Once Upon a Castle - Jill Gregory [35]
But the good Duke Armand was dead now, and Julian, his son by his second wife, had succeeded him upon the throne.
Julian was a very different sort of man than his father had been. A lying, cunning villain who even as a child had cheated at games in order to win, Arianne remembered scornfully.
If only Marcus had not left Galeron to try to forge a peace treaty with Julian. If only Nicholas had not been banished…
Nicholas.
No use thinking of him, Arianne told herself angrily as she spun away from the castle and headed swiftly toward the stables behind the Briar Knoll Inn. Lord Nicholas of Dinadan has chosen not to return to Dinadan in its time of need, ignoring the plight of your brother, whom he claimed as his closest friend, she reminded herself. Do not think of him. He is not what you imagined him all those years ago, when you were naught but a silly child.
A month ago, Marcus had come on his peacemaking mission to Duke Julian, to negotiate a treaty that would end the border raids into Galeron. Instead, he found himself imprisoned and his lands viciously attacked. Since then Arianne had been able to think of little else besides Nicholas, Duke Armand’s oldest son. As boys, Marcus and Nicholas had been the best of friends. They’d sworn allegiance to one another, pledged to stand by one another through fire and famine. But now, though she’d had Marcus’s captain send messages far and wide, Nicholas had not returned or responded.
He’d disappeared ten years earlier, after Duke Armand banished him, and no one had heard from him since.
I don’t need him, Arianne assured herself as she unlatched the stable door. My plan will succeed, and Marcus will be safe. I will get him out this very night.
Her throat tightened as she stepped into the dim stable. One torch flickered feeble amber light against the wall, revealing that he was here already, the dungeon guard she had met at the Jug and Spoon, the one she’d been discreetly questioning for bits of information, the one who had let it be known that he was not above accepting bribes.
“There you are, wench. Bretta, is it not?”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice low and only a little tremulous. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she walked toward him with what she hoped was a confident stride. “You are ready to strike a bargain, Galdain?”
“Not so quick, eh? The night is young. Sit yourself down, lass, and share a tankard with me.”
He’d been drinking already, Arianne noted with disgust as he tilted the tankard to his fat, moist lips and took a swig. The man was hairy as a goat and smelled like one too. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, trying to focus on the scent of the hay instead. The woolen tunic covering Galdain’s broad form was frayed and grease-stained, and blood spattered the front of it. Who had the man been beating tonight? She fought her revulsion and forced herself to meet his oily black eyes with outward equanimity.
“I have little time,” she continued briskly. “They’re expecting me back at the inn. Quickly now, tell me—your keys will open all of the cells in the dungeon?”
“That they will, wench.” His crude laughter rang out as he dug in his pocket and produced a large silver ring of keys. He dangled it before her, the keys clanging together discordantly. “See—I’m a very important man in the duke’s service.”
“If you weren’t, we wouldn’t be here at this moment,” she snapped, then quickly switched to a sweeter, more coaxing tone as she saw his eyes widen. She needed this brute, whether she liked it or not. Scalding