06 The King's Ditch by Joyce Lionarons

Author:Joyce Lionarons
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective - Middle Ages
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
Published: 2018-10-25T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Elspeth Worley knelt on the rough wooden floorboards of an attic room in Lord Beaumont’s manor house, her hands bound behind her, a dirty rag stuffed into her parched mouth and tied with a strip of linen. She had prayed the cycle of the rosary twice over on the long ride from York, begging the Virgin to keep her from defilement. Her prayers had been answered, she reminded herself, for although her captors had bound her hands and pulled the hood of her waxed-linen cloak down over her face so that she sweated in misery under the hot sun, they had not touched her otherwise.

She twisted her head back and forth, trying to loosen the gag, and felt her dry lower lip crack. Her mind would not stay on her prayers, not when she had no idea where she was and could half-hear the voices far below her. The loudest was the older man with the cruel twist to his mouth who must be lord of this manor, judging by his clothing and imperious manner. He had exploded in rage when he saw her, cursing and striking one of her captors to the floor. Twas he who had ordered her imprisoned in the attic, asking if they believed he would betroth himself to a troll. The comment had hurt, but she reminded herself twas more important to be beautiful in the eyes of God. He was berating her captors still; she could hear the contempt and sarcasm in his tone although the words were blurred.

Sweat trickled down her face to dampen the linen tied across her mouth. All the heat of the house seemed gathered in the tiny chamber. A wide straw pallet lay on the floor next to her under a small shuttered window. One corner held a three-legged stool with a rushlight set in a metal dish on top of it and a battered pisspot.

This was how the servants lived, Elspeth reflected. She could not remember having been in a servant’s chamber before. Perhaps the lord would allow her to become a servant in his household if he did not kill her. She could not imagine that he would let her go, even if she promised to spend the rest of her days in Clementhorpe without breathing a word of what had happened. She felt oddly detached from the idea of her own death, as if twas something that did not concern her. Perhaps it was because she had already determined to give herself to God.

The shouting below stopped, and she heard footsteps climbing the wooden staircase that led to the attic rooms. She froze, wishing she had availed herself of the pisspot while she had a chance. The lock and chain they had affixed to the door rattled, and the door swung open. The tall captor with the pale hair – Jarin, she thought he was – entered and told her to follow him. One of his eyes was puffy and beginning to bruise, and blood crusted beneath his nose.

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