Page 97 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
The old man smiled down at the lad, his eyes crinkling with genuine kindness. He pressed into the lad’s hands a bundle of plain brown cloth and a simple chain affixed to a wooden cross.
“For yer temporary vows, Balthasar.”
The name pulled her from the reverie before another sucked her back.
Fear prickled with excitement and so much mixed in between. Castle of Park rose before her, very similar to how she knew it.
The young man was older now, his face leaner.
Balthasar.
The odor of sickness hung heavy in the air, but he did not appear afraid– only determined as he trudged toward the castle. Each footfall kicked out the hem of his coarse brown robes she saw him receive and set the cross hanging from the chain at his waist bobbing and twisting.
He turned then, and his gaze fell on a woman with dark eyes and dark hair. Her clothes were fine, like that of a lady, but her blatant interest was as bold as any tavern slut. The young man bowed his head forward and continued away. He did not see the woman stare after him, nor the coy smirk lifting at her lips.
Senara was sinking into the memories too fast, drowning in them. She rasped in a ragged breath of air so icy it pulled her away before plunging her in once more.
Everything was so alive! The air hummed and snapped and crackled with vitality. With Want.
With Sin.
Balthasar held the dark-haired woman in his arms. He shook his head but left his heavily-lidded eyes fixed on her. “Nay.”
“Ye dinna love me?” The woman pouted.
He straightened. “Ye know I do.”
The woman pushed her finger to his lips before dragging her nail down his chest to where the simple chain belted at his waist.
And pulled.
Senara wanted to look away but could no more do so than she could leave.
The woman parted Balthasar’s robes, and the chain fell from his waist into a pile of linked metal with the cross buried beneath.
Senara rebelled against the overwhelming emotions, managing to pull away for only a moment before one last vision gripped her and locked her in its unyielding hold.
Her heart was beating too hard, too fast, as though it were a runaway horse ready to gallop out of her chest.
The clink of shackles pulled her attention to where Balthasar was chained to the wall. Several men stood by. She could tell they were soldiers by the way they held their hands over the hilts of their swords.
The dark-haired woman was there with a man much older than she. They were staring at Balthasar.
The woman started to weep and buried her face in her hands. The chain was looped between her fingers, the cross swinging in mockery. “It was rape.”
Balthasar’s eyes flashed with palpable hurt. “It isna true. Ye said—”
“Ye’re ruined.” The old man’s upper lip pulled back from his teeth. “Worthless to ever marry off.”
The old man rushed toward Balthasar with suddenness and landed a blow on his jaw so hard, the wall spattered with blood. Balthasar blinked away the tears showing bright in his gray eyes and shook his head to clear it.
The old man cradled his hand. “Wall it up.” He nodded to a man who stood by with a bucket of gray sludge.
The craftsman dropped to his knees and the room filled with the gritty scrape of a trowel to stone, over and over and over until a wall appeared in front of Balthasar.
The craftsman kept his eyes downcast, as if he did not want to see what it was he did. He worked with sweat beading his brow, his actions fast and sloppy as if he had the devil whipping at his back. And perhaps he did.
Balthasar did not fight, nor did he cry or yell. His head bowed forward in resignation, bleeding, broken and forsaken.
