Lionheart did not answer but dragged the baron to his feet and across the chamber. The chains had been removed, but the baroness, as promised, had seen to it that a stout rope was provided, tucked away secretly under the sumptuous bed.
Indeed, the whole room was the last word in lavish comfort, Lionheart noted as he bound the baron’s hands and secured him to an iron ring in the wall. Those awaiting death in this chamber would certainly do so in a state of ease. Lionheart’s own chambers as crown prince had hardly been more luxurious.
Somehow, it seemed cruel.
The baron stared up at Lionheart. He did not glare and he did not frown. His face was an icy mask, save for the blood and spittle flecking his mouth. This gave him a rabid appearance even in his kingly garb.
The men-at-arms pounded and shouted at the door.
“They’ll be through within moments,” said the baron. He winced and spat out a tooth, then grinned bloodily. “This is a prison, not a bastion.”
Lionheart stood back, hoping his trembling fingers had secured the knot well enough, at least for now. His breath wasn’t coming quite naturally, but he did not think he’d disgrace himself. Not yet anyway. Another thud on the door signaled the breaking of some poor guardsman’s shoulder. In the narrow landing without, there was no room for a battering ram of any size such as they must have used on the door below.
Lionheart returned to the door and pulled free the baron’s embedded knife. He retrieved his own blade and the key, which he’d dropped in the scuffle, and secured them in his belt. Then, shaking his head at his near forgetfulness, he returned to the baron and pulled off his boots, his cloak, and his outer tunic, discovering quite a number of delicate little instruments in the process. He could only hope he’d found them all.
“You’d better kill me,” the baron said as Lionheart tore the fibula of the rampant panther—the Eldest’s insignia—from his shoulder. “It’s your only option. If you don’t want to see me on your father’s throne, my death is your one hope. So why not add murder to your other crimes. It’ll take the hangman longer to read out your wrongs to the crowd at your execution; buy you a few more breaths.”
The door boomed again. But it held. Its hinges were iron and its frame was stone two feet thick. The door itself was many layers of dense mango wood, seasoned with salt and kiln-dried, made fast with iron fixtures. It did not so much as shudder when struck.
Lionheart sank to the floor, his back to the door, and stared dully across at the baron. He forced himself to draw several long breaths, hoping to ease the bubbling sickness in his belly. He watched the baron’s gaze rove the room and saw it at last fix upon the lock.
It should have been impossible for those enormous eyes to widen. But they did.
“You forgot,” said Lionheart grimly. “You forgot that the Eldest long ago had this chamber transformed into a bolt hole. A supplied man can fend off all assailants from here.”
The baron’s face drained of color. But then he smiled and spat more blood and foam. “For how long, Lionheart? Until the Council of Barons decides to reinstate you? To crown you Eldest?”
Lionheart shook his head. “I’m not so patient as that, baron,” he said wryly. “We have only to wait for Foxbrush’s return.”
“Foxbrush?” The baron laughed mirthlessly. “You’ll risk your neck for the sake of that dullard?”
“He is my father’s chosen heir.”
The baron laughed again, his voice nearly drowning out the shouts of the assailants behind the door. “A poison-addled choice, and well you know it. And a choice that means nothing now. He’s dead.”
Once more they struck the door without. Lionheart held the baron’s gaze for longer than he would ever have believed possible. In the end, however, he broke first and buried his tired face in his hands.
I vowed to follow you, his heart whispered desperately. Is this right? Is this what you would have of me?
But he heard no answer beyond the shouts of those who would kill him the moment they broke through.
20
THIS WILL STING.”
Foxbrush did not understand the child’s words and was therefore unprepared when she slapped a greasy poultice to the cut on his heel. He yelped loud enough to draw the attention of all the children gathered in the room.
The child, another redheaded girl, younger than Lark, glared at him. Then she called over her shoulder to her sister, “He won’t sit still!”
“Grab his ankle,” Lark replied from her place over the cooking fire.