist. The pain in his neck sent Heldred crashing to his knees; his hands gripped his throat as he gasped for air. With what seemed a Herculean effort, he managed to raise his gaze, trying to see the face of the man who’d struck him.
Shock sliced into him, even through the pain. ’Twas young Rupert, a stable hand of no more than twenty years. He was a lively youth, always whistling a tune and laughing as he dallied with the girls from the kitchen.
“Rupert, lad…?” Heldred tried to croak, but no sound would come out. Without a word or a change of expression, Rupert raised his arm, and Heldred felt the cold, angry slash of a dagger blade rip into his shoulder, felt his own blood spatter up warm onto his face. He fell back, palms out, flailing and gasping without breath, like a fish on the beach; the blade sliced into his hands and then jabbed past them to bury with a sickening thud in his chest. Pain washed over him in a wave, and everything slowed as if in a dream.
Rupert’s bloodied face floated above his gaze a moment more, his expression almost regretful now as he pushed past him to go back to the mare. As from the end of a long tunnel, Heldred heard a soft whinny—the mare liked not the smell of the blood, his fading mind supplied—then he heard Rupert lead her quietly out of the stables, before closing the door behind him with nary a sound. None of those sleeping at the far end of the stables seemed to have been awakened by his leaving.
Heldred closed his eyes, fully expecting that these would be his last seconds on earth. But he didn’t die. To his great surprise, pain continued to wrench him with each tortured breath, and his chest felt like it was squeezing down on his heart, but he didn’t lose his senses. Saints, he wanted to. He wished for the cool peace of oblivion. But God apparently wasn’t done with him yet.
After a few more ragged breaths, Heldred forced his eyes open. Everything was quiet again. All appeared peaceful. But he knew that nothing would ever be the same. It seemed that Rupert was one of Lord Montford’s spies, willing to kill in order to escape with news to his evil master.
A rapidly spreading pool of his own blood grew warm and slick beneath Heldred’s prostrate body, as he tried to make himself think. He pushed his mind to work, to formulate a plan of action.
He decided that he must first try to calm his heart, then staunch the flow of blood from his wound. Rupert’s blade had punctured a lung, Heldred was sure of it, by the unnatural weight and bubbling rasp of air he felt in his chest with each breath. He couldn’t yell for help. ’Twould be a challenge to overcome the pain at all, but he would do it. He needed to retain his senses long enough to get outside. To get to Lord Camville.
He had to find his lady’s husband and tell him that their plans had gone awry, that the security of Ravenslock was breached, and that Lord Montford would surely learn, now, of their design to rescue the twins. Then Mistress Catherine would be in far graver danger than anyone had suspected when she left for Faegerleigh Keep with only three men to aid her.
Groaning, Heldred rolled onto his side, his gashed hands trembling as he reached for the medicine pouch hanging round his neck. It dangled there, torn, likely from the thrust of Rupert’s wicked blade. He found a few bits of cherry bark left in the folds of leather, and, pinching these between his thumb and finger, pushed the pieces past his lips, grimacing when the metallic taste of his own blood mingled with the bitter peelings. But the bark’s medicinal properties soon eased his irregular heartbeats, quieting some of the pain wracking his chest.
Finally, he strained to grasp the edge of his cloak from where it hung on the stable post, pulling it down and bunching it up to press against his dagger wounds. He gasped with agony at the movement, holding himself very still until the white-hot burst of light in front of his eyes faded away. Then, holding the makeshift bandage firm to his chest, he began to drag himself, shaking and sweating, inches at a time toward the stable door…
And toward the one man who might prove to be Mistress Catherine’s chance of survival.
Gray was at work in his solar planning out his strategy of attack on Eduard when he heard the shouts. It sent a tingle of warning up his back, like the feeling he got in the dead, eerie silence right before a thunderstorm unleashed its fury from the heavens.
Something was wrong.
Grasping the silken bag from under the table’s edge, he pulled out his key and jammed it into the lock in the wall, pushing the hidden door open and lurching into the tilt yard. Though it was night, nearly a score of men filled the area, their torches providing flickering illumination.
“My lord! Sweet Jesu, Lord Camville, ’tis awful!” Gray’s steward, Briggs, came rushing up to him, his hands smeared in blood, his face pale in the unnatural light. “The old hunchback from the stables has been attacked, my lord. One of the watchmen found him. Knifed, he was,” the steward cried, even as he led Gray past the open stable doors.
A trail of blood soaked into the wood chips along the edge of the lists; Heldred had obviously been trying to cross the yard to get to the castle. Several of Gray’s knights knelt next to the old man’s prostrate form another ten paces away, trying to staunch the red flow that continued to seep onto the now slick grass near him.
“Is he alive?” Gray asked harshly, stalking the last few feet to Catherine’s old friend. Concern gripped him so that he didn’t know if he could speak at all.
“Aye, my lord,” Briggs answered. “At least, he was so when I left him a moment ago.”
Heldred’s eyes fluttered open when Gray dropped to his knees beside him. Even through the pain Gray saw reflected in the old man’s gaze, worry and intensity shone brighter.
“Easy, now. I’m here. Talk to me if you can. Tell me how this happened,” Gray said gently, anger at what Heldred must be suffering churning in him as he supported the old man’s head on his arm. “I vow to bring those responsible to justice for it.”
Coughing, Heldred tried to sit up more. The movement made him blanch anew, while the horrible bubbling sound that wheezed from him increased. He grasped Gray’s tunic in his bloody grip, pulling him closer. “Breached, my lord!” he whispered. “The security of the castle is breached. Rupert—” He gasped for breath again, blood showing on his lips. “He is a spy. You must go after my lady Catherine…” He coughed, a harsh rattling sound that mixed now with a gurgle. “She is in grave danger. You must go to her—!” he choked, before falling back into Gray’s arms. He took one, last, tortured breath before his chest stilled and his eyes fixed upon nothing.
Gray felt the world spinning around him as he stared at Heldred’s now lifeless body. Gently, he laid him back onto the grass and pushed himself to his feet. Somehow, he managed to give a mumbled order that the remains be looked after and prepared for a noble burial. Then, half-stumbling, he crossed the yard, the loyal old man’s dying words ringing their deadly message through his brain and soul.
Breached. The security was breached.
Catherine was in danger, and she had no way of knowing it. She would reach Faegerliegh Keep before dawn with only three men to help her—only three men to keep her from the harm of a madman and his entire army.
Christ, Eduard was going to get her.
