Long fingers of light fluttered across the wall.
They played over his legs and moved slowly, languidly up his body until they reached his face and began to climb stealthily upwards.
Because of this, he knew time was passing, but his limbs felt heavy and he had no desire to move. He was lying on a mattress, though the lumpy sack filled with stale-smelling straw hardly dignified the description.
Everything was unfamiliar. This was
not his home. His head ached as if he had been beaten around it repeatedly and his muscles felt torn, but he didn't know why.
He reached a hand up to touch the main source of the dull throbbing on his temple and discovered his arm was weak and the ef
fort brought a sweat to his brow.
He succeeded in feeling his head. It was bandaged, which meant he had suffered an injury of some sort, but he had no idea what or how he had come about it.
Nor did he have any idea how he came to be in this place, The last thing he remembered was And there he was forced to stop, because although he had the vague sense of scents and tastes, and the sound of screaming and splitting wood in his ears, he had no recollection of what had happened.
He knew for certain he did not know this place, but how he knew that, he was
unable to explain. The smell was musty and old with a hint of yeastiness to the air. If he didn't know better, he would say he was in a bakery or storeroom.
He rolled his head to look at the source of
light and realised the narrow slit of window was barred.
Panic constricted his chest as he realised
he must be a prisoner. The fact he had no idea who his captors were, or why he had been imprisoned, increased the terror tenfold.
The agitation heated his limbs and he felt his blood spring to life as it surged around his body. He took a deep breath and decided he would hammer the door until someone came, but when he embarked on this plan his legs buckled before he had crossed half the small space, and he crumpled to the ground.
He lay in a heap on the cold stone floor, noticing now that he was naked from the waist up. So, he was in a barred room with a stone floor and a small door.
That probably meant the ground floor or cellars. Which meant a big building. The effort of coming to this conclusion made his head reel and did not, in fact, help him in any real way, but a small part of him cheered in satisfaction that he had noticed the surface he was lying on. He had not lost all his wits.
He cried out in English, but when no one an-
Swered, something in the back of his mind told him this was not the only language he could use.
He repeated his words in French, gratified that the words came as easily. Still no one came, so when he felt slightly stronger he crawled his way back on to the pallet and pulled up the sheet and furs. He lay there shivering, his mind in turmoil, knowing that he had no choice but to wait until his captors deemed it fit to visit him.
He slept again. When he woke it was daylight now. The sun was a warm orange and there was a faint scent of sea in the air, accompanied by a hint of sweet blossom.
He inhaled deeply, taking pleasure from
the only thing of beauty in his life that he could clutch on to.
A metallic scraping sound caught his attention and he realised it was coming from the other Side of the door. It was the sound of a bolt being drawn back.
He looked to the door slightly too sharply and the movement caused his head to spin. Lights burst behind his eyes and he blinked
furiously to clear them, so that when the door
opened he was lying with watery eyes and staring at the ceiling so he did not immediately notice who had entered.
Someone walked to the corner of the room
and he heard a pot of some sort set down on a table he had not noticed earlier. He waited patiently to see what would happen.
An instinct was telling him to try overpowering whoever it was and try to escape, but he knew he didn't have the strength to do anything of the sort.
He opened his eyes and craned his head weakly. A short girl in a plain gown was placing a jug on a small table.
'Where am 1?" he asked in English. 'Help me!'
His voice was rasping from the dryness of his
throat. The girl shrieked and jumped back and the jug toppled over. Before he could speak again she had fled from the room, banging the door behind her. He heard the bolt scrape, confirming he was
a prisoner.
He groaned weakly and licked his lips,
thirsty beyond endurance and with a belly that ached from emptiness. He didn't think he would be able to sleep, but his head began to spin and he lapsed into a fitful sleep.
He was awakened once again by the bolt drawing back and someone entering the room. The person began to hum softly in a voice that was soft and female.
This time he had the sense to remain silent and lie with eyes half-open. It was a different woman this time, taller and dressed in a deep brown, flowing surcoat. She was standing by the small table doing something Jack could
not see. She came to the bed and he realised that she had a cloth and a bowl of water.
Another servant of whoever was holding him, he suspected. He closed his eyes so she would not realise he was awake. She unwound the bandage from around his head and bathed the wound, then moved from working on his head to tending the
grazes on his body.
She slid her cool hand slowly up the length of his bare belly with the softness of a lover beginning a caress. He drew a sharp breath as an overwhelming sense of pleasure
combined with the sting of the cuts.
Realising he could no longer feign sleep, he opened his eyes. Ah, you are awake again, she said in what he recognised as the Breton dialect.
That mended another rip in the cloth that was
his mind. Now he knew which part of the world he was in. She did not sound particularly happy at the discovery.
You frightened Marie, the woman said. She
was looking at him severely so his first impression was of forbidding black eyes.
She ran to me crying tales of nonsense words growled at her He swallowed and opened his mouth to try explaining what had happened.
'Don't try to speak,' she instructed. 'Wait there. She moved to the table and came back bearing a wide-rimmed earthenware cup. She slipped a hand beneath his neck and raised him slightly to cradle his head, then held the cup to his lips. It turned out to be cider and he drank greedily until the cup was empty.
Her cool fingers trailed across the back of his
neck as she withdrew her hand and laid his head back. He shivered once more with unexpected desire and gave a soft moan.
She must have interpreted this as pain because she peered down at him and concern banished the severity of her expression.
Something woke inside him as her face filled his gaze a deep sense of familiarity and the
certainty that he had seen this face before.
The memory fluttered from him like moths circling a lamp and evading fingers trying to seize them, leaving only vague shapes and the sensation of intimacy.
Like the moths, he felt pulled towards her flame. His lips twitched. Can you speak now? she asked.