Beguiled (The Fairest Maidens #2) - Jody Hedlund Page 0,50
“Who are you and what are you doing?”
The burly man beneath Mikkel’s boots released a snarl of laughter. “I thought everyone knew who we were.”
I remained on the edge of the camp, out of the full light of the campfire, but Gregor had wasted no time in dismounting and beginning the process of disarming and binding the bedraggled men who, upon closer examination, had yellowed, emaciated skin, hollowed eyes, and gray broken teeth.
They looked as though they’d been sorely abused themselves. But by whom and for what reason?
The woman, now free, had hurried to her children and now huddled with them behind the cart, drawing them into her arms and comforting them.
The husband cradled his stomach, likely sustaining cracked ribs if not a broken arm.
Mikkel shifted his glance to me, as though reassuring himself I was safe. In that instant, his prisoner managed to slip a knife from his belt and raised it toward Mikkel’s leg.
“On your left!” I shouted, my pulse spurting.
Mikkel jabbed the spear into the man’s arm with a force that thrust it to the ground and pinned it in place. The man cried out and released his hold on the knife.
Digging his spear deeper into the man’s flesh, Mikkel glared down at him. “Tell me who you are and what your business is here assaulting this family.”
“We’re slaves,” he ground out, “set free from the mine pits by Prince Vilmar.”
Mikkel grew deathly still. “Prince Vilmar?”
My racing heartbeat came to an abrupt halt.
During the past long days of traveling, Mikkel hadn’t mentioned contacting Vilmar. As a man of honor, Mikkel probably had no wish to interfere with his brother’s training in any way.
“Prince Vilmar is from Scania,” the slave said, even as he grimaced from pain.
“Yes, I know where Prince Vilmar is from,” Mikkel said irritably. “Why did he set the slaves free from the mine pits?”
These were former slaves? I assessed the leader and then the other men, whom Gregor had now bound. From their skeletal condition and sallow skin, I had no doubt they’d been imprisoned. But the one time I’d gone with my mother and her priests for the prayer ceremony at the mine pits, the slaves hadn’t been this depraved. Though I’d been appalled to learn many slaves lost limbs due to accidents and rat bites, I’d also been struck by how normal most of them looked, like ordinary people, not common criminals. Not like these men.
When I’d questioned one of the priests, he’d explained the slaves were made up of criminals convicted of lesser offenses. The worst prisoners—the most violent and vilest—were condemned to the dungeons and eventually put to death.
Perhaps over the year I’d been gone, the queen had grown more desperate for slaves to labor in her mine and decided to send even the worst the criminals there too. If so, at least one of them would likely have lost a limb. And as far as I could tell, their arms and legs were intact.
“Tell me what you know of Prince Vilmar.” Mikkel shifted the spear blade to a new spot on his prisoner’s arm.
“He’s wanted by the queen,” the prisoner cried out, “for leading a revolt at the mine pits.”
Mikkel glared down at the man.
I studied the prisoners again. Something wasn’t right. “You cannot trust what these criminals tell you.”
“I’m telling the truth! The queen has put a bounty on Prince Vilmar’s head. He’s wanted dead or alive.”
The peasant man who’d gone to his wife and children now stepped forward. “We don’t know what be truth anymore.”
“I give you leave to speak of what you’ve heard.” Mikkel gave the peasant man a cursory glance but kept his focus on his prisoner as Gregor began to bind him.
“No one knows why the prince was workin’ as a slave in the mine,” the peasant said. “But he released the prisoners and came to Kensington on Midsummer’s Eve.”
“He captured Grendel,” the woman said, awe tinting her voice.
A tremor ran up my spine at the very thought that the monster was gone along with the yearly sacrifice of the fairest maiden. “Truly?”
The woman nodded eagerly. “The prince locked Grendel in a cage and sent him away from Warwick.”
“To Scania?” Mikkel asked.
“Aye. Under heavy guard.”
I whispered a silent prayer of thanksgiving. I didn’t know how or why Vilmar had accomplished so great a feat, but already I liked him. After the years of terror Grendel had unleashed in Warwick, Vilmar should have become a national hero. Not a man wanted dead or alive.