Hidden Snares

by Tina Helmuth

As promised, here's the opening scene from my Genesis entry. My category is Historical (not romance).

Even though I'm a finalist, the writing is far from perfect. So here's your chance to critique me. Go ahead, I can take it. And just for fun, guess the setting: year/location.

CHAPTER ONE

Jenkin huddled in the shadows as armed men emerged from the castle keep. He watched them herd his friends like cattle into a cage atop a huge cart. Horror deadened his limbs. This wasn’t part of the plan.

His lungs pumped hard to bring him air. He strained to hear the voices carried on the wind, but he couldn’t tell who spoke.

“We checked every room. There are no more servants inside. We have them all.”

“The family?”

“They were all together; one son, two daughters, Earwin and his wife. That’s the whole family, right?”

“Yeah, that’s all.”

“Stone dead, all of them.” The words echoed within the great walls.

Dead!

Jenkin reeled and clung to the wall behind him. Dead? Impossible. It was supposed to be a robbery. No real harm done. Steal a few things and go. People might get scared, but not hurt. He wouldn’t have opened the gates for them if he had known.

It was new moon, which aided the trespassers’ dark deeds. One of the men climbed into the driver’s seat of the wagon and whipped the horses. The rest mounted and followed.

Jenkin climbed to the gatehouse and stood at the arrow slit to watch the cart pass. A few riders fell back and stopped outside the stables. They tried the doors, but Jenkin had barred them. Stealing the horses was part of the plan, but he’d never had any intention of letting it happen. When the men tried the cottage, he tensed. Baden slept inside. The old man couldn’t defend himself. The lying vermin would take him too, or kill him.

Jenkin stood ready to spring into action, but the door held. Finally the men gave up and left. He remained frozen for countless minutes.

Stone dead, all of them.

It couldn’t be true. He’d been given a solemn word.

The word of a cheat and a thief, a liar and a forger. What was that worth? He turned toward the keep. A forlorn sputter of candlelight flailed against the windows, as if trying to escape.

Perhaps the men just had wagging tongues. He might find the frightened family huddled together in the Great Hall. A burst of hopeful energy carried him across the courtyard and through the door. The Hall was empty. The sleeping level, then. He took the stairs three at a time, urgency screaming in his chest.

Halfway down the corridor Jenkin halted, his boots sliding sideways on the stone. Blood soaked the rush mats beneath five bodies. On top of each rested a small crucifix. The smell of blood clogged his nostrils. When he discerned the source—sizeable holes in their chests—he had to fight his rebelling stomach.

His eyes locked on the two sisters with arms entwined. The deep brown eyes of the first stared blankly at the ceiling. Golden hair covered the second face, for which he was grateful. He couldn’t have borne to see those merry blue eyes without any life in them.

No life.

He threw back his head and howled. “Snake! Vermin! You lied to me.” The family dead. His way of life gone. All for the promise of a few shillings as his part of the plunder. He whipped around, his accusing glance taking in silver candlesticks and gold ornaments. “What plunder?” Nothing had been taken. Not one scrap.

He clutched a rich tapestry and yanked it from the wall. He knocked the candlesticks to the floor in a satisfying clatter, then overturned the table. “Take it! Take it all! Just give them back to me. They’re my family, too.” He dropped to his knees and sobbed. “Why? Why did you do this?”

The question drove him back out into the too-still night. He ran to the cottage and found Baden sleeping undisturbed. He opened the end of his own straw tick and dug around. His fingers closed on the papers he’d stolen. Earwin’s will. The answer had to lie behind the wax seal.

He heated a knife over the fire, all the while glancing at Baden to make sure he didn’t wake. Painstakingly, he slid the knife under the seal, melting it from below while leaving its stamped surface intact. Free of the wax, one flap of the thick papers sprang open. His eyes devoured the text until one phrase knocked the breath out of him. If he had read it weeks ago, he’d have known more was afoot than a simple robbery.

The fork-tongued weasel. He wouldn’t get away with it.

All his care with the seal was for nothing. No one must be allowed to see that will. He tossed it onto the glowing coals and watched the edges of the paper curl and burn.