Susan Paul - The Prisoner Bride

“You should sit by the fire for a while first,” Kieran told her, “and dry yourselves. And eat.”

Glenys shook her head. “’Twould do us far more good to lie down, if we could but have some blankets to warm us. And cannot some food and drink be brought to us there? Please,” she said, searching his face for some measure of softening, “I beg this of you. You cannot think we would be comfortable here.”

He glanced about at his comrades, clearly unable to understand such a sentiment. It occurred to Glenys that Kieran FitzAllen and his servant, Jean-Marc, were looking forward to spending the coming hours drinking and eating and making merry with these people.

“You need not come with us,” she said quickly, touching his arm. He looked down to where her fingers rested upon his sleeve. “Dina and I will be content with our own company. You and Jean-Marc must stay here and be as merry as you please with your…your good fellows.”

His eyes were fixed upon her hand for a long moment, then he at last lifted his gaze to hers.

“But I do not know if I can trust you, Mistress Glenys, not to try for an escape while Jean-Marc and I take our ease. Though ’twould be foolish indeed for you to make such an attempt, for ’tis wet and muddy without and you know not where you are. But I do not doubt you would try to rid yourselves of us even by such means.”

He was right, of course. Glenys did plan to escape as soon as she might, but even she wasn’t so foolish as to try such a thing in the dead of night and in the midst of a storm.

“If I give you my oath that we’ll make no attempt to escape this night, will you allow us to retire?”

He looked at her consideringly. “You would make such a vow?”

“Aye, and readily.”

Nearby, Bostwick boomed, “What keeps ye there in conversation, Kieran, lad? Ye have many a day to speak to yer lady prisoners. The ale has been brought. Come to the fire!”

Kieran was obliged to shout above the din in answer. “A moment, Bostwick!”

“What’s amiss?” Jean-Marc’s blond head suddenly appeared, at about the same height as his master’s shoulder. The younger man held a tankard of ale, which he offered to Dina, but the maid silently shook her head and turned away.

“Naught,” Kieran replied to him, holding Glenys’s gaze. “Go and tell Bostwick that our prisoners wish to retire now, and that we will take them to the chamber that has been readied for them if he’ll but lead the way.”

Glenys released an unsteady breath. “I am grateful, Master FitzAllen.”

He smiled and gave a shake of his head. “Wait until you see the chamber that has been prepared for you before saying such as that, Mistress Glenys,” he advised. “If I know Bostwick, he has cleared away the small room that his whores use to be private with whoever pays for their skills. ’Tis like to be such a place that you may pray to be here beside the smoking hearth, instead.”

“It could not be worse than this,” Glenys said, then grew hot with embarrassment to think that she had spoken the same words earlier.

Kieran laughed as Bostwick arrived at his side to escort them to the chamber.

“We will pray it is so, mistress. Come.” Kieran set a hand beneath her elbow. “Let us see for ourselves.”

It was far better than Kieran ever would have expected. He’d never realized that Bostwick had such a clean, fine chamber hidden away. It was on the other side of the main tavern, so that the noise of the place could yet be heard, but otherwise it seemed as distant as the moon.

’Twas a small room, Kieran granted as he walked the course of it, but swept clean of all filth and made ready for their arrival with pallets, a table, two chairs and three candles, which Bostwick promptly lit. The small hearth, which was set near the chamber’s equally small window, glowed warmly, chasing away the dark night’s chill.

“’Twill never dry ye as well as the larger fire in the tavern,” Bostwick told the two shivering women, waving a hand at the hearth, “but there are blankets there on the beds, and ye may undress yourselves and be warmed as ye please.” He ignored Dina’s moan of utter dismay. “Set yer clothes by the fire and they’ll be a bit drier by morn, mayhap. ’Twould be best if ye’d let us set them by the larger fire.”

Kieran looked to see what Mistress Glenys’s opinion of this would be, and wasn’t disappointed.

Her face, white with exhaustion, cold and hunger, brightened with two spots of anger. She lifted her strong chin and said, in a tone worthy of a queen, “We would far rather throw ourselves into the fire, sir, than give our only clothing into the hands of such disreputable villains, most especially in this unsavory establishment. Your establishment, Master Bostwick, which ’tis clear suits you full well but suits us not at all.” She spit out the last three words so precisely that there could be no misunderstanding of her complete disapproval of both Bostwick and his tavern. “Aside from that truth, Master Bostwick, our garments would reek of smoke come morn, and would be unbearable to wear in the presence of honest folk. I have no doubt that you and your kind welcome it readily enough, smelling very much the like at all times.” She finished this speech by gifting him with a look of utter disdain.

Kieran had to smother a laugh at his comrade’s astonished expression. God’s teeth, what a tongue-lashing! Poor old Bostwick had doubtless never heard the like.

“God’s blessed feet,” Bostwick murmured, staring at Glenys with awe, as if she were, in truth, a queen. “Ye have brought real ladies to me, Kie, my lad. True and proper ladies. We’ve never seen their kind in my humble tavern, and that I vow before God. Well.” He set a massive hand to his chin and rubbed thoughtfully. “Ye must be content then, m’lady, to wear damp clothes come the morn, if that is how ye’ll have it.”

“It is,” was Mistress Glenys’s frosty reply.

This only impressed Bostwick the more. He flushed and made an awkward half bow. “We’ll leave ye in peace, then, m’lady. I’ll have one of the girls bring food and drink to ye here. ’Twill be the best we have, and of that ye may be certain.” He seemed eager now to somehow gain her good opinion. “And none of the rogues within—save Kie and Jean-Marc—will enter this chamber without yer leave. I’ll have no one molest such fine ladies in my humble tavern, by God. Ye may rest easy about that, m’lady.”

Having given these promises, Bostwick bowed his way out of the room, bumping into the wall before finding the open door.

“Now see how you’ve frightened poor Bostwick, Mistress Glenys,” Kieran mockingly chided. “For shame.”

She was clearly of no like mind to make jest, for she replied, sighing, “Please leave, Master FitzAllen, and take your manservant with you. We are most weary, and you will be eager to be in company with your friends.”

Kieran nodded, knowing that she spoke the truth. She and the maid were worn to the bone.

“You’ll be safe, just as Bostwick promised. I’ll let no man enter here during the night—save us. You and Mistress Dina may rest easily.”

Her brow furrowed. “There will be no need for you to enter,” she said, releasing Dina, who moved to the nearest pallet to collapse upon it with a low groan. Jean-Marc unlaced his cloak and moved to set it over the shivering girl. Dina shook her head and pushed it back to him, clearly not willing to accept such kindness from one of their captors. “I have given you my vow that we will not attempt to escape this night.”

Kieran gave his attention to inspecting one of the two chairs in the room, placing a hand upon the back of it and determining how sound it was.