Prisoner of the Beast

Chapter One

The reign of King Henry I, son of William the Conqueror, the year 1101...

Aurelia gaped at the raucous merriment surrounding her. As a maiden admittedly lacking in sophistication, she had never seen the likes of a celebratory banquet held inside a keep's Great Hall. So many fancy nobles were present, all the lords and ladies beauteous of face and form.

Couples toward the middle of the castle's stone floor laughed over some jest or other. The humor was most likely bawdy in nature, she suspected, given their sneaky sidelong glances. Other folk near the corner whispered amongst themselves in small groups. High-placed royalty, she was thinking, considering the opulent rings and shiny broaches on prominent display.

Oh, to be a flea on the wall. Aurelia just about rubbed her hands together in gleeful expectation of what she might overhear. Some splendidly secret tidbit, perchance? A juicy political scandal afoot in London these royal guests were privy to but no one else?

This would be the very place to hear such rumors bandied about. Just out from court, invited visitors as esteemed as these folk would certainly carry the most delicious tales of palace intrigue. Verily, all the stories she'd had the pleasure to eavesdrop upon thus far this eve had involved scandal of one kind or another. The night was young yet, and still she had learned the most eye-opening gossip about Henry I. Supposedly, the king was involved in much lusty bedsport.

And not with his newly wedded wife either. Under the cloak of night, mistresses, whores, concubines and ladies of all around loose reputation were said to scurry in and out of the royal bedchamber dispensing various favors of a lusty nature to the monarch. Who knew?

Not a countrified bumpkin like herself, and that was for rutting sure.

What Aurelia found surprising was how the steady stream of nocturnal visitors failed to trip over one another as they arrived for their private audiences with the king in the dark. In the not so dark too, was her understanding. Broad daylight. Imagine that. The boldness of certain well-placed people was not to be believed. Their carryings-on of "the corporeal variety" - whatever the sod that meant - evidently "surpassed all standards of decency".

And Blessed Virgin, talk about standards of decency! Her eyes just about popped out of her head at the risqué garb some these honored guests wore. And not to forget the fabrics. The finest of velvets and brocades to be had in the land rode their backs. Damasks and satins, as well. 'Twas as if each attendee sought to outdo the next in extravagance. The gold trims had her gawking all the more. She swore the bright hues outdid even the needlepoint tapestries hanging from the castle's rough-hewn walls. To mention but a few colors, she spied jewel tones of amethyst, sapphire, and blood ruby...

Aurelia bit back a moan. Why had she allowed her thoughts to stray to blood?

In a trice, memory returned, as did the dark thunder cloud hanging over her head. Of a sudden, grief closed in on her, threatening to crush her usually buoyant spirits.

'Twas her father's loss, of course. Not so much that her sire had passed - he was of a ripe old age and death claimed everyone eventually - but that the manner of his end was so undeserved. He should rightly have died abed, with Aurelia by his side, not left to rot, bloodied and filthy, out in some field all alone. A sennight since the tragedy, his death continued to remain shrouded in mystery. The unanswered questions plagued her, they did...

With a no-nonsense shake of her head, Aurelia put aside her personal grief. For a time. And only for a time. Come morn, she would take up the banner of her father's murder once more. Eventually, she would learn the truth of what really happened that grim day ten days earlier, that one terrible moment that had shattered her life forever.

In the here and now, however, a distraction was in order. Otherwise, her thoughts of revenge would take her over, and she would descend into utter madness. Her dear father would not have wished that for her.

A slight understatement there. He father would have given her a sound scolding, told her not to be so weak of spirit, that wallowing in self-pity helped no one. He would have sodded demanded she get on with her own life...

But what was her life to be now that 'twas so terribly changed?

Before...so long as her arse was more covered than bare...Aurelia figured she was all set for a day of hunting in the woodlands. Rough and tumble had been the way of her life then.

No longer. And for the first time ever, here, tonight, she cast a critical eye at herself.

Egad. What a dreadful sight she must make. Her faded wool tunic was raggedy at the hem and neckline, both hitched up entirely too high for current fashion. Too much ankle and not nearly enough bosom showing made her a disgrace to her gender.

Plus, there was the mud. Oh, aye, she made for a wretchedly filthy eyesore, she did. Aurelia refused to hazard a guess about the contents of that mud. Enough to say dried streaks of it stained her garb here and there.

And the cut of that mud-streaked garb?

Ill-fitting was the kindest description she could come up with on such short notice. The ladies in attendance at the banquet this eventide wore kirtles tight from neckline to hip, the fine cloth swelling outwardly to the floor from there. Not her. In an ill-conceived attempt to hide her sturdiness, Aurelia's scratchy brown kirtle was loose all over.

The sleeves. Far too short - better to wield a sword - but the sleeves did stylishly bell from elbow to wrist. More from happenstance than from anything else if the truth be known. After hand-stitching the front of the piece to the back of the piece, she randomly used the leftover goods to drape the arms. Well, 'twas better than wasting the sodding remnants, was it not?

A pauper such as herself could not afford to let anything go to waste, not even ugly brown - indeed, mannish - wool goods. And besides, the extra cloth served a dual purpose - the fullness hid her unfeminine arm muscles.

Her girdle. Or lack thereof would better suit her description. Best not dwell too long on that intentional oversight or her always ready anger would spike all over again. Enough to say, she bagged at the waist.

And why?

Because a tight cinching would have called additional attention to her chest and her chest had received attention aplenty since her arrival at the keep, all of it of the scornful sort. Even without her bosom swelling over the top of her too-high neckline as was the custom, she got stares.

Apparently - and her two mounds were very apparent - amongst royal ladies, full teats were discouraged, an unbound chest being construed as an effrontery to modesty or some such nonsense.

Good tidings. She was no lady, so that poorly conceived logic need not apply to her. She owned the immodest teats of a well-fed peasant milkmaid. And, upon occasion, aye, they behaved like two fat turnips bouncing in the back of a wagon on a rutted road. So what and what of it?

Despite her father's royal lineage, they owned not a pot to pee in. But they did have each other, reason enough for gratitude and naught to piss at in this cruel world.

These last few days, even a grain of gratitude had been hard for Aurelia to find.

Enough of that nonsense! Determinedly, she swiped at her misty eyes. Through the salty blur that remained, she watched squires and pages rush back and forth, tripping over themselves to curry favor with Lord Daw, the new overlord of the fortress.

In an effort to meet the excessive demands of banquet guests, serfs ordinarily assigned to farm the land had been pressed into service here at the castle, newly christened Evrawort - Ew! What a hideous name - by Lord Daw. These poor buggers raced about, refilling empty ewers of wine and ale, and pouring goblets of mead. And not just this night. Every meal - and she never missed meals - since her arrival, the serfs had been similarly occupied.

The waste alone could feed any number of peasant families for weeks. Most of the delicacies - the victuals difficult to identify, but certainly far from the plain fare Aurelia was used to - were left uneaten, pushed here and there on overloaded trenchers to make room for more exotic foodstuffs, the leftovers either accidentally falling or deliberately tossed to the floor for mice and other castle vermin to dine upon. Then, after everyone supped, the farmers' exhausted wives were obliged to tempt gluttonous appetites with all manner of tasty desserts, treats that included themselves.

So unfair. Peasants routinely starved to death outside the keep's stout stone walls, whilst inside Lord Daw and his depraved cohorts dined on sumptuous repasts and then went a-wenching on the downtrodden women forced to cook for them.

As Aurelia sniffed some more, three additional musicians raced for the Minstrel Gallery's raised dais. A fanfare was heralded, and a distinguished-looking lord swept his equally distinctive lady into the circle of dancing concubines and their owners, mixing with them like sweetly scented oil and befouled moat water. Just as the minstrel's lively lute playing sent her toe to tapping, Lord Daw, himself, crept up on her from behind.

"Here is my docile little doe now," he said.

Aurelia could not help but cringe. "You must have me confused with someone else, my lord. I am not remotely obedient, particularly small of stature, or significantly deer-like. And I say that gamely."

Her word play would be lost on the idiot but who could resist?

Not she. Aurelia rarely resisted doing what she enjoyed.

The idiot spoke again. "Now tell me - how much do you love me? More than all the water in the Seven Seas combined?"

Aurelia clutched at her chest. "Forsooth, Lord Daw. I certainly do not love you, not even enough to fill a thimble with drool." A stab at diplomacy was the very least...and the very most...she owed her noble host. Unfortunately, she could not summon any tact to her lips.

"But you must love me, Aurelia," he insisted. " 'Tis a privilege most in your humble position would cherish."

"Alas - not I, my lord. I cherish it not."

"What say you?"

"I cherish it not," she said, only slower this time around. Repetition was no inconvenience. She delighted in rubbing salt in the idiot's open wound. "May I suggest a real doe in my stead? I understand they are suitably docile. Perchance humble too. A female of the herd might very well cherish the privilege of your interest. That is, if she could tolerate the slings and arrows of your derision. Personally, I cannot. Though, perchance your arrows would miss a doe. Her tail would no doubt be smaller than mine, making the doe a more difficult target to hit than myself. My arse is on the generous side."

His entire being snarled. "You. Must. Jest."

"Rarely. My. Lord." Especially not with an idiot who referred to a woman as a docile little doe. "Neither with king nor with knave would I make light of a situation that warrants the utmost seriousness."

A coil, though, her outspokenness. The new overlord's expression had shifted from ripe to rancid. Rather like offal bubbling up from beneath a moat's surface, the roiling foam offensively pungent in the heat of the summer sun. And, as usual, rather than test the waters, she dove feet first into the malodorous brew, the mire leaving her with not only boiled toes, but stinky ones.

Her failure was in her absolute refusal to smell sweet for a man. Any man. She was who she was. And dissembling proved beyond her. As to avoidance - she knew not its meaning.

With a sigh for her lack of diplomacy, Aurelia slanted her gaze from the glaring overlord to a hole in the lofted ceiling - the vent for a centrally-located stone hearth. Spring had been unpredictable this year. One day 'twas temperate, the next frigidly cold with blinding snow squalls. Mid-May, and a tremendous fire still burned hot in the Great Hall. In evidence, the roaring flames crackled as another burned log disintegrated. The shards of blackened wood fell through the loose weave of the iron grill to join the mountain of ashes below. A peasant lad, a serf with a shock of brittle hair of indeterminate coloration, swept the debris over to one side for later disposal, a filthy duty for which he should rightly be pitied...

Sodding pity begone. Sentimentality was a worthless commodity. What this peasant boy needed was a finer overlord, not the idiot with whom he was currently saddled.

Contracting chilblains ranked high amongst the concerns of Lord Daw's cosseted guests. This meant the young serf never left the hearth. The lad might just as well have been chained to his smoky post...

Then, Aurelia saw it. The chain. The young serf was indeed chained to his smoky post. And his fix was worse than even that. Heavy anklet irons rubbed his blackened flesh raw where too short braies left his skin exposed. Bound by metal, bound by a serf's obligation to his overlord, his beardless face reddened and blistered, the boy could no more escape his station than he could fly free.

Apart from a few minor quibbles, the lad and she had much in common. Wed the idiot Lord Daw and she too would be in chains. Though hers would be invisible, the imperceptible links attached to the overlord's very detectible scowl.

Breaking free of the overlord's disapproving look, Aurelia approached the soot-covered serf. "Your name, lad?"

The confused boy looked over his shoulder, and then around him. Finding no one nearby, he still asked, "Who me?"

"Aye, you."

"But no one has ever sought out how I was called."

His heartbreaking puzzlement near broke the unbreakable heart on which Aurelia prided herself. A crack only and she soon pulled herself together despite the ache left behind. The lad's plight would not be her undoing.

Bugger pity. Sodding pity bought a body naught. Only action ever made a difference.

Aurelia was built for action. "Well, lad, I am inquiring over your name now. Best speak up, and spit it out."

"Agraf. The name is Agraf of Velhine. Have I done aught wrong?"

"Nay, Agraf. You have done everything right. In the near future, I vow to do right by you. Hold on until then, eh, lad?"

'Twas not too late for young Agraf of Velhine. In due course, Aurelia would take her largest and heaviest broadsword, raise the weapon high, and then bring the edge down where chain met hearth. Blunt force would break the boy free quick enough.

Done under the cover of darkness, of course. She was no saint looking to sacrifice herself on a flaming pyre.

Who was she then?

Damned if she knew. As close as Aurelia could figure, she was just an all-too human misfit trying to correct a wrong...and not get caught at it. Getting caught never served justice. Getting caught only served idiot tyrants.

Smirking at his petulant pout, Aurelia returned to one and the same. "You were saying, my lord? Something about poking a doe?"

His eyes went to red coals. "You removed yourself from my side without permission, Aurelia."

She bit her lip against telling him to sod off and simply shrugged. Why answer a question not posed? The idiot was not seeking an explanation but to place blame.

The idiot persisted. "What was that all about, Aurelia?"

Now he asked a question so philosophically complex in nature, she could not possibly make him an answer he would comprehend. Her own philosophy was far simpler:

Hell would freeze over ere she advanced her acquaintance with this scowling idiot.

She would dearly enjoy telling him so but...Daw was the spiteful sort. The defenseless lad or some other poor serf would suffer his anger. Or mayhap, the idiot would kick the resident wolfdog.

Just let him try to vent his spleen on her. Aurelia would answer the idiot's question then all right:

With the point of her blade. She was so very tired of him. A good self defense?

"Never are you to leave my side again, Aurelia, not without explanation, especially not when I am speaking to you. Doing so shows an appalling lack of respect for me as your overlord and your soon-to-be husband."

At her smothered laughter, he wheedled, "Come now, you must love me. Why would you not love me? I have everything whilst you have naught."

This cat and mouse game had grown wearisome. Impatient to end it, Aurelia rushed to come up with phraseology that would sound profound without actually saying anything deep. Why confuse the idiot?

"My lord - only a demoiselle of a romantic persuasion would lose her head so readily after as brief a visit as ours. Sad to say, romantic would never describe me. Practical would be a more accurate portrayal."

Despite all her fine words, Aurelia could not help but think - what the sod was wrong with her? Why refuse him?

Lord Daw offered her a roof over her head and three meals a day. She did so like to eat. And not to forget the possibility of children, a family to replace the one she had lost. Mating with him should not prove too revolting. With his even and pale features, pleasing golden hair, elegant and spare carriage, Daw would make for a heavenly swain.

Especially in the dark. With the wall torches snuffed and no stars shining through the arrowloops. His touch would be almost...almost...bearable then.

Alack, she had always been better aligned to the earth than to the heavens. Not diplomatic, but there 'twas - the truth.

"Your sire meant for us to wed, Aurelia. He meant for me to take care of you."

Nay, her loving father meant for his only child to be her own person. To stand on her own two feet. This she knew without doubt for her sire had raised her with all the educational advantages of a son. He had gifted her with reason and self-respect. All she lacked for in masculinity was a cock...

...and some conversational bull dung that would pass as diplomacy in polite circles.

Her father had been similarly ill-disposed. He had fallen out of favor with the king due to this failing. A more politically-astute baron resided in their small manor house now. And so began her sire's quest to find her a husband.

Lord Daw continued. "Lest you forget - I have already condescended to take you to wife. That makes you my lawful betrothed."

And with that idiotic assertion, Lord Daw strode from the Great Hall.

Prickly as a hedgehog, Aurelia looked after him, her wagging tongue sticking out.

Oh, to take a sharp dirk to Lord Daw's pomposity. That blathering bladder of wind was not her affianced. She knew this to be so for her sire would have discussed any and all betrothals with her prior to making the alliance. And he had not.

Aurelia could just scream. And she had no one with whom to discuss her consternation. Her father had been her greatest and most trusted confidante and advisor. His passing left a vast void in her life. Now she was all alone in the world, not knowing in which direction to turn.

Not toward anyone who resided at this fortress, and that was for sodding sure.

Spies listened at every corner here at the keep. Private conversations invariably looped back to the idiot, a half-baked man who inspired not a single twig of confidence in her. Anything Daw gleaned through disreputable means, he would use against her. Right from the outset, right from her very first audience with the new ruler of these holdings, she had entertained uncertainty about Daw's integrity. With each day she spent in his company, he justified that uncertainty. Why would she ever consent to giving her hand in marriage to not only a sodding idiot, but to an untrustworthy sodding idiot?

Undiplomatic?

Aye. She blamed her undiplomatic orange hair for just about everything, including her apolitical opinions, which would surely hinder the idiot's ambitions. So why had Daw begun pressing her father for an alliance between them?

Love?

A thousand-times nay. He most assuredly did not love her. She could tell by his expression he loathed the very sight of her. Particularly, her hair.

Her form?

Sturdy. Very sturdy. As sturdy as she was undiplomatic. And that was saying a mouthful, and her mouth generally was. Full, that is. 'Twould take more than a gentle sea breeze to blow her off course and more than a miracle to make her glib. As to the rest of her, down to the hillock in her nose - a broken bone from scaling a treacherous cliff - she was little better than unpresentable.

So - if not the beauty of her face or the willowy gracefulness of her form or a tongue insincere enough to advance his political standing at court, what did Lord Daw think to accomplish by making her his bride? Did he perchance think her a nymph who would prove good on the furs?

If so, he was barking up the wrong pair of thighs.

Seafarers might very well crash onto the rocks because of her, but 'twould be due to her screechy voice, not her lyrical siren's song. In fact, she assumed the reason why the overlord had yet to kiss so much as her scraped knuckles - bruised from her daily broadsword practice - was her lack of allure.

And another thing - her father had loved her, but not blindly. So how was it, pray, that the idiot overlord had managed to convince her astute sire of his desire to wed her where no desire existed? That is, if her father really had been convinced.

For argument's sake, she would agree to believe her sire really had been convinced.

As far as she could tell, in a roundabout way, 'twas falconry that must have persuaded her father of Lord Daw's devotion. During its training, the falconer would cover the falcon's eyes with a hood, done to trick the bird into believing night had fallen. Pacified by the fraudulent darkness, the bird of prey would allow its trainer to safely pry hunted spoils from its deadly talons.

And what did a falcon have to do with Aurelia?

Again, just for the sake of argument, she would allow herself to believe that Lord Daw might have hoodwinked her father in much the same manner, only using sonnets - curse them - not a hood. And this was why:

The normally terse Daw would utter the most flattering of platitudes to her...within her father's earshot only...sweet words which might have convinced her sire of the idiot's noble intentions.

Had her sire fallen for the ruse?

Too late to ask. Her dear father was dead.

With destitution her only inheritance, no place to live, and a false-playing idiot insisting on taking her to wife for no apparent reason, what else could possibly go wrong?

Behind Aurelia, a bell tolled. Once. Twice. Again.

"Hear ye, hear ye," yelled the town crier as he barged into the Great Hall. "A battle brews outside these castle gates, a siege that will continue until every last soul who remains is dead. Make ready to leave immediately. Pack up all your belongings and go."

Murmurs went up all around her. Someone in back yelled, "Who leads the charge?"

The Crier answered, "The Beast of Nowhere."

Aurelia pursed her lips. Oh, really? Had this warrior sprung fully formed then from under the leaves of a cabbage? Everyone must come from somewhere, even beasts...

With other things on their minds, she supposed, no one questioned this. Guests moved en masse toward the portal, the noblemen with their weapons drawn and at the ready, their ladies hopelessly sobbing at their sides.

Huzzah. Why fret over a betrothal to Lord Daw now?

Come morn, she might very well be dead.

Considering the alternative, the prospect came as a blessed relief.