An Uncertain Choice

An Uncertain Choice by Jody Hedlund





Chapter

1




Montfort Castle, Ashby

In the year of our Lord 1390


My slippered feet slapped the dirt road, and my heart hammered against my chest like a battering ram.

“Wait, Lady Rosemarie,” my nursemaid called from the narrow alley far behind me.

But I couldn’t wait. I lifted my silky gown higher and pushed my feet faster, straining to reach the town square before it was too late. I raced past the one-room thatched homes of the poor peasants, doors ajar and deserted.

Now I knew why everyone was gone, except for the bedridden and one lame beggar child who’d finally had the courage to tell me what no one else would. The entire town had gathered in the market square to watch several men receive punishment for their crimes. Only it wasn’t the usual stocks or pillory, which I allowed. Nor even someone being placed in jail. No. This time, someone had apparently given the bailiff permission to boil the criminals alive.

Revulsion spread throughout my body. And anger. Why was the bailiff blatantly disregarding my law against cruel tortures?

I rounded the massive grain storage building and stumbled out of the dark alley and onto the cobbled street that led to the market. Almost immediately, I hit a wall of bodies — ?craftsmen and merchants who’d left their shops to watch the public punishment. My breath burned in my chest from my frantic run through town, and I gasped a lungful of the sourness that came from the unwashed bodies sweating in the merciless late-morning sun. The odor soon mingled with the stench of pigs and chickens brought to market, and the rottenness of overripe produce.

But fury mastered my nausea. I wouldn’t tolerate cruelty on my lands, among my people. I hadn’t allowed it in the years since the Plague had taken the lives of my dear father and mother. And I wouldn’t start today.

With a flare of indignation, I stood on my toes, straining to see above the caps and wimples of all those who resided in my walled town. At the billows of black smoke arising from the center green, the ramming of my heartbeat doubled its pace. The smoke could mean only one thing — ?that an enormous fire had indeed been lit. And that a large cauldron had been suspended above it, filled with well water and set to boil . . . with one of the poor criminals inside.

Panic rose to choke me as surely as smoke. “Cease this instant!” I cried. But amidst the clamor and shouts of those gathered, my voice only added to the confusion.

“I command you to release the criminals at once,” I called again, louder.

My orders drifted into nothingness. At the back of the crowd, I was invisible. The townspeople were too intent on the cruel scene before them — ?some curious, others shocked. But mostly afraid. I could see the flickering lines of fear etching the weathered faces, the wrinkled brows, and the hunched shoulders. I needed to make my way to the front, to the bailiff, and demand that he stop the proceedings.

I tapped the back of one of the men standing before me. “Please. Let me pass.”

Without a glance, the man shrugged away my touch as if it was nothing more than a pesky fly. I waited for him to turn around and see that it was I, Lady Rosemarie Montfort, the ruler of Ashby and all the many lands and estates beyond. If he would but take notice of me and realize who I was, he would fall to his knee before me. But he didn’t budge. Like everyone else, he was too focused — ?too horrified — ?to see me.

With a breath of frustration, I stepped toward a group of women huddled together and attempted to wedge my way through their midst. But they only squeezed closer, blocking my way, shutting me out as effectively as the city gate.

With a desperate glance around the market, I caught sight of the steep steps that led to the guildhall’s arched doorway. Bunching my gown, I worked my way around the edge of the gathering until I reached the large stone building. I wove through the children who crowded the steps, patting their bare heads tenderly as they bowed before me. When I finally climbed to the landing, the market spread before me. There, in the very heart of the green, was the bonfire. And suspended above the blazing heat was a large cauldron hanging from a metal tripod, with an old man cramped inside. The steam rising from the water told me it wouldn’t be long before it began to bubble at an unbearable temperature. The old man’s screams would soon fill the air as his skin blistered and flesh cooked. Even now, his exposed chest shone as red as freshly butchered beef. Beneath a mop of dirty gray hair, his eyes were wild.

To the side, another criminal was sprawled on the ground, his hands tied to stakes above his head. Ropes bound his feet, and the petty constable was cranking a lever that was slowly stretching the man, nearing the point where his arms and legs would pull from their sockets.

I spotted the dark cloak and hat of the bailiff, and found he was adding more kindling to the fire.

“Bailiff!” I shouted. “You must stop this cruelty.”

Only the children on the steps heard me. They lifted their faces to watch me expectantly. I cupped the cheek of the nearest urchin and smoothed my fingers over his filthy skin. He peered up at me with adoration, and I managed a small smile for him. He shouldn’t have to witness such a display of inhumanity. No one should. Ever.

With a shudder, I crossed my arms over my chest and attempted to ward off the dark chill that came from remembering the torture I’d witnessed four years ago after my parents’ funeral. The gruesome picture was stitched into my memory like embroidery threads within a tapestry. I wanted no more memories like that one.