He stopped pumping his legs, more for lack of ability to continue than anything else, and took great gulps of rain-laden air. The Eschon castle was a large, rambling structure. They appeared to be renovating it and had a massive amount of work still to do. He could see chinks of light glowing from spots where it wasn’t supposed to. If light could get out, then elements could get in. As could any number of other vices, such as an enemy’s battering ram, foul weather, the black death…vermin.
He was also sending word to the Donal clan that he needed more gold. This particular assignment was going to cost more. A lot more. He’d had a running love bet since he was a cocksure youth and a braggart and found that both of those things created anger in others. It was too late to take it back now…any of it. He didn’t lament it. It actually kept him employed at times. Besides, it was easy pay. All he had to do was clean up, use a skean on his facial hair, don a feile-breacan, and pull back his hair. That, and use the gifts God had given him. It was easy. There wasn’t a wench he couldn’t charm and win. And then leave.
Vincent was an expert at the challenge of a lass’s heart. He also had a perfect win ratio. This particular wench must have annoyed someone to the end of endurance to wish her such ill will, though. He could well imagine what she’d done. But they’d forgotten to add a few things when he’d been offered the bet. Things like how odd she was, how prickly her temperament, how sharp her tongue, how quick her wit…and the worse. The wench was sharp, as well.
Vincent blew the sigh out hard, shoving the air back up his nose with the strength of it, and unstrapped the rawhide tie from his upper arm in order to pull his hair back. Such a thing as rock climbing was better done without things like blowing hair and stinging sweat in your eyes. Then he approached the outer wall, found a handhold, and started climbing.
It wasn’t for exercise or to create more mass and brawn. He didn’t need either. Muscle had been gifted to him from birth, almost. He rarely had to do more than bed a wench or take a run to keep toned and fit. He had enough mass and strength to survive on the list if he was challenged. That’s all he needed. He was no great fighter, but if he used his wits he didn’t need to be. He used tests of physical endurance because it helped him think, plan, strategize.
Exactly as he was doing now.
There were large, fist-sized outcroppings of masonry sticking out in a haphazard fashion on the outer wall, making it an easy thing to find a toehold, fingerhold, and then another. It was such child’s play that when he reached the crenellations, he decided to make it more difficult by ignoring the fact that he had legs. Vincent hauled himself into a crenel with upper-body strength alone and lay in the cusp of it, letting the stone caress where his stomach was pounding blood through his entire body as he felt success at overcoming that particular challenge.
This wench was very smart. They’d forgotten to warn him about that. That was going to cost them.
And then a sword blade chilled the skin of his exposed neck.
Lady Eschon was having another fest. She had them often, and it made her temperament such that everyone benefited. That’s what came of surviving a husband who hadn’t spared his fists or his anger, but who’d left a large treasury to his spouse after his death. And it came from having a stepdaughter that would oversee it all, without being tasked to it or paid. Sybil was an expert at enhancing their fare, using her herbs to create a mellow mood after the last of the puddings had been carted away and the fresh fruit was being served.
Fruit was best served with a selection of soft and hard cheeses, and wine. Always, Lady Eschon served wines and ales of such a deep, dark color that all in the glen sung their praises. That was also due to Sybil. She’d taken over the brewery as well. She had each keg marked and sealed, and wouldn’t allow a single one to be opened until it had reached the proper age. Such things as being the unseen hand behind everything that happened in the keep was granting her a warm bed and a guarantee of a place where she no longer had blood ties. The Lady Eschon didn’t realize the reason her bastard stepdaughter was behind the creature comforts of the castle. But she didn’t need to. She just enjoyed the benefit.
Sybil directed serfs about their chores, making certain the hot food was served with a bit of steam, the pastries had the perfect browning to their crusts, and the cheeses had the proper bite to them, just as she did every eve after a day of selecting the ingredients, overseeing the cooking of the chosen menu, and the serving of it.
This evening she accompanied more than one dish into the great hall, where floor rushes were scattered, beginning at the fireplace, across the floor in the checkerboard pattern Sybil favored, with dried, yellowed rushes alternating with fresh green ones. It was less wasteful and more colorful as well. She also oversaw the removal of each dish before the next was brought in. That sort of organization created less havoc in the kitchens and less litter and mess after the meal was cleared away and the dancing had begun.
It was the same nearly every night. Eschon Castle was a model of hospitality and warmth and companionship. Tonight the menu was roast boar. It had been turning on a spit throughout the day. Sybil walked behind the servers, listening to the applause as it was presented. That was also her doing. She’d found that if one was focused on food and enjoyment, then one was more ready to loosen one’s purse strings to make certain it continued. And having loose purse strings at her control was another good part of life as Lady Eschon’s stepdaughter.
The boar, surrounded by a selection of squashes and fruits, was lying in a prone position on a huge wooden platter that required four men to tote it. It was shiny with a cherry-honey glaze of Sybil’s own creation, while little buds of sage poked out in a scrollwork pattern that she’d done herself.
She was rather proud of it, and that’s why she accompanied it. Not to continually scan the hall for the man that was missing. And to wonder where he’d gone to, since the string of twine was gone, and so was he, when she went to dress for sup and had passed the spot where she’d left him.
That was odd. Sybil glanced about. He wasn’t attending the banquet. She checked again just for good measure. It wasn’t her issue, anyway. He must have given up. That was good. Lady Eschon was a very pleasant mistress since her husband had suffered an attack and then lingered before his death. She was loose with her purse strings, her praise, and her household. Sybil didn’t want anything changing that.
The boar was devoured at a rate that had her moving quickly to get the haggis served, as well as the blood pudding that would accompany it. Sybil was in the kitchens, directing the placement of each grape cluster, when she heard the sound of guardsman’s boots and an accompanying drumbeat. Everyone in the kitchen crowded into the hall to see why. Sybil sighed in resignation. The pudding was best served in a solid form, which wouldn’t happen if they let it sit too long. She had to follow and find out what was so disruptive, and then she had to get the serfs back to serving, and then she had to get the cheeses sliced. Then everything about her stilled.
It was the blond fellow. She saw the top of his head. The rest of him was hidden by the mass of bodies surrounding him. But from the look of things, he wasn’t walking. Sybil pushed through the crowd, making her way to the area in front of Lady Eschon’s table, since that’s where the guardsmen had stopped and were holding this Vincent fellow, who dangled limply between them. And if they’d damaged one bit of his perfect face, she was going to make sure someone paid!
Sybil clapped a hand to her own mouth at the instant and immediate thought, and wondered where such a horrid impulse had come from.
“What is this?” Lady Eschon asked.
“We caught him, my lady. On the wall.”
“Doing