by Lisa Jackson
Keane moaned, writhing away from her.
“Oh, God, I knew—”
Another arrow screamed through the air, passing near Sorcha’s ear.
“It matters not,” Keane said raggedly, stains of scarlet discoloring his tunic. With an effort he whistled to his destrier. The war-horse was nervous, prancing anxiously, nose to the wind, his great ears flicking toward the woods. Keane hauled himself into the saddle as Sorcha climbed on Leah’s little mare, yanked hard on the bridle, causing the jennet to rear as they turned.
“Run, you bloody nag,” she yelled at the jennet. Her horse jumped forward, and Sorcha leaned low in the saddle, digging her heels into the mare’s flanks, urging the tired bay to keep up with the longer, steady strides of Keane’s charger.
The frozen ground whirled past and wind tore at Sorcha’s face, bringing tears to her eyes. She could barely breathe, and fear grasped her heart in its terrible, clawlike grip. They couldn’t die; not like this! Please, God, not like this!
Another arrow whizzed past Sorcha’s shoulder and she glanced backward for just a second, long enough to see a band of outlaws moving out of the shadows. Filthy and ragged, five men she’d never seen in her life rode rangy horses, without using their hands. Bowstrings held taut, arrows in place, they took aim. “Oh, God, save us,” she murmured, her throat constricting in terror.
“This way!” Keane shouted, turning into the woods again. The road they took was little more than a deer trail that wound through the dense undergrowth, and at the base of an ancient oak, split in several directions.
“We’ll never lose them if they live here in the woods,” she said as the horses slowed to a trot and picked their way through the gloomy undergrowth.
“We’ll lose them,” Keane vowed, though he had to hold on to the pommel of the saddle to keep himself astride.
As often as Sorcha had ridden in the woods, she’d never ventured this far from the castle. The dark forest felt hostile. Tall firs kept the ground in shadow while bare, black-barked oaks reached skyward and thorny, leafless briars rattled in a wind that was as cold as death.
“They’ll expect us to double-back,” Keane told her as they took a fork in the path leading farther north, away from Prydd.
She bit her lip anxiously. “Should you not rest?” she asked, eyeing the pained set of his mouth.
“Not yet.”
She watched as even more blood stained his tunic, but she said nothing. Keane was a proud man, and this time, Sorcha feared, his pride would become his undoing. “Please, let us stop. We can hide—”
“Nay!” His skin was taut and white around his mouth. With determination, he clucked his horse forward. “We must return to Prydd by nightfall, but ’twill be a long ride as we needs make our circle wide so as not to run into the outlaws again.”
She thought of the horrid creatures who had tried to kill them. “Who were those men?”
Keane shrugged.
“But why would they attack us?”
“For money,” he said with effort.
“I have no coin—”
“Ransom, then. You’re the baron’s daughter, are you not?”
“The baron is away.”
“Tadd is at Prydd.”
“Tadd wouldn’t pay a single gold piece for my release,” she muttered as they finally turned southeast, beginning to double-back.
“It matters not. Now, hush, lest they hear us.” His gaze held hers for just a second, and she saw death in his kind eyes. “Ride silently, and should I … be unable to stay astride, leave me and take my horse.”
“Keane, no—”
“Do not thwart me on this, woman. ’Tis our only chance!”
He kicked his mount onward. She saw him wobble in the saddle, and her heart leapt to her throat. He held on, but she knew he would not stay conscious much longer.
Hours later, they arrived at the gates of Prydd. Sorcha’s body was numb from the cold, her fingers rigid in the frozen leather reins. Keane slumped forward, falling off his destrier as his wounded body finally gave out.
“Help! Guards! Please, help!” Sorcha screamed as she jumped from her own mount. The little horse sprinted into the outer bailey, and Sorcha fell to the ground, where she cradled Keane’s head upon her lap. “Do not die,” she whispered, tears hot against her eyelids. “Keane, please, you must not die!”
“He’s dead,” Isolde whispered, and Brother Ignatius murmured last rites over Keane’s body.
“Noooo!” Sorcha wailed, her cries of grief resounding to the rafters of the solar. Her heart felt as if it had been ripped from her chest, and tears burned behind her eyes. “Use your magic, do whatever you must, but do not let him die!”
Keane lay upon the bed, his wounds bound, his face a gray mask.
Isolde touched his neck, feeling for signs of life, a pulse, then leaned down, her ear to his chest, as she listened for the smallest breath. “I’m sorry, m’lady—”
“Nay! He cannot be dead. He cannot!” Sorcha wailed. She approached Isolde and grabbed the servant woman by the cloak. “Some say you are a witch. Have you no potion to cure this—”
“I cannot save the dead.”
“But you must!” Sorcha cried, refusing to accept that Keane’s life was over. Had he not planned to meet her, he might still be alive. Guilt gnawed at her. She threw herself against his unmoving body, holding on to him, knowing she would never love another. “Keane, Keane … please … merciful God—”
“Had there been more life force within him, mayhaps, but—”
“ ’Tis in God’s hands now, my child,” Brother Ignatius whispered, gently pulling Sorcha off Keane’s lifeless form.
“No!”
Tadd’s voice rumbled through the hallway. “Bloody Christ, is there no end to her schemes?” he growled, kicking open the door. It banged against the stone wall. Sorcha jumped, blinking back tears as her brother strode into the room. He loomed above her, his shoulders as broad as an axe handle, his face twisted with a powerful rage. “You disobeyed me.”
“I—”
“Do not bother to lie to me again, for I will not believe you. Did you not bargain with Leah to go to mass in your stead?”
“Yea, but—”
“With only Sir Henry as her guard?”
“Aye … and Gwendolyn,” she answered more carefully.
“Even though she is not as quick with a knife as you be.”
“I understand not why you care. Sir Keane is dead!” she said, finally accepting the terrible truth, her bones seeming to turn to water.
“Aye, and he’s not the only one.”
Tadd’s words cut to her very soul. Sorcha’s throat tightened and her pulse pounded with dread. Beyond the anger in Tadd’s eyes there were vile accusations. “News of Father in the war?” she whispered, dread pulsing through her.
“Nay.”
Suddenly Sorcha understood her brother’s ire. Their sister. Where was Leah? In her worry for Keane’s life, Sorcha had forgotten Leah. Now her stomach wrenched painfully and her tongue was thick with fear. “Not Leah.”
Tadd didn’t reply, and a new, horrid fear gripped Sorcha’s heart. “Tell me,” she demanded.
“Tell you,” Tadd repeated, his rage retreating a little. Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He liked nothing better than to keep a secret from Sorcha, who deemed herself a princess, who was born with the damned birthmark, who, he suspected, might be his equal in everything but strength.
“Where is she?”
“Ask Sir Robert,” he said, enjoying this game immensely.
“Sir Robert?” Sorcha repeated, stunned. Robert was one of Tadd’s most trusted knights.
“The traitor in the dungeon. He has news from Castle Erbyn.”
Sorcha felt as if a ghost had walked across her soul. Years ago, Hagan’s father, Richard, had unsuccessfully tried to wrest control of Prydd from her father’s hands. A black-heart himself, Richard had been known to consort with thieves and outlaws. His ambitions we
re boundless and were passed on to his sons, though for the past few years there had been no war, the peace the result of Hagan’s fragile truce. No one at Prydd trusted him, and she remembered him well—how powerful and determined and cruel he’d seemed. Handsome, too, but the kind of man who made others tremble in fear. She swallowed back her apprehension. “What news?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Henry and Gwendolyn were killed by a band of outlaw knights—all sworn to serve Hagan.”
“No!” Sorcha’s knees threatened to buckle. “They were fine when I left them.” Guilt swallowed her soul.
“ ’Twas after.”
Surely there was some mistake. Numb, she whispered, “But Robert; you say he was part of this band.”
Tadd’s lips tightened angrily. “Aye.”
“What of Leah?” she hardly dared ask.
“Our sister has been stolen away. To Erbyn. And why is that, Sorcha?” Tadd demanded, his face mottling scarlet in the firelight. Dark red-brown locks fell over his eyes, and his fists opened and closed in his rage.
Sorcha could hardly believe her ears. First she and Keane ambushed by outlaws, and now this horrid news of Leah. Sir Henry’s flushed face swam before her eyes, and Gwendolyn’s soft voice filled her ears. No more laughter … Oh, God, and Keane, noble Keane. Tears burned in her eyes. She bit her lip and prayed she was dreaming, that she would wake up and Keane would still be alive and strong, and Leah would be within the safe walls of Prydd, stitching her embroidery, or walking in the garden, or trying to make sense of the bloody castle accounts.
Tadd’s nostrils quivered with fury and his lips were white and flat over his teeth.
“God preserve us,” Isolde whispered.
Fear clutched at Sorcha’s heart. Blind, numbing fear. Tadd was playing with her. For all his anger, he was toying with her, and he only did so when he was certain of winning, or humiliating her. Perhaps this was one of his tricks. “I believe not—”
Tadd grabbed her arm in a grip that bruised, yanking her off her feet before dropping her on the floor again. “Believe, sister. Your disloyalty has led to death this time. Henry was a brave and trustworthy knight. He gave up his life so that you could meet your lover.” He shoved her away as if her very touch disgusted him, and she fell back against the bed where Keane lay unmoving.
She felt like whimpering, but held back her cries, refusing to back down. “How is it that Sir Robert, if he be a traitor, has confided in you?”
Tadd’s smile turned cruel. “Sir Henry managed to wound Robert in the attack. Robert’s band of thugs left him to die, but a farmer found him and brought him, barely alive, back to Prydd. He’s in the dungeon, and with a little encouragement, he told us that he was hired by the lord of Erbyn.”
Sorcha felt sick. She had brought this horror to Leah. “Then you must gather all of your best knights and ride to Erbyn to free Leah at once,” she said aloud.
“Nay, Sorcha. I’ll not undo the mess you caused. You with your damned birthmark,” he sneered, the malice in his eyes gleaming bright as the yellow eyes of the hounds. “The savior of Prydd, isn’t that what the old woman says?” He cast a disdainful look at Isolde. “ ’Tis the mark of the devil, methinks, and I be not the only one. Father William, too, sees the sign as blasphemy against the only true God.”
As if Tadd were a Christian! However, Sorcha had no time for arguments. If what Tadd said was true, then Leah was in grave danger. Her virtue and her very life were at stake. Sorcha marched up to Tadd. “I will go with you.”
“Go with me? Where?”
“To Erbyn.”
His laugh was harsh. “You did not hear me, sister.”
“But we must free Leah!”
“By fighting Hagan or that brother of his, Darton?”
“Aye.”
“Ah, Sorcha, so foolish,” he said on a sigh that spoke of her naïveté. “I’ll not risk the lives of any more good knights. No doubt Leah will be ransomed.”
Keane’s words haunted her. Had he not suspected that the outlaws planned to ransom her? A shiver slithered down her spine.
“Then you will do nothing?” she asked, inching her chin up defiantly. Then she saw it: the cowardice in her brother’s features.
“I’ll not battle Hagan of Erbyn for Leah, for that is what he wants.”
“Hagan has upheld his truce in the past few years,” Sorcha said, though she didn’t trust that the black-heart would not break his word. The unsteady peace between the two castles had lasted seven years, but was always in jeopardy.
“Which is why, sister, ’tis best to wait. Hagan is rumored to be off fighting the Scots.”
“Then his brother, Darton, is behind this treachery.”
“Or Hagan has returned.” Tadd rubbed his chin thoughtfully, obviously unhappy with this turn of his thoughts. “Hagan is a liar, but a powerful warrior. His people fear him. ’Twould be best not to anger him when so many of our knights are with our father.”
“Even if he has taken Leah?” Sorcha asked, astounded at the depth of her brother’s cowardice. Leah had to be freed!
Tadd’s eyes swept up Sorcha’s stained mantle. “I’ll deal with Hagan my own way. As for you, sister, you will be punished for your lies and treachery. ’Tis your fault that two of my best knights needs be buried. Your fault that Gwendolyn was savagely murdered. You shall carry that burden on your soul, and your penance is that you, oh bearer of the ‘kiss of the moon,’ shall be locked in your chamber until the moon is next full.”
Isolde lifted her old hands in supplication. “M’lord, ’twill be nearly a full cycle … twenty-eight days—”
“Hush, old woman, or I shall punish you as well.” He drew his sword swiftly.
Isolde stood firm, and Tadd merely admired the blade, pointed it into the oak floor, and leaned insolently on the hilt. He had to bend a bit, so that his nose was within inches of Sorcha’s face. “You’ll pray in your room, sister, and pray alone. Even Father William will abandon you during your penance. The old woman will bring you meals, but that is all.” Standing quickly, he motioned with his sword. Two guards came into the room and grabbed her by the arms.
“I’ll not be held prisoner in my own castle!” Sorcha cried.
“ ’Tis for your safety.”
“In a pig’s eye!”
He clucked his tongue as she was dragged out of the solar. Brother Ignatius prayed over Keane’s still body, and Tadd grinned, as if he was glad for an excuse to lock her away.
Though Sorcha fought with all the strength of her young body, she was no match for the two burly knights, who flung her into her chamber and dropped the heavy oaken bar across her door.
Wretched and cold, she huddled on the floor. Henry lay dead. Dear Keane’s soul, too, had departed. Gwendolyn had given up her life. Leah was a prisoner in the bowels of Castle Erbyn. Tadd held her as his prisoner.
Her life, so carefree this morn, had become wretched. Tadd, curse his soul to the devil, was correct, however. All the death and disaster that had been wreaked upon the castle was her fault and hers alone. Some savior of Prydd was she—more like the plague of Prydd. Her insides felt as if they’d been torn apart by wolves, and it took all of her courage not to fall down and weep. But she couldn’t. For, by the gods, she would have to find a way to avenge the deaths and save her sister.
Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself upright. She’d kneel to no man. Especially not to someone as dull and wicked as Tadd. Guilt drummed in her brain as she walked to the open window and stared at the night. Clouds drifted across the face of the full moon.
What tortures was Leah enduring in the dungeons of Erbyn? Sorcha’s throat clogged with hot, unshed tears. Oh, if she could only trade places with her sister.
“By all that we hold dear, sister Leah,” Sorcha whispered onto the breeze, “I vow to save you.” She shivered as the breath of wind blew against her hair and she thought of Baron Hagan, Lord of Erbyn. Since childhood, she’d heard of him, knew him to be a rog
ue, a treacherous man who would stop at nothing to gain his ends. For years he had wanted Prydd and the surrounding lands, but he’d bided his time, agreed to the truce, and now, while their father was off fighting the Scots, he had decided to make war, not with an army, mayhaps, but to the same end. “Hold on, Leah,” she whispered over the rising wind. The castle walls seemed to mock her, for she was prisoner in her own beloved Prydd, but Sorcha was a woman who believed that no enemy was invincible, no dungeon without a means of escape, no plot complicated enough that it couldn’t be thwarted.
She kicked off her boots and started planning her escape. ’Twould be easy to sneak out of this room; she only needed Isolde’s help. The difficult part would come later.
Nay, freeing Leah would not be an easy matter, but she had no choice. For all of her sixteen years she had been selfish, only interested in her own needs, but as of this night, her destiny had changed.
She would avenge Henry’s death.
She would see that Gwendolyn’s murderer be held responsible.
She would seek vengeance, dark and brutal, for the killing of Keane.
She would free her sister.
No matter what the cost.
No force, not even the power of Baron Hagan of Erbyn, would stop her.
Two
orcha’s heart was in her throat as she stepped over the dozing guard.
“He will not sleep long,” Isolde warned her as the man snored and Sorcha barred the door.
“It does not matter. He will never know I’ve gone.” They sped along the hallway quietly and outside the great hall to the gate of the dungeon, which was unguarded. Together they hurried down the damp stone steps.
“You must hear me. The potion is made of …” Isolde’s voice whispered through the dark hallways, and Sorcha only half listened.
The dungeon smelled of rotting hay and urine. Rats scurried beneath thin layers of musty straw, and Sorcha’s heart hammered so loudly, she was certain the prisoner could hear it. If Tadd discovered that Isolde had placed a potion in the guards’ mead during the meal and that now they both slept at their posts while the old woman helped Sorcha escape, he would surely flail them both.