Juliana Garnett by The Quest Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: The Quest
brief rests. Haste had earned him safe passage to his castle. Tilting back his head, he bellowed out his name to the sentry in the barbican, though ’twas hardly necessary. Dragonwyck thrust up from a hilltop, commanding a view of the surrounding countryside for five leagues or more on a clear day. They would have been seen an hour before, when light still lay on the land.
A dark shape appeared in an arrow slit, silhouetted against the fitful light of a torch. Recognizing his lord, the sentry withdrew immediately and called an order to lower the bridge. Sensing rest and fodder, the horses stamped and blew impatiently, harness bits jangling in the night. There was the crisp smell of newly plowed earth in the air beyond the castle walls, familiar and reassuring. He was home.
Accompanied by a loud, rasping rattle of chains, the drawbridge slowly lowered. It came to rest with a heavy thud, and Rolf nudged his destrier forward. Hooves sounded overloud on the wooden bridge as they passed beneath the teeth of the portcullis. Moving slowly along angledpassages pocked with murder holes in the high walls, the weary band passed through five more doors and under six portcullises before crossing a second drawbridge and moat. This sluggish ribbon of water was just as dank and murky as the first, and a light mist hovered above its surface.
After traversing walls twenty feet thick, they finally entered the inner bailey Topped by runways, the walls bore crenellated battlements as protection for defending archers; faint shadows moved along them, posted guards to keep Dragonwyck secure. At regular intervals bastions swelled the walls. ’Twas unlikely indeed that any enemy fortunate enough to penetrate this far would be victorious.
More torches flared, shedding pools of light into the deep shadows of the inner bailey. Liveried squires and servants scurried toward them, yawning sleepily as they greeted their lord. Hounds bayed a deep-throated welcome. The familiar humps of the outbuildings were dark outlines in the night. Rolf dismounted and turned to his squire.
“See to Wulfsige,” he ordered, thrusting the destrier’s reins into the youth’s hand. “Give him an extra measure of grain, for he has earned it well this day, as have the others.”
Turning, Rolf strode to Guy FitzHugh, who was still mounted and holding Lady Annice. She was pale, even in the murky orange-and-rose light of the torches. Her dark-red hair fell past her hips; the bound strands had loosened, wisps framing her delicate face in loose tendrils. Without speaking he reached up to take her down, his hands firm around her waist. She was lighter than he’d thought she would be as he lowered her to her feet. And smaller than he recalled. The top of her head rose only to his chest.
Though she gave a slight gasp, she did not offer resistance at his handling of her. ’Twas just as well. His temper was none too sweet, and he would not have borne opposition with good grace.
Sir Guy’s cloak hung off her shoulders to drag on the ground. Keeping his hands on her waist, Rolf said mockingly, “Welcome to Dragonwyck, milady”
She glanced around her at the well-tended buildings and dense fortifications, then up at him. “ ’Tis not so needy of repair as you would have Seabrook believe, I think.”
“ ’Tis my hope that the earl presumes my keep is crumbling into ruins. ’Twould give me great pleasure to have him at my gate for a change.”
“You may well get that desire fulfilled, my lord.”
She trembled slightly, and he realized that it was as much with weariness as it was with chill. Faint bluish shadows like bruises marked her eyes, and her shoulders drooped. Yet she held her head high, refusing to cower. He felt a certain grudging respect. His hands fell away and he took a step back.
“On the morrow you shall make your mark upon a letter to send to Seabrook, milady.”
He lifted his hand to beckon a servant forward, then gave a start of anger when Lady
A dark shape appeared in an arrow slit, silhouetted against the fitful light of a torch. Recognizing his lord, the sentry withdrew immediately and called an order to lower the bridge. Sensing rest and fodder, the horses stamped and blew impatiently, harness bits jangling in the night. There was the crisp smell of newly plowed earth in the air beyond the castle walls, familiar and reassuring. He was home.
Accompanied by a loud, rasping rattle of chains, the drawbridge slowly lowered. It came to rest with a heavy thud, and Rolf nudged his destrier forward. Hooves sounded overloud on the wooden bridge as they passed beneath the teeth of the portcullis. Moving slowly along angledpassages pocked with murder holes in the high walls, the weary band passed through five more doors and under six portcullises before crossing a second drawbridge and moat. This sluggish ribbon of water was just as dank and murky as the first, and a light mist hovered above its surface.
After traversing walls twenty feet thick, they finally entered the inner bailey Topped by runways, the walls bore crenellated battlements as protection for defending archers; faint shadows moved along them, posted guards to keep Dragonwyck secure. At regular intervals bastions swelled the walls. ’Twas unlikely indeed that any enemy fortunate enough to penetrate this far would be victorious.
More torches flared, shedding pools of light into the deep shadows of the inner bailey. Liveried squires and servants scurried toward them, yawning sleepily as they greeted their lord. Hounds bayed a deep-throated welcome. The familiar humps of the outbuildings were dark outlines in the night. Rolf dismounted and turned to his squire.
“See to Wulfsige,” he ordered, thrusting the destrier’s reins into the youth’s hand. “Give him an extra measure of grain, for he has earned it well this day, as have the others.”
Turning, Rolf strode to Guy FitzHugh, who was still mounted and holding Lady Annice. She was pale, even in the murky orange-and-rose light of the torches. Her dark-red hair fell past her hips; the bound strands had loosened, wisps framing her delicate face in loose tendrils. Without speaking he reached up to take her down, his hands firm around her waist. She was lighter than he’d thought she would be as he lowered her to her feet. And smaller than he recalled. The top of her head rose only to his chest.
Though she gave a slight gasp, she did not offer resistance at his handling of her. ’Twas just as well. His temper was none too sweet, and he would not have borne opposition with good grace.
Sir Guy’s cloak hung off her shoulders to drag on the ground. Keeping his hands on her waist, Rolf said mockingly, “Welcome to Dragonwyck, milady”
She glanced around her at the well-tended buildings and dense fortifications, then up at him. “ ’Tis not so needy of repair as you would have Seabrook believe, I think.”
“ ’Tis my hope that the earl presumes my keep is crumbling into ruins. ’Twould give me great pleasure to have him at my gate for a change.”
“You may well get that desire fulfilled, my lord.”
She trembled slightly, and he realized that it was as much with weariness as it was with chill. Faint bluish shadows like bruises marked her eyes, and her shoulders drooped. Yet she held her head high, refusing to cower. He felt a certain grudging respect. His hands fell away and he took a step back.
“On the morrow you shall make your mark upon a letter to send to Seabrook, milady.”
He lifted his hand to beckon a servant forward, then gave a start of anger when Lady