The Black Prince: Part II by P. J. Fox Page B

it felt like a ruin.
    A door opened, a head peeked out, and the door slammed shut.
    Hart ignored them, too. He had no business with somebody’s ancient nurse, hiding in the family’s chambers. But let them think he did. Let them think that he was here to rape and murder them all simultaneously, using nothing but one sword and one cock.
    House Salm was built on a courtyard pattern, with no central keep, reminiscent of those less fortified manors further south. Enzie Hall had once been similar, before time had taken its toll and half the wings fallen into ruin. Although Enzie Hall, at its finest, would have only been at most a quarter of the size.
    House Salm was huge.
    From the guard tower Hart had turned left, passing through a hall that connected the tower to the rest of the castle and then turning again, onto the hall he was traversing now. Rooms opened from either side, those belonging to lesser members of the household abutting the curtain wall and the others looking out onto the courtyard below. Hart counted fully twenty doors, ten on either side and more than well spaced, before reaching the end and a fortification for archers.
    To the right was another hall, which opened onto the upper gallery of the chapel.
    Gods, where was that accursed chamberlain.
    The murmurs of prayers, along with open weeping, drifted up from the chapel. The kitchen staff, Hart guessed. Regardless, what he wanted wouldn’t be down there.
    He turned and began pulling open doors. Nothing in the first room, a simple chamber with white plastered walls and beams overhead. Between each were wood panels. Simple but, like everything else, well maintained. The room though was empty, save for a square bed with no linens.
    Hart slammed the door shut and moved on.
    The room adjacent looked much the same. Only here the bed had curtains, and they were drawn tight. Hart strode forward and pulled them apart. Revealing the castellan.
    “Where,” he grated, “is Owen Silverbeard.”
    The castellan opened his mouth. Judging, by the expression on his face, to protest that he knew of no such person. Hart raised his blade, forestalling further comment.
    A drop of blood appeared at the man’s throat.
    “Your information is your only use to me. So choose your next words wisely.”
    The castellan swallowed. “He’s…in the guest chambers to the other side of the chapel. In the first bedroom.”
    Hart’s eyes bored into his. “And where is everyone else?”
    “I…I don’t know!”
    Hart lowered his sword slightly, allowing the man to speak without exsanguinating himself. “What?”
    “I don’t know I swear I don’t. They all just…left.”
    “Left?”
    The castellan shook his head. He looked miserable. So miserable that Hart was certain he was hearing the truth. “The earl. He sent most of the men south, to serve Maeve. That wretched woman. Silverbeard was supposed to bring more men, when he came, but he didn’t.” He blew his nose on a sleeve. “That worthless, useless coward. He’s the reason you’re here now and I’m undoubtedly about to die.” He turned woeful, red-rimmed eyes on Hart. “I hope you kill him.”
    “I intend to. And the rest?” Because there was more. Hart could sense it.
    “The earl and his son—and his son’s a monster, by the way, even worse than you—thought you’d never show up. And that even if you did, you’d go away shortly.” His tone had turned peevish. He wasn’t letting the specter of death slow him down. “Balzac said he’d bested you before, and that you were nothing to be alarmed about. That your name, the Viper, came only from the unnatural thinness and limp curl of your cock.”
    What, was this man in a confessional?
    “His father—who’s known here as Henri the Fat, incidentally—said that Maeve’s forces would come to our defense so it didn’t matter. All we had do to was wait. Because—because you were just some upstart bastard leading a rabble of Northmen.” He sniffed. “A bunch