What the Heart Sees Read Free Page B

and two small stools to mark their post. Since the siege had begun, all able-bodied men had been sent to the walls, for if the castle fell, there would be no need to worry over what remained of the corn and ale—neither of which were in great supply. De Caux had burned the fields and destroyed the winter harvest. Storage rooms that should have been bursting with sacks of grain, bins of corn, mountains of apples and carrots were all but empty.
    Cassie heard what sounded like the scrape of a boot on the floor behind her and whirled around, holding the lantern high. Prickles flooded down her spine and caused her knees to knock together. She pressed her lips into a thin line and put a hand to the dagger she wore at her belt.
    “Is someone there?”
    Her voice echoed hollowly off the stone walls and bounced around the vacant storage rooms. She heard another sound and this time her ears were focused enough to identify the shuffling of tiny scurrying feet.
    “Rats, for pity’s sake,” she muttered.
    She expelled a long, slow breath and tried to grasp hold of her wits again.
    “Courage,” she whispered to herself. “Courage, courage, courage silly girl. Fetch the iron, take it to Father, find the seneschal and...”
    And what? Take a bath? Put on clean garments? Take a meal with Lord Thomas Purefoy as if it was her right and due? As if it was a common day occurrence for the daughter of a fletcher to even dream of sitting above the salt?
    She shook her head and lifted the latch to open the door. It was black as pitch beyond the opening and she was thankful now for the lantern. Forcing her feet to move forward again, she focused straight ahead, passing by arched oaken doors, vaulted storage rooms where tournament armor and arms were kept.
    Cassie’s footsteps slowed again.
    Up ahead was a soft flare of light. It emanated from the gap below and the spaces around a doorway, perfectly outlining the arched shape of the stone blocks. For one giddy moment, Cassie likened the sight to the late afternoon sun sending out streaks of light around a dark storm cloud. Or, as a second image took shape in her mind, the shining halo that always surrounded the head of Christ in holy tapestries. The more practical side of her determined this was the door to the armory where the precious ingots of iron were kept.
    Raising the lantern above her head, she saw a small carving on the door, a depiction of the moon and several five pointed stars surrounding it. It was odd for an armory; she would have expected swords and daggers and shields for a carving.
    She moved forward again, this time letting the metal handle of the lantern rattle by way of announcing her approach if there was someone inside the chamber. To her relief, when she tapped lightly on the door, she heard a voice reply.
    “Come.”
    The latch moved freely as she lifted it and the door swung silently open on rope hinges.
    The room was lit by a brace of candles stuck in pools of their own melted wax, set on a small wooden work table. Seated on a three legged stool was a hooded figure who partly turned his head to acknowledge her arrival, then went back to his task, humming ever so softly under his breath.
    “Keep your heels to the floor long enough,” he quipped after a moment, “and roots begin to sprout. Come closer. It is almost done.”
    Cassie moistened her lips and stepped inside the chamber. It was apparent, upon the first shocked glance, that this was not the armory. The top of the work table was littered with the tools of a jeweller’s trade: a scarred and charred crucible, tongs, files, sand for polishing, buttons and cakes of argentiferrous lead, tiny dorés of refined silver as well as long thin wires used to shape into filigrees. Hanging on the wall were chains of gold and silver, the candlelight making them glitter and wink with each flicker of the flame. A nearby shelf held goblets and plates stacked elbow-deep, wrought in solid gold.
    There was more, all of it