As I Live And Breathe
Roland cursed that he and Terric had been so preoccupied with watching Adelina and surveying the house, they’d failed to notice someone had approached from behind.
Wary of the pitchfork, Roland stood. Terric scrambled to his feet.
“Turn about.”
They obeyed and found themselves face to face with a giant of a man. Roland was glad he wasn’t standing downwind of the fellow who was garbed in a livery that clearly hadn’t been washed or mended in some time. Grease stains formed an impressive pattern across his frayed tabard. “Probably sleeps in the uniform as well,” Terric muttered.
“Quiet,” the giant barked, revealing a solitary brown tooth. “Up to mischief, are ye?”
Roland eyed the rusty implement. He weighed the chances of making a grab for it, thus giving Terric time to draw his dagger. However, he might be skewered in the attempt to disarm the guard. And who was to say the lout didn’t have comrades close by?
A fight would draw attention and, so far, the fellow apparently hadn’t made a connection between Adelina’s arrival and the two men caught lurking behind a boulder.
“Cat got yer tongue?” their captor taunted, poking the pitchfork into Roland’s tunic. “Throw down yon weapons, then…er…’ands on ’eads.”
They divested themselves of their daggers and did as he asked. He clearly wasn’t certain what to do with them, but a confused peasant armed with a lethal farm tool could be dangerous.
“What are the both of ye doin’ lurkin’ ’ere?”
Terric cleared his throat. “We were told there are Roman ruins in the vicinity, but…”
“Thou’s a southerner,” the guard retorted with disgust.
“Yes, I’m from Sussex, and…”
“Wot about thee?” he asked Roland.
“My brother’s a mute,” Terric replied.
Roland gave thanks for his cousin’s quick thinking. He could speak English but his Norman accent would have roused the soldier’s suspicions.
“Ye’s missed the ruins back yonder. I’d best teck ye inside before I let ye go.”
He bent the knee to pick up the daggers, then herded them toward the palisade.
* * *
Unwilling to leave the dowry chest unguarded in this godforsaken place, Major Harcourt Mandeville tucked it firmly under his arm and sought some much needed fresh air.
He hadn’t harbored high expectations of the baron’s domicile, but this derelict ruin was appalling. He’d done what he could to make Lady Adelina’s journey less taxing, but he’d never imagined what awaited her in Cumbria. Not for the first time, he cursed the tyrant he was obliged to serve. He too knew what it was to have one’s ancestral home confiscated by the Crown. Conscripted into the king’s army, it was only through sheer luck he’d survived the campaign in Anjou unscathed and made it back to England.
Abandoning Lady Adelina in this northern pigsty stuck in his craw, but he had no alternative. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in his advances, though perhaps she might change her mind once she met the elusive baron.
He shook his head. Even if they ran off together, where would he take her? They’d be fugitives with nowhere to run. King John was vindictive and would surely take out his anger on Harcourt’s younger sisters.
Immersed in his thoughts, he inhaled deeply and looked out at the piles of debris, rusting farm implements and other, unidentifiable objects littering the area inside the palisade. Reed-thin peasants clad in rags were occupied in various activities, but none moved with any speed or apparent purpose. He’d wager they hadn’t had a good meal in some time, unlike the harridan who’d accosted them inside. Either the demesne was short of coin, or a privileged few enjoyed its fruits.
He narrowed his eyes at a scene unfolding by the gate. Two men were being prodded along by a burly guard. They looked decidedly out of place. Well dressed and well fed. One had hair as fair as…good grief! Could it be Terric de Quincey was really alive?
The giant forced his prisoners into a low building that looked like a piggery. Harcourt followed, filling his lungs before he stooped to enter the door.
* * *
Terric grimaced. The stench inside the building could only have been made by pigs. The squeals and grunts confirmed it. Roland’s clenched jaw indicated he was equally appalled by their intended accommodations.
A scrawny youth appeared. From what Terric had briefly glimpsed within the palisade, the common folks at Waterthwaite were neither clean nor decently clothed.