Resolute, she refused to look behind her toward Glynllew or the village. Night would soon hide them, and she would be away. Rhys should be safe from Prince John. It was only then she would know it had been worth it. The prince might still think him involved, but if she was thought to have perished in the flames, none of it would matter. Yet it had all gone awry, for she had seen Rhys in the crowd, watching her, and had not paid attention to Biagio. Greek fire may well be their undoing, for it had ruined the illusion and nearly killed them for a certainty.
Echoing her thoughts, Biagio murmured in her ear: “Is it worth it, bella?”
“He is worth it,” she said without hesitation. “But I shall never recover from his loss.”
“Loss? He yet lives. I saw him hale and whole, even if angry.”
“He is lost to me. I cannot taint him with my guilt.”
Silence fell between them, but the horse’s hooves drumming against worn ruts, the dog’s panting as it ran beside, the smell from the river washing over them on the wind, spoke more to her loss than words would have done. Familiar flight, away from danger, toward expectations that were never what she hoped for, while now knowing for the first time that she left behind any chance at finding happiness. Rhys may not be the champion she sought to fight for faraway lands that were never really hers, but he could have given her all that she’d lost in terms of love, home, security, and hope. Ameli—my hope. And if she had not been reckless enough to anger a prince, she may never have met Rhys ap Griffyn, may never have loved him, may never have lost him.
“Elspeth should be in Gloucestershire by now,” Biagio commented, shifting behind her, his grip on the saddle tenuous at best. “She was to cross at low tide.”
“The ford south of the abbey should be safe enough.”
After a moment he asked, “What of the letter? Do you leave it where it is?”
“Aye, for it is safer there than it would be elsewhere. The cursed thing may yet see us undone.”
“My fault, bella,” he said quietly. “I should not have taken the man’s purse.”
Weariness crept into her bones, and she sighed. “It matters not. It is done. If I had bade you leave it, we would now be in Salfordshire, planting turnips.”
“Or fishing.”
“I find it difficult to envision you as a fisherman, though it is likely your fate.”
“Ah no, bella. I will tarry a while, but once I know you are safe, I will see what else life has to offer me.”
Another loss. But all she said was, “You’ll take that huge beast with you.”
“Yea, I will keep him safe.”
She scoffed, “I think it more likely that he will keep you safe.”
They argued the merits of his abilities over those of the Alaunt, when suddenly the dog raced ahead, fur bristling along his back. Beyosha snorted, shied to one side, tossing her head. As Sasha looked up, a barrage of thoughts in Norman French and English assaulted her.
Biagio swore softly, and she saw just ahead three horsemen approaching down the curving road. They wore mail, but none wore identifying livery. Fear shot through her. These were not just travelers, but sought her. The direction of their thoughts made that plain. As of yet, they did not recognize her, but they may well investigate.
Looking about at the river on one side, thicket and deep woods on the other, she glanced behind. In the distance, riders thundered down the narrow road, barely visible in the gathering dusk. They were caught in between two forces. Biagio muttered another oath.
“They come from Glynllew, bella. Shall we go forward?”
Turning her mount in a half-circle, undecided, Sasha urged the mare into the thickets. It alerted the three horsemen ahead, and they spurred their mounts, sensing prey like a fox scents a hare. Disaster. The Alaunt bounded after them, but the thicket quickly became impassable.
“We are trapped,” she said, breathless, and Biagio slid from the horse to the ground.
“Flee on foot. I will delay them.”
“They will slay you, fool. No.”
“The abbey walls are just ahead. Seek sanctuary, and I will find you.”
He stood beneath a sapling, cloak caught on a wicked thorn, a dagger in his fist. Paint still streaked his face, his trews and tunic sooty and charred, but he had all the confidence of a belted knight. She shook her head. “Nay, I will not abandon you.”
The time for flight had ended, for the three men reached them in the thicket, setting about with swords and curses to hack at saplings and vines. It took only a few moments to drag them both from the thicket, although two of the men suffered dagger cuts to the face and bite wounds from the Alaunt. Unhorsed, Sasha struggled against her captor, and the dog bit him.
“Kill the beast,” the man still horsed snarled, but the Alaunt was too quick. It pushed through vines and tangled trees more easily than the soldiers, avoiding the slash of swords. White fur was bright against the darker shadows of beech and chestnut trees. With the setting sun a colony of bats rose into the air above the trees, eerie squeaks and clicks magnified by their numbers. Sasha’s heart beat so loud it drummed in her ears, and her breath came fast, scratching her smoke-scoured throat.
Biagio, held by the man bleeding from a dagger cut, looked fiercely worried. Despite being at sword point of the man on the horse, Sasha concentrated on the dog, seeing the scene from its view, sensing the animal’s confusion. Closing her eyes, she visualized the castle, hoping the dog would sense her direction and return to its kennels.
“Leave off,” the mounted man said as the thrashing in the thicket produced no results, and the dog eluded them. “Soldiers come.”
Soldiers. Rhys? Had he come for her? Torn between relief and sick disappointment that she had failed, she tried to look down the road, but the horse blocked her view in the thin light left by the disappearing sun.
One of the men had her horse’s reins, the other grabbed her up and tossed her atop her mare, but when he tried to mount, Beyosha sidled away. Sasha bent her mind toward the steeds to unsettle them, and it took precious time for the men to control their mounts. By then, those on the road were near, the sound of swords leaving leather scabbards loud in the suddenly still night.
Curses from the men who held them as the decision was made for one man to hold them while the other two met the oncoming threat; they would stand and fight there on the banks of the Wye. These men were proficient, meeting the three riders with loud clangs of steel on steel, grunts and oaths mingling, sounds of the river increasing as the tide came in, currents meeting as fiercely as the soldiers.
Sasha could hardly breathe, would have dug her heels in the horse’s sides and made a run for it, save for the soldier who held fast to her reins and Biagio. A glance toward the thicket gave her no sign of the dog, a small comfort for Biagio.
When she looked back the battle was done; the man who held her reins and Biagio turned to flee, one of his companions following. The other lay in the road, his spooked horse white-eyed and loose. Freed, Biagio went to the edge of the thicket, whistled for the dog, but it did not come.
He came back to her side as the three Glynllew soldiers reached her. She recognized Sir Clyde and Bowen. It was over, her ploy for naught, for she was certain the prince had sent those men to find her. More would come. Nothing had changed.
“Take her horse,” Sir Clyde said tersely, and Bowen did as he said, coming to take up the reins. He did not look at her. The third man studied her face, a sly grin squaring his mouth.
“Sir Brian will be disappointed she isn’t dead.”
Sasha’s head came up; she knew that voice. She had heard it not long ago in the cellar. A shiver slithered down her spine as she recalled him agreeing to watch her for Prince John. He was a guard in the hall; she recognized him now. Did Sir Clyde know? Or Bowen?
“We do not tarry,” S
ir Clyde snapped. “Come. Bring them both.”
Bowen gestured to the dead man in the road. “What do we do about him?”
“Leave him for the kites.” Sir Clyde turned his mount and applied spurs.
Rattled, it took her several minutes to be able to concentrate enough to sort through their tangle of thoughts; she chose Bowen first. He had set Biagio on the dead man’s horse and took the reins, just as he had hers. They rode behind Sir Clyde and the man-at-arms.
Bowen’s thought were troubled, uncertain, and he was uneasy with Sir Clyde and the man-at-arms. He is not following orders. I heard what Sir Brian said . . . this is not what we were told . . . he thinks because I swore to Gareth that I am his man . . . I am not. I deserved the lashes, but I will not be made a fool again. Sayre is de Braose’s man, brought by Gareth, and I do not trust him . . . His thoughts drifted into Welsh instead of English, and she lost the thread.
Sayre. Was that the man-at-arms? Rhys suspected a spy—was it Sayre? And what did Bowen mean, that Sir Clyde was not following orders?
She soon learned what concerned Bowen. Sir Clyde took them away from the castle, past the village; smoke still hazed the air, but she saw no sign of flames in the distance as they rode on the far fringe.
Biagio turned in the saddle to glance at her, his thoughts near as dark as Bowen’s. There is something amiss, bella. Use your Gift. I fear me he has malice planned.
It was not easy to concentrate on Sir Clyde, although his thoughts were in Norman French instead of English. He reminded her of Vachel, who viewed his surroundings in terms of advantage and disadvantage. Emotion did not enter into his decisions, only purpose. His intent was to reach his destination. A brief image flashed in his mind: stones, water, darkness. Wine. That mystified her. No thoughts of Lord Rhys entered his mind, or of Sir Brian.
Sayre was much the same, though his thoughts ranged toward wenching and drinking. A disgusting review, and she quickly abandoned the attempt.
When they finally stopped, it was in a dark, wooded area. They went slowly, with only the fitful light from the moon to guide them. Apparently, Sir Clyde knew the way well, for he did not stumble but went surely along a path, up a rise, where they dismounted and he prodded them up a hilly track. He paused; the rustle of branches and scrape of wood signaled he had found a barrier and removed it. It smelled of new wood.
A damp chill swept out as she got closer, and she realized it was a cave. Biagio slid on a slick rock and went to one knee, and was jerked to his feet. She barely paid attention, intent on the mystery of the cave.
“Sir Clyde,” Bowen said, “why are we here? Are we not to report to Sir Brian?”
“You are to follow orders,” came the curt reply. “Bring them in here. Over there. Wait.”
He strode away; there was the sound of flint and tinder striking, and a spark flared. A pool of light spread a small circle, and he returned with a lantern. The cave was huge. Her eyes widened. Sayre dragged her over to a rock, barely visible in the damp gloom. Shivering, she sat on the flat surface. Biagio was several yards away, forced to his knees on the rocky cave floor. It was bizarre, and she could not divine their reasons. Time crawled, and she became aware of the burns on her back, the cuts and bruises she’d sustained, and aches from the day’s events. No one spoke; she felt Bowen’s confusion and growing anger. He said nothing but leaned against the rocky wall and kept a hand on the sword at his side. He suspected trouble. Her nerves stretched taut, and she wished she had not lost her eating knife. She had no weapon, no defense. And she had no idea what lay ahead. A noise at the back of the cave caught her attention, and Sir Clyde grunted in satisfaction.
“Watch the hostages,” he said and strode with the lantern toward the rear, keeping to the side wall of the cave. He disappeared, and the light went with him.
Bowen said to Sayre, “What is afoot?”
The sound of boots shuffling on loose rock preceded Sayre’s reply. “You swore to Lord Gareth, did you not?”
A brief pause, then Bowen said, grudgingly, “I did.”
“And was flogged for it. You will appreciate your vengeance.”
Sasha caught Bowen’s dismayed thoughts. I swore for my life and my father’s life . . . I am deep in treachery now, I feel it. . . .
She knew, then, why they waited, although not why they were in this cave. It wasn’t until she saw the bob of light returning, voices bouncing off cave walls in faint echoes that she knew: Gareth of Glamorgan was loosed.
RHYS STOOD IN THE dark road, frustration changing to premonition. He turned, beckoned a man-at-arms close. “Hold the lantern high.”
When he did, he knelt, briefly inspected the body. He was unknown to him, but he had died a violent death. A sword cut had ended his life. The ground around was cut up by hooves as if there had been a struggle, but he didn’t think it was outlaws. It felt different. Yet there was no sign of Sasha. He had not found Elspeth, and the Italian whelp was gone. They had fled Cymllew, for the butcher’s wife had seen them disappear into a patch of trees near the river. It was the butcher who showed him a charred side of beef dressed in multicolored tunic and a fool’s collar, and a side of mutton clothed in what was left of a mulberry and green bliaut. They had burned, but not been destroyed enough to hide deception. That only deepened the mystery.
“My lord,” said Brian and strode toward him from a nearby thicket. “Someone hacked at the trees recently.”
Rising, he looked where Brian pointed and saw broken limbs and trodden grass. A few steps took him to the verge. The man followed with the lantern, lifting it high again. A pool of light bobbed over the thicket. The cuts were fresh; he caught the scent of sap still oozing. There was no sign of who had caused the damage or why. As he turned away, something white flashed by, and he paused.
“Give me the lantern.” When the man put it in his hand, he moved toward the thicket, but there was nothing there. He sought a piece of cloth that he recognized, anything belonging to Sasha. But a thorough search gave him nothing for his troubles. He stepped out of the thicket, and a thorn grabbed his sleeve; he stopped to disengage and saw the dog. It crouched down under a beech, half-hidden by a clump of rough grass.
It was the first time he had seen the dog without Biagio. He knew it instantly.
“Have you a way with dogs?” he asked Adam Lemaigne, who had brought him the lantern, and he nodded.
“Aye, my lord.”
“Coax him out.”
“He might not want to come, my lord. Alaunts are known to be fierce, but I shall try.”
It took him several minutes and half a pouch of dried beef strips before he succeeded. The dog was wary and would not let him close enough to touch. He seemed to have no hurts but was agitated. Rhys gestured at the Alaunt.
“We shall see if he’ll lead us to them. They were here.”
Once mounted, he nudged his horse forward at a slow walk, glancing back at the dog. It stood uncertainly, sniffed the ground, then the air, moonlight silvering the white fur, its dark nose quivering. Then the dog sat on its haunches and yawned, huge jaws wide open, sharp teeth gleaming.
Time was passing, and he sat here waiting on a dog, he thought irritably, and nudged his horse forward at a faster pace. If the dog followed, all was well. If not, he must push on, and if he had to search every house and village from Cymllew to Striguil, he would. He would tear the shire apart if he must. Men had already gone from tent to tent on the tournament field, searched for the missing pair, asking questions, and no one had seen them. Indeed, some on the field had not even known of the fire in the village that nearly burned down the butcher’s stall.
The Marshal had agreed to preside over the tournament if Rhys still searched, but he had hope it would not be necessary. Soldiers searched the castle, and it had been reported that the cart and donkey were gone, as well. He did not dwell on the knowled
ge that Sasha had planned to flee. First, he would find her, then he would hear her reasons.
“My lord, it follows,” said Adam, the man-at-arms who held the lantern.
The huge Alaunt loped toward them, great head stretched out, ears back, long legs eating up ground. Once, he lifted his head as if to sniff the air, let out a loud howl, and picked up his speed.
“Should we follow the dog?” Sir Brian asked, sounding skeptical.
“No other has found her. We shall let the dog try.”
It was a good decision. With a few false leads, the dog took them down a path Rhys knew well. It puzzled him, for it was recently sealed, but he followed close.
“The cave?” Brian said when they paused down the hill from the entrance. “I thought you had it sealed.”
“So did I. Who did you say has not returned yet?”
“Sir Clyde. He took Bowen and a man-at-arms. Sayre, I think.”
Bowen. How would he know of the cave? Sir Clyde had been with them when they took the castle, but Bowen had been in Gareth’s command. Gareth. It came to him then, that he had been a fool. He turned to Brian.
“Send a man to Sir Robert. He is to set a double guard on Gareth. No one is to go into his cell save Sir Robert or yourself.”
All the distractions, of which Sasha was a part although he did not think she intended to be, were designed for a reason. While he did not know why she had decided to flee, it had little to do with Gareth, of that he was certain.
“Get the dog,” he said to Adam, “before he alerts of our presence. And douse the lamp.”
While the man-at-arms ran after the dog scrabbling up the hill, Rhys dismounted and had the others do so as well. A faint nicker of horses nearby confirmed the presence of someone in the cave, and he suspected it was Sasha and Biagio, in the company of Sir Clyde and Bowen. He did not know yet if it was Bowen or Sir Clyde, or both, who plotted to free Gareth, but it may well be more than the three of them. The dead man in the road was unfamiliar. Could he have come to their aid? And then been killed for it?
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