With great care, she crept slowly along the outer edges of the great hall, her steps muffled by the clean, herb-scented rushes on the floor. Luck was on her side when she saw the young soldier guarding the door was dozing, his head lolling against the wall. Moving with as much stealth as she could muster, Bethan maneuvered around him and then slowly, carefully opened the heavy wooden door that led to the lower depths of the castle. Being a slender girl, she needed but a few inches of space to squeeze herself through.
After three attempts she was able to light the torch she had brought. Taking a deep breath, she quickly recited a simple prayer before descending into the castle depths.
Though she had hoped to do more, Bethan was well aware that it would be true folly indeed to attempt to release a great number of the condemned prisoners. Which was why she had chosen this path. It led to a small, isolated cell carved deeper underground that was sectioned off from the other dungeon.
Given the vast numbers of prisoners her stepfather had taken and now housed, it seemed likely this cell would be occupied. As she moved forward, the stench of unwashed bodies and damp earth suddenly filled her nose, letting her know her assumptions had been correct.
Heartened, Bethan pressed on, one hand holding the wall of solid earth on her left to keep her steady on her feet, the other hand raising her lit torch higher, illuminating the way. Thin snakes of smoke curled up from the flame gathering on the arched corridor of the shrinking ceiling, and she soon realized she would have to bow her head if it got any lower.
After a few minutes, she reached the bottom. Ten steps forward and she found what she had been seeking. A single cell with long iron bars stood in the damp corner of the small, nearly airless space. Inside the cell were six, perhaps eight men. The light from her torch caught their attention and slowly they turned to investigate.
The stillness in the air changed to something tense and dangerous. Bethan instinctively took a step back.
“My, my, what do we have here? Have you come to poke at the animals in the cage, little miss?” one of the men asked.
“Get close enough and I’ll give you a right proper poke,” another mocked, and several men grunted with lecherous amusement. “One you won’t soon forget.”
Bethan’s feet faltered. Her stepfather’s dire predictions of rape and murder echoed through her head as the nagging flaw in her plan crystalized in her mind. Freeing these men could very well place her own safety, her own life, in grave danger. She closed her eyes, fighting back the sickening queasiness in her stomach as the jeering grew louder, the comments cruder.
“Be quiet. All of you.”
The sound of a commanding voice from the shadows instantly silenced the jeers. When it was quiet, the speaker stepped to the forefront, into the circle of firelight cast by her torch.
To her surprise, Bethan saw a man far younger than the rest of the prisoners, a lad probably only a few years older than herself. A handsome lad, with short dark hair, gray eyes, a jutting nose, and a strong jaw. It seemed impossible that he was their leader and yet he exuded an air of power and command that far exceeded his years.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I have come to help you escape,” Bethan proclaimed breathlessly.
Instead of the surprised excitement she expected, the men hooted with laughter. All except the younger one, the one who had posed the question. He was silent, watching her with studied interest, his gray eyes hooded, revealing nothing of his emotions.
“Why would you do such a thing, demoiselle?”
Bethan swallowed. As much as she wanted to reveal the truth, she worried at the men’s reaction if she told them they were to be executed in the morning. “Do you wish for your freedom, sir? Or shall I journey to the dungeons on the north side and find others who would be grateful for my assistance?”
“Is that what you seek? Gratitude?”
“No. I seek justice.”
“A strange quest for the daughter of de Bellemare,” the lad retorted.
“He is not my father!” Bethan’s face flushed with emotion.
“Aye, the lass speaks the truth,” one of the men concurred. “I heard the guards speak of how de Bellemare took this place a few years past without any bloodshed. He married the widowed Lady Caryn. The girl is too old to be his get.”
Those piercing gray eyes grew thoughtful. “So this is an act of revenge against your stepfather?”
Bethan shook her head vehemently, denying the charge, though inwardly she admitted there was some measure of truth in the question. She did want to strike back at de Bellemare, but she also felt a great need to try and prevent some of the senseless violence he seemed so intent on inflicting.
“Lampeter was a joyful place before Agnarr de Bellemare arrived. Releasing you is but a small attempt on my part to restore some of the dignity and honor my stepfather has stripped from us.”
The leader was silent, his face pensive. But the others were most vocal with their doubts and suspicions.
“’Tis a trap, I say! A trap! We shall all be gutted the moment we climb those stairs.” The prisoner who spoke, a large brute of a man with thickly muscled forearms, wiped his mouth, then gave Bethan an amused smirk. “We’d be fools to trust her.”
“Or fools to so easily scoff at her offer.” The leader looked at each of the men in turn, then returned his gaze to Bethan. “Agnarr de Bellemare does not need the excuse of escaping prisoners to kill us. He can order our deaths at any time.”
Bethan inwardly flinched, amazed at how he had correctly deciphered the truth. Though she willed herself to remain expressionless, she must have done something that revealed her true emotions. The leader’s expression changed, his voice grew urgent. He stood up, drew closer, his expression alert.
“Is that it, lass? Is he planning to kill us?”
“Aye. You and nearly a hundred others.”
The cell became very quiet. A few of the men seemed angry, others concerned, while one gave her a skeptical look. Yet to a man, they turned to the lad for guidance.
“What is your name, demoiselle?”
“I am Bethan of Lampeter.”
“And I am Haydn of Gwynedd.” He inclined his head in a gesture of courtly gallantry. “How can you aid us?”
Bethan’s fingers curled around the heavy iron key she had hidden in her pocket. Slowly she withdrew it, holding it out so the light spilling from her torch would illuminate it. “I have the key that will unlock your cell.”
There was a hiss of an indrawn breath, along with a whistle of excitement. The men began to press forward against the iron bars. Choking back the cry that lodged in her throat, Bethan dug her heels into the hard-packed dirt floor and stood her ground.
“How many guards are there aboveground?”
“There is but one soldier standing guard at the entrance to this passage.”
“One!” a man exclaimed. “We can easily overtake him.”
Bethan shook her head. “No. Once outside that door, you must pass through the great hall in order to exit the castle. ’Twas difficult enough for me to manage the task. With your numbers, you will never slip through undetected.”
“Then we will have to fight our way out. Can you get us some weapons, lass?” the largest man asked.
Bethan’s eyes widened in alarm, but before she could answer another of the men spoke. “Don’t be daft, man. Eight men against a garrison of de Bellemare’s soldiers? We’d be cut down before we reach the castle walls.”
A murmur of agreement