Free Medieval Rogues by Catherine Kean

to steel gray.
    Elizabeth gnawed her lip. He knew she lied, but if it took every last bit of her strength, she would not admit weakness.
    “For a moment,” he drawled, “I thought you looked pale and unwell.” His smile turned lazy and, as his gaze traveled over her sodden cloak, her breath settled like a rock between her ribs. “I would hate to think my prize had been damaged during the day’s journey. Your value to me might be lessened, Lady Elizabeth, if that were so.”
    She swallowed. She scrambled to find words with which to battle, scathing remarks to wound and scar.
    Yet, she was so very, very tired.
    Darkness beckoned. She closed her eyes, unable to resist.
    The bailey’s noise faded to a drone.
    A hand caught her elbow. Steadied her, though she did not realize, until then, how close she had been to collapsing.
    “Troy, escort her to her chamber.”
    When Elizabeth opened her eyes, de Lanceau had gone. He stood across the bailey, speaking to an old woman drawing water from the well. Elizabeth strained to see past the stable hands crowded around the other riders, to see what had become of Mildred, but Troy set his hand in the small of her back and urged her toward the keep’s forebuilding.
    She stepped inside. The dank air smelled of cheap tallow candles and a century of secrets.
    Her strides stiffened. De Lanceau intended to throw her in his dungeon. A shiver rippled through her, and she steeled herself to face rats and iron shackles. Yet, Troy led her up into a cramped, winding stairwell. At the end of three flights of stairs they came to a chamber. A short, plump maidservant with wide brown eyes and hair the color of honey stood inside. She turned as they approached. After setting down a stoneware pitcher, she dipped in a timid curtsey and hurried out.
    Troy motioned for Elizabeth to enter.
    She paused on the threshold, held back by a sense of misgiving. “Whose chamber is this? Why have you brought me here? Tell de Lanceau I—”
    Mumbling an apology, Troy shoved her forward. The door thumped closed. A key grated in the lock.
    “Troy!”
    Elizabeth fisted her hands and hammered on the door. He did not answer. She yanked on the iron handle, twisted and turned it, but the metal refused to budge.
    With a furious sigh, she spun away from the door. Her fingers shook, yet she managed to shed the cloak. It slapped into a heap on the floorboards. She ignored the ache of bruised muscles and stalked around the chamber. If there were a way to escape, she would find it.
    She threw open the window’s wooden shutters. A wrought iron grille barred the opening, and held firm when she gave it a good tug. She slammed the shutters closed.
    Turning on her heel, she crossed to the high oak bed near the door. The worn sheets had been patched in places, as had the woolen blankets. They would not hold up if she ripped them to shreds and braided them into a rope. Desperate laughter bubbled in her throat. Since she could not squeeze past the grille, that plan had no merit anyway.
    Her belly did an anxious turn, and, steadying herself, Elizabeth leaned against one of the bedposts. Her palm brushed rough wood. Glancing down, she saw the post had once splintered. The clumsy repair was the work of an apprentice rather than a skilled carpenter. She smiled. If she exerted enough pressure, mayhap she could snap the post again. She could use it to batter down the door, or, if that failed, knock senseless whoever next came into the chamber.
    Linking her hands around the mended wood, she pulled, hard. The joint held firm.
    Defeat wailed inside her. Refusing to listen, she crossed to the dust-covered trestle table and the bedside table set with candles. Neither held items that might aid her escape. Not even a book to hurl at a guard and distract him, while she dashed for the door.
    De Lanceau had planned well.
    Elizabeth slumped on the bed’s edge. The ropes squeaked and sagged. Her eyes burned and she bit back a defeated sob.
    She would