A Lady Under Siege - By B.G. Preston Page 0,63

I’m still prisoner here.”

“The spoils of war, you are, but I won’t let you rot. My boys need a mother, too!” He pointed to three snot-nosed feral brats, wrestling in the dust of the yard.

“Concentrate on your business,” the cook scolded him. He ignored her, holding a chicken by its neck for Mabel’s inspection, encircling its flapping wings and tucking it almost tenderly under his arm.

“You’ll be feasting on one of my birds by suppertime, my dear,” he proclaimed. “They tell me the master demands only the best for you and your lady. Cookie here will select the finest of the fine, and I’ll decapitate, gut and clean them, all for a modest sum of course.”

“Chickens were one of my duties back home,” Mabel told him. “May I have a look?”

“No time for that,” stated her young guard. “We’re here for one purpose.”

Gwynn raised himself up and towered over the lad. “I’ll take charge of her,” he informed him. “Go over to the barn and chat up the milkmaids awhile, there’s a good boy. And don’t forget, the hay in the loft is comfortable and soft.”

“I don’t mind a-meeting them girls,” the young man replied.

“Wash your face and hands on the way,” Gwynn advised him. “Girls like a gentleman. Cleanliness is next to God-given good looks, ha!”

The guard wandered off. “I admire your array of knives,” Mabel said, looking over his collection of tools.

“Most belong to the kitchen,” he replied. “These three are mine. Tools of the trade. You won’t find a sharper blade anywhere hereabouts.”

Mabel picked up the largest of the three. “May I borrow it?” she asked.

“What for?”

“I lack a tool to trim the cuticles of my lady’s fingers and toes.”

“Ha! That’s too massive for such a delicate job. Take this one.”

He handed her the smallest knife. The blade was hardly longer than her middle finger, and about as wide. She raised it experimentally, holding the handle so that the blade protruded from the bottom of her fist, and made a jabbing motion in the air.

“Sits well balanced in the hand, does it not?” Gwynn said proudly. “I carved the handle my own self, according to my own principles.”

“It’s beautiful,” Mabel said.

“Consider it a present. The first of many, I hope.”

“You truly are aggressive,” she remarked.

“A man needs to be, to gain what he desires.”

The old cook interrupted. “I desire you to slay me some poultry, and leave your romancing for another day,” she snarled. Glancing across the yard, she announced, “Ah! Young guardsman makes a hasty return. What happened, lad? Did you meet your milkmaids?”

The guard felt the back of his head, and checked his hand for blood. “Their father was lurking about, and drove me off with a stick,” he told them.

“Don’t despair, my boy,” Gwynn said cheerily. “The girls will love you the more that you suffered for them.”

The cook picked up a wooden mallet meant for softening meat, and threatened Gwynn with it. “Shall I crack you a good one then, so your lady love here grows more fond of you?” Then she did just that, whacking him across the back of his head.

“Owww!” Gwynn cried. “Leave off, crazy old crone!”

“Love hurts, hahahahaha,” she cackled happily.

“Are you all right?” Mabel asked, coming near and inspecting his head tenderly. He knelt down and leaned against her like a dog wanting to be petted.

“You see? It works!” the cook shouted happily.

31

In her chamber Sylvanne weighed the knife in her hand. “I was hoping for a tool with greater substance,” she muttered.

“This is better,” Mabel asserted. She didn’t tell her Mistress it was a gift from Gwynn. Instead she said, “If I’d stolen a larger blade, ill intent would be suspected, should it ever be discovered. One of this size is more readily explained. We can say we need it to trim wicks and toe nails and the like.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Sylvanne said. “It will draw less attention to itself, and therefore be more easily manoeuvred behind his back.” Hesitantly, and lacking confidence, she practiced a stabbing motion, bringing the blade toward herself, as if stabbing him in the back as he embraced her. She thought, Could I really do that, when the time comes? Could I harness the fury it would need?

“You’ll need to lure him close, ma’am,” Mabel counselled. “You’ll need to use all your charms to draw him to your bed. Honeyed words and gestures spin the loveliest of webs.”

“I’ll spread a deep colour over my lips. I’ll wear my golden belt low