Beguiled (The Fairest Maidens Book 2) Read online

  Perhaps Veil was all who remained.

  “Want us to tie ’em up, Veil?” Toad asked from where he stood with his knife pressed against Gregor.

  “Yes. Start with Mikkel and Gregor. We shall bind Fowler last.” I didn’t take my attention from Mikkel and took pleasure when his eyes widened again at the use of their given names.

  “I regret that you know more about us than we do about you, my lady.” He didn’t resist as Humphrey disarmed him and jerked his hands behind his back.

  “’Tis not enough for Irontooth. In fact, ’twill not be enough until he has wrung the truth from you. One way or another.”

  “I shall be more than willing to speak with Irontooth.” Mikkel showed confidence and none of the fear I’d wanted to instill. “I’ve been hoping to have an audience with him. And now, I shall have my chance.”

  Several of our band had been captured last week by Blade’s outcasts, and Irontooth had decided to abduct these newest recruits in retaliation. Of course, I’d offered to lead the expedition, since I needed all the practice in kidnapping I could get. Then when I returned to the palace in Kensington, I’d be able to spirit Ruby away without the queen’s knowledge.

  Just the merest thought of my younger sister twisted a knot inside, the one that had formed the day I’d been forced to leave her behind.

  The day the queen had set out to murder me.

  As it was, I hadn’t known anything until it was too late, and I had barely escaped with my life.

  During my long days of hiding and running, I’d sobbed many silent tears for the sweet child who would be devastated when she received the news of my death. I’d contemplated sending her a note and letting her know I was alive.

  However, every time I started to pen a letter, I stopped. At twelve, Ruby was still too young to keep a secret from the queen, and communication would put us both in more peril.

  I’d only been able to pray for her these long months we’d been apart, that God would give her strength in her grief. At least Ruby had her friendship with the nuns who lived in the abbey connected with Kensington Cathedral. Since Father’s death, she’d requested visits from them almost daily, beseeching them for prayer and comfort. Now in my absence, I was trusting the dear women to do whatever they could to take care of my sister.

  And I lived with the hope that soon—very soon—I’d be able to escape with Ruby from Warwick to a new place where we could start over and never again have to worry about the manipulations of our mother.

  A shiver raced up my backbone, one filled with the chill of not only all I’d left behind in my old life but also of approaching danger. I peered into the mist, searching for shadows and listening for the sounds of a vessel. Though I heard nothing, the trepidation remained.

  “Time to go,” I said quietly.

  Toad and Humphrey finished binding the prisoners, and then after dividing them between the two boats, we hunkered down and rowed around the island. The fog was no barrier to us, since we were accustomed to maneuvering in all conditions. Our prisoners remained silent and cooperative, clearly sensing we were not the only enemies they must worry about.

  By the time we reached the far western shore, an ocean breeze rolling in with the waves pushed against the fog, lifting it and leaving a gentle rain in its place. We rowed into one of the narrow inlets and stowed the boats under the thick evergreen branches that bowed against the water.

  Fowler had long since roused and had the sense not to cause any trouble. We chained all three prisoners together in a line and marched up the rocky path toward the caves we called home. I fell into step beside Mikkel, the clinking of the prisoners’ chains nearly drowned out by the rushing of the river in the gorge below.

  The more information I could get from him before arriving at camp, the better. Somehow I needed to impress Irontooth and prove I was ready to launch my rescue of Ruby.

  “From whence do you come?” I asked.

  He cast me a glance, one filled with curiosity. “I shall tell you if you’re willing to reveal the same about yourself.”

  “Very well. I hail from Warwick.” I’d perfected the tale of my being an outcast months ago and could so easily speak the lies interwoven with the truth that I could hardly distinguish one from the other anymore. “My family lives in Kensington.”

  “I am from Scania. My family lives in Bergen during the winter and Trommen for the summer months.”

  Scania was at least one week away, if not two, by boat. Why was a nobleman from a foreign country on the Isle of Outcasts? “You are far from home.”

  “Yes, I miss my homeland.” A wistful note in his voice revealed his sincerity. “Although, I admit to taking a liking to Norland. She’s a beautiful country and reminds me of Scania.”

  As the northernmost country of the Great Isle, Norland had a colder climate and more mountainous terrain than either Mercia or Warwick. And Norland was home to many small islands off her coast, most uninhabitable.

  Though low clouds still hung over our island, the rugged hills partially covered in thick pine and fir rose around us. The path beneath our boots was rock and dirt made smooth from the many feet traversing it over the years. But on either side, the crags were jagged and hostile.

  I’d hiked the width of the island once, and crossing the rocky terrain had taken me the better part of a day. The length was at least double the width, which provided plenty of space for the two groups of warring outcasts to remain far away from each other. Blade’s band took the southern part of the island, and our band lived on the northern end.

  “You speak the language of the Great Isle well,” I said. Only men and women of high birth were versed in foreign languages, the result of years of tutoring. I knew because it was true of myself.

  “My mother is from the Great Isle.” He hesitated, as if he was giving too much about himself away. “While I was growing up, she spoke little else but her native language around me.”

  I had not heard of nobility marrying outside their country of birth. Royalty often did so for political alliances, but what reason did his mother have to marry a nobleman from Scania? “What brings you to Norland and this isle?”

  He shot a glance toward his servant, who walked several paces ahead. “Gregor.”

  After living amongst the outcasts of society for the past year, I no longer noticed the differences in their appearances. But now, I studied Gregor, taking in the burns covering half his body. The scarred man spoke little but seemed to see and hear everything. Perhaps, like many of the other outcasts, he’d gained heightened sensory awareness to make up for his deficiencies.

  “You don’t strike me as the type of man willing to make so great a sacrifice for someone so insignificant to you.”

  “And who says Gregor is insignificant?”

  “You need not say it. ’Tis clear enough without words.”

  Mikkel’s brows furrowed into thunderheads, and his heavy steps drew to a halt, jerking both Gregor and Fowler to a stop as well. Several of the men in the lead grumbled and cajoled Fowler, who proceeded to mock them in return, earning a slap in the face.

  At the sight of Fowler’s trouble, Mikkel started up again, but this time he slowed his steps. I hoped he was rethinking his answer and would elaborate more, but instead he changed the subject. “Your turn, my lady. What brings you to Norland and this isle?”

  “Is it not obvious?” I resituated my veil.

  “Did your family scorn you for—for your blemishes?” He slanted a look toward the veil, then focused on the steeply rising trail ahead, but not before I saw pity in his eyes.

  Most of the outcasts believed I concealed deformities of one kind or another behind my veil. And so far, none of their assumptions had bothered me. But with Mikkel’s curiosity—and pity—I couldn’t keep my embarrassment at bay. I didn’t want him thinking I was hideous.

  As before, I had the urge to lift the silk and show him the truth, that I had skin as perfect and smooth as the pearl after which I was named. M
y flawless features, womanly figure, and long ebony hair had drawn the admiration of many. Brave knights had written poems about me. Wealthy lords had pledged me their fealty. Foreign diplomats had offered marriage proposals on behalf of their princes and kings.

  “I am truly sorry.” He apparently took my silence as affirmation. “Families ought to be a place of unconditional acceptance for who we are and encourage us in the potential for what we can yet become.”

  “Spoken wisely, my lord.” I couldn’t keep from studying this man. From all appearances, he wasn’t much older than my nineteen years. Probably twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. “If you have found such acceptance and encouragement from your family, then you are indeed blessed.”

  He plodded uphill, growing silent once more, his expression unreadable.

  I would likely get no more information from him than he would from me. Alas, Irontooth would find ways to extract what he wanted to know. And once he had, he’d assign Mikkel as a slave to one of the men. I’d speak little to the nobleman in the days to come. Soon the two feuding leaders would arrange an exchange of prisoners. Mikkel, Gregor, and Fowler would return to the southern part of the island, and I’d never cross paths with them again, especially once I left.

  With the arrival of Midsummer’s Eve last week, summer was passing too quickly. While the others in camp had danced and feasted to celebrate, I’d hiked to the top of one of my favorite arches and spent the eve in somber quietude. The solstice in my country had always been one of terror—the eve when the fairest maiden in the land was sacrificed to Grendel.

  Like most maidens in Warwick, I’d lived with the worry that one day I might be considered the fairest maiden and given to Grendel to appease his rage. I’d feared my mother would do nothing to prevent it, might even be glad for it.

  I’d never understood why my mother resented me. Of course, servants had whispered that she disliked me because I rivaled her beauty. Others said she was jealous because the king spent more time with his children than with his wife.

  Father had indeed spent much time with us. I had many fond memories of my childhood with him. He’d loved to hunt, and when I’d grown old enough, he’d taken me with him on nearly every hunting expedition.

  It wasn’t until I was older I’d understood that in marrying Queen Margery, he’d gained the title of king but had few responsibilities and almost no authority. Fortunately, he’d had a pleasant temperament and easily deferred the decision making to the queen.

  He’d disagreed with her over one issue—the yearly sacrifice to Grendel. He’d pleaded with her on more than one occasion to allow him to attempt to kill the beast, but she always refused, fearing too much for his life.

  Of course, I’d been torn over the matter. On the one hand, I’d wanted my father to put an end to the custom as the dreaded Choosing Ball loomed ever nearer for me. On the other hand, I’d agreed with the queen that I didn’t want him to die fighting Grendel.

  When I’d voiced my fears to Father, he’d ruffled my hair and told me not to worry, that he’d always be there to make sure I was safe. If only that had been true . . .

  And if only Mother hadn’t seen me as a threat. Although my younger brother, Ethelbard, was first in line to inherit the throne, the queen feared I’d try to usurp her. The truth was, I had no aspirations to rule Warwick and had never even hinted at trying to take the throne from my mother or Ethelbard.

  Yes, I’d heard the rumors amongst courtiers that I’d make a better ruler than the queen and Ethelbard combined. Nevertheless, I’d never taken such talk seriously. I attributed the discontentment to the growing poverty in Warwick, especially as the nation’s main industry, the gem mines, had produced fewer of the emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds that had once been excavated in abundance.

  Whatever the case, my mother had never accepted or encouraged me. Not in the least. And in those last few years after Father’s heart attack, our relationship had grown more strained. Even so, I hadn’t expected her to plot my death . . .

  A sharp pain flared to life inside. My mother, my own flesh and blood, had tried to have me murdered. If she hated me so much, why hadn’t she simply chosen me to be the offering to Grendel? After all, the Choosing Ball had been less than a month away. She could have waited for Grendel to kill me and saved herself from having blood on her hands.

  A shrill bird call told me the lookout had spotted our return and alerted Irontooth and the others. At the crest of the hill, our path leveled off and narrowed. The heavy pine boughs overhead shadowed us, making the day appear gloomier than it was.

  “This warring between the two bands of outcasts is unnecessary.” Mikkel searched the treetops and paused at each of our lookouts, finding them too easily, though they were well hidden.

  The longer I was with our prisoner, the more I was convinced he was no ordinary nobleman. Though I’d distracted him to my advantage in the boat when I’d overtaken him, he was undeniably a skilled warrior. In addition, everything about him from the way he spoke to his bearing indicated he had a purpose for being on the island. And it had nothing to do with his servant. Irontooth was justified in his desire to capture and question this man.

  Was he a spy? Perhaps for the Inquisitor?

  I nearly stumbled at the thought and caught myself before anyone noticed. Surely he couldn’t be a spy, not after living on the island for two months. Blade would have figured out the duplicity by now and killed him.

  “I don’t understand why both groups don’t join forces,” he continued. “If we work together, we’ll be stronger and better equipped for fighting the real adversaries.”

  I released a scoffing laugh. “Blade and Irontooth are sworn enemies. They have despised each other for as long as they both have lived.”

  “What is the cause of such animosity?”

  “It is of no consequence.” In truth, I didn’t know what had turned them against each other. The one time I’d dared to ask Irontooth, he’d yelled at me for five full minutes and then stormed out of the cave. I hadn’t asked again since.

  “It is of consequence.” The chains around Mikkel’s hands and ankles clinked together as he walked ahead of me now. “One should bridge the rifts if at all possible.”

  “Perhaps that is true in your world, but not in mine.” After the malevolence my mother had heaped upon me, I had no wish to bridge our rift. In fact, I’d rejoice if I never had to see her again.

  Before Mikkel could speak further, shouting and jeers clamored from the path ahead. The misfits who made their home amongst the caves had come out, brandishing their weapons, ready to give the newcomers their usual greeting.

  Fowler, at the front of the line of prisoners, came to an abrupt halt. Gregor’s face remained expressionless, but Mikkel’s features hardened, and he stiffened his shoulders, evidently surmising the welcome would be anything but pleasant.

  Chapter

  3

  Mikkel

  I braced myself for the gauntlet. Outcasts both short and tall lined the trail, wielding an odd assortment of weapons from maces to red-hot irons to knives. Their faces contorted as they yelled out their fury.

  If I’d been under any illusion that my capture would be easy, it had vanished. This was no game. It was, in fact, a deadly ritual.

  I’d never run through a gauntlet before, but I’d heard about the barbaric practice in my studies. Sometimes prisoners didn’t make it through the blows alive. Most often, they became maimed and scarred for life.

  Was that what this was about? Did these outcasts enjoy hurting people the way they themselves had been hurt? Did they hope to make others suffer? Or did they want to disfigure those like me who weren’t deformed enough?

  Now wasn’t the time to analyze their motives. I needed to devise a plan to protect not only myself but also Gregor and Fowler.

  As one of our captors began to free us from our chains, I stepped closer to my scribe. “If you go directly behind me, I shall be able to shield you from most of
the blows.”

  “No.” Gregor eyed the menagerie of weapons ahead the same way I had. “I’ll go before you and take the blows first. You stay at my rear.”

  I shook my head, refusing to let this man suffer any more than he already had. “I insist.”

  “And I insist as well.”

  The woman with the veil stepped between us. “As touching as your display for each other is,” she whispered, irritation flashing in her eyes, “I suggest you each attempt to take a weapon from someone at the beginning of the line and fight your way through.”

  “Will they allow it?” I asked.

  “They will not stop you.” She spun and strode toward the gauntlet.

  My fascination with this strangely engaging woman grew with every passing moment. As she took her place at the front of the line, she unsheathed a knife. In the same instant, her attention dropped to her belt riding low on her hip and the sword still within its scabbard.

  Was she sending me a message that she wouldn’t prevent me from taking her sword? But what about Gregor? And Fowler? What weapons would aid them during their walk of death?

  As if hearing my silent questions, the veiled woman glanced to the heavyset man across from her, to his leather boot. The upper edge of a knife handle poked out the top. Her gaze shifted to the man next to him and the long metal pipe he was twirling around.

  Why was this woman giving us these tips on how to survive the gauntlet? What did she have to gain?

  A shout from behind us was followed by a shove. We were free of our chains and had to start running. I didn’t wait for Fowler or Gregor. I charged forward without them. The sneering and scorning increased, drowning out my thudding heart along with Gregor’s plea for me to stop.

  As my feet picked up speed, I veered toward my first target—the sword. The woman with the veil made a move—albeit a weak one—to slash my arm, but I freed her sword and parried a blow from the person beside her. After doing so, I spun and tossed the weapon to Gregor. Then, I lunged and grabbed the knife from the boot. I jumped to avoid an axe blade swinging at my legs, but I couldn’t dodge the hot iron hitting my upper arm, searing through my shirt and scorching my flesh.