All this death.
All this carnage.
It was her fault.
Someone grabbed her hair and jerked her to her feet. Elea looked up to see the face of her uncle Laird Lochdon. He was a big bear of a man, with a thick black beard streaked with gray and hard, dark eyes. She’d steered clear of him as a child. So had Nora.
He raised his other hand and Elea flinched before the contact.
Laird Lochdon laughed loudly. He pulled her hair even harder until her feet dangled a few inches above the ground. The dagger fell out of her hand. “Are you fools afraid of her? She is nothing but a weak girl . . . a witch whom I’m going to burn!”
Her scalp was on fire, and she thought her uncle was going to pull her hair out by the roots. A scream died on her lips. The soldiers were all looking at her. Laughing. Mocking. She was powerless. Her father had been right: she was nothing.
He finally released her hair and she fell on all fours with a thump. “Where is your precious goddess now?”
Gasping for air, she tried to reach for the dagger. It was only a few feet away from her. But a hard kick hit her in the ribs and sent her flying back to the ground. The next strike hit her across the side of her face before she even knew it was coming. Her mouth filled with the iron taste of blood, and her ribs ached as if they were broken. Still, she dove for the dagger.
Laird Lochdon kicked her dagger out of her reach and grabbed her again by the hair, ripping out chunks of it. Sobs broke from her and she could not stop them. The soldiers no longer cheered or jeered. Some even lowered their eyes with pity for her. But no one moved to help her. The smell of sweat and fear intensified. The pain overwhelmed her and she saw black.
Her uncle dropped her again. “Take her to the dungeon and build a pyre worthy of royalty. I want every serf in the kingdom to see the flames of their precious queen burning. No one will ever challenge me again.”
The hands that grabbed her arms were rough. They pulled her back to her feet, but she was in too much pain to walk. So they dragged her across the green courtyard. Past the pile of bodies. Through the guardhouse that was no longer locked. The soldiers who had refused to help her had joined her uncle’s forces.
The guards pulled her down the stairs to the dungeon, her shins hitting every step.
Thump.
Bump.
Then they threw her into the one large cell and locked the door. She lay on the floor with the dirty hay and looked up at them through her swollen eyes.
They spat at her.
17
MATTEO
They rode in near silence for hours, with only the light of a full moon to guide them. The sound of running water caused Matteo to slow his horse down to a leisurely walk. On this road, his armies were covered by the night and by the forest. They would be outnumbered at the fort, and he needed the advantage of surprise.
“General de Flores, please have the cavalry remain here while I scout out the best way to attack.”
She held up her right hand and the companies behind her came to a halt. “Very good, Your Majesty.”
Matteo slipped off his horse and moved as quietly as a wraith across the final stretch of road. The trees thinned as he came closer to the river and bridge. There were only two soldiers guarding it who looked half asleep. They leaned against the wooden posts of the bridge. Matteo blinked and he could see the outline of a great castle. He could see a few torches burning in the courtyard, but most of the windows were dark. Most of the soldiers would be asleep. Judging from the position of the moon, it had to be past one in the morning.
Wading out into the river, he felt for his footing on the rocks and silt. He was halfway across the long river, and the water still hadn’t reached above his waist. He continued until he reached the other side of the river; most areas appeared to only be two to three feet deep. The horses could easily traverse it. Speed was essential in a surprise attack. He picked up a small rock and placed it in his pocket.
Without making any noise, he walked slowly to the bridge and crossed it from the other side. The two guards were watching for threats in the direction of his army, not behind them. Matteo began to whistle a Kaulish drinking tune and stomped his feet loud enough on the wooden planks so that the guards would know that he was there. He didn’t want to shock them into sounding any sort of alarm. Stopping halfway across the bridge, he dropped the rock and counted how many seconds it took before it splashed into the water: eleven. The bridge was higher up than he had supposed. It would be unwise to throw the guards’ bodies over it. It would make too much noise.
Walking leisurely, he continued to whistle until he reached the guards.
One of them pointed their bayonet at him. “What are you doing out so late at night, monsieur?”
Matteo swayed to one side as if he’d had too much to drink. He stumbled into the opposite guard, gripping his arms.
“Get off me!”
While the guard pushed him away, Matteo used his left hand to deliver a swift strike with his dagger up his gut. The guard’s mouth fell open and he made a gurgling sound. Matteo spun and threw the dying guard at his companion. The first guard dropped his bayonet and tried to catch his friend. Matteo reversed his circle and with one arching move stabbed the first guard in the back. He fell heavily onto his companion. Without checking to see if they were still alive, Matteo slit both of their throats. He couldn’t allow them to call out. Then he pulled their bodies off the bridge and to the side of the road and wiped off his blades in the grass.