Chapter 13.1

Lord Geurney’s private chamber was a lush place, with tapestries on the wall, pillows on the bench, and thick velvet curtains on the bed. A brace of flickering candles threw shadows over the bearskin pelts that kept the sleeper warm, both those in the soft bed and those making do on the floor.

Lord Guerney, dressed only in his linen nightshirt, towered over me. His steward huddled beside him, wringing his hands nervously. The Captain of the Guard stood on his other side, grinning. Behind them all, curled in the bed like a contented cat, lay the Lady Victoria.

Raising the massive hand that carried a broadsword into a battle, Lord Guerney bellowed, "Where is my daughter, monk? Speak!"

Apparently he did not recognize me. I shook my head – all I could do, as two soldiers held my arms in a bruising grip.

His blow brought blood to my mouth.

"She disappeared with those beggars you came with. You’re with them; you know where they went!"

If I were truly with them, I would have left with them. That truth hurt worse than the slap. I shook my head.

Lord Guerney slapped me again, several times, until I felt that my head spin off. Then he turned to his night’s entertainment. "Are you sure this is the monk?"

"I recognize his feet." Her eyes sparkled with laughter. She knew I could not answer, and was enjoying watching my pain.

Now the Steward spoke up, his voice unusually high. "But are you sure that this is the man who acted between the Lady Laurice and the Bards?"

She ran her fingers through the thick pelt, then sat up slowly. It fell away, showing that she wore nothing to protect her from the chill of the night. With a toss of her head, her golden hair settled behind her creamy shoulders. Then she looked up with wide eyes.

I was surprised to see that they were not pure silver.

"I saw him talking to the Bard, in the language of the hands, and the next day he found his way to my Lady’s chambers. What do you think?"

The steward spoke. "Perhaps he was merely blessing the Bard. A little salvation would do nothing for those soot-black Heathens, but the monks still try."

"I think not." The lady traced designs in the fur, designs that were the property of Warlockers. "I know all the signs for the blessings, and those were not among them."

Damn. We had not thought of others knowing the language of the hands.

Lord Guerney turned to me. "How do you answer, Monk? Where have the Bards gone?"

I would have liked to have known that myself, and why they did not take me with them. Again I shook my head.

Now Lord Geuirney hit me with his closed fist, until blood flowed from my nose. "I’ll not have my daughter disgraced by a Heathen. Speak – or they’ll rip it out of you, below!"

"My Lord." The Steward’s nervousness had turned to a panic. "Would it be such a wise thing to risk the anger of the church? If they find out that you sent a monk to torture..."

"If they find out, the dungeon will be a busy place." Lord Guerney said firmly, a warning to the man and everyone else in the room. "Now, monk, do you choose an easy death, or a hard one?"
I could only shake my head.

This time when his hand fell, it brought darkness.