Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  Tadd was an angry man, a strong man, a man who hated being beaten, but he was also easily tricked. Sorcha loved fooling him almost as much as she loved defying him. He hated her. That much was certain. Ever since he’d heard the old wives’ tale about the “kiss of the moon” and had seen the birthmark on her neck, he’d been resentful and malicious, though sometimes Sorcha was certain she saw fear in his eyes … as if he sometimes believed in the witchcraft and visions of the old ones.

  Sorcha enjoyed this little bit of power, though she believed not in Isolde’s old fable. As Father William had pointed out time after time, should she be the true savior of Prydd, she would have been born a man, though why Father William even bothered to give her this information was a mystery. As a true man of the cloth, he didn’t believe in folk tales.

  No doubt Tadd would whip her within an inch of her life if he thought she would be so bold as to talk to the traitor, Sir Robert. She had no choice. Since her father was off fighting the no-good Scots with King Edward, and Tadd would do nothing to free Leah, Sorcha would. The first step was to talk to the prisoner and find out what he knew.

  Sorcha held her torch high, allowing the flickering light to fall into the cell. With a clanking of rusted metal, she unlocked the gate and shoved the filthy barrier open. The flames cast orange shadows over the prisoner, a man whom Tadd had foolishly once trusted with his very life. Now Sir Robert was barely alive. His lips were cracked, and blood trailed from one nostril. Both eyes were swollen to mere slits, and his breath rattled deep in his lungs as he breathed. Naked to the waist, he shuddered at the light. Purple welts on his back still oozed blood, and the wound where Sir Henry’s arrow had pierced his shoulder was deep and raw.

  “Please … no more …” he whispered, tears running from his puffed and blackened eyes at the thought of another beating. “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Aye, Sir Robert, but you spoke to Lord Tadd,” Sorcha said as Isolde brought in a bucket of water, towels, broth from the kitchen, and her oils and herbs for healing. “Now you must tell me of my sister. Tadd told me little, but ’tis rumored that you know what happened to her.”

  Isolde offered the man a cup of water. He drank too quickly and retched the cool liquid back up. “Slowly,” Isolde said, refilling the cup from her pail.

  Robert sipped carefully, licking his lips and groaning. When at last he’d had his fill, he leaned back against the cold, damp stones. “Aye,” he said, his voice filled with remorse, “I know of the Lady Leah.”

  “Tell me.”

  Isolde motioned him to bend forward, then touched his back with a clean, wet towel. He sucked in his breath in a horrid hiss. “ ’Twill help,” Isolde whispered as she cleaned his wounds and added her balms and herbs. She offered him the broth of salmon she’d begged from the cook. Sir Robert drank long, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Leah was on her way back from mass and giving alms in town—”

  “This much I know,” Sorcha said, guilt riddling her soul.

  Robert closed his bruised eyes. “The lady was stopped on the road by a band of outlaws. Her guard, in trying to defend her, was slain. And her maid …” He hesitated, drawing in a shaking breath. Then, with a curse, he added, “Gwendolyn was beaten, raped, and left for dead as well. Christ, Jesus, I’m sorry … so sorry…”

  Sorcha felt as if a dagger had been twisted in her heart all over again. Gwendolyn had been with the castle for all her fifteen years, and she’d hoped to marry the baker’s son. Sir Henry had taught Sorcha to ride and aim an arrow with precision. Henry, like Keane, had been a good man, a kind-hearted man, and he deserved not to die. “Tadd told me of Sir Henry’s loyalty,” she said, her voice filled with a need for vengeance. “And that Leah was taken to Erbyn.”

  “Aye.”

  Again Sorcha’s soul turned to ice. She had hoped that Tadd had lied to her. “Why would Hagan want Leah?”

  Robert spat blood through a hole in his teeth. “I know not.” Sorcha knew he was lying. She leaned closer to the man she had once respected.

  “You know more, and if you want me to see that you are a free man again, you will tell me the truth, Robert of Ainsley. And I want to know all. More than you told my brother.”

  In the smoky light from the torch, Sir Robert grimaced in pain. He gazed through the bloody slits that were his eyes. “ ’Twas not Hagan who did the kidnapping,” he admitted. “The baron is off fighting the Scots with your father.”

  “Darton, then,” Sorcha said, thinking of the younger scheming brother, even more vile than his twin.

  “Aye, and ’twas not Leah he wanted.”

  Sorcha’s heart stood still. “Then why?”

  “ ’Twas you, m’lady.”

  “Nay!” she cried, though she knew he wasn’t lying.

  Isolde turned tortured eyes upon her. “He speaks the truth. My dreams have forewarned me.”

  “What dreams?” Sorcha asked, though she did not wish to hear them.

  “Of you and Castle Erbyn.” Isolde crossed herself deftly and dropped to the straw.

  “Your visions mean naught,” Sorcha whispered, but a cold drip of truth settled into her heart. She forgot about the stench of the cell and the rats rustling beneath the straw. “But why? I’ve never met that cur from Erbyn.”

  “But he has seen you,” Robert said, “and he paid the outlaws to bring you to him. He knew you would never come to him on your own. The feud between Erbyn and Prydd may not cause war just yet, but ’tis just as strong as it was before Hagan demanded a truce.”

  Sorcha felt her insides turned to jelly and she licked suddenly dry lips. “And what were Sir Darton’s plans for me?”

  Robert’s eyes closed in shame and he hesitated before whispering, “He intended to force you to marry him.”

  “But how? I would never—”

  “He planned to get you with child.”

  As if she’d been struck, Sorcha stepped quickly backward, nearly stumbling over the water pail in her efforts to get away from the horrid words. “I would never lie with that dog!”

  “Not willingly … but Darton cared not.”

  “And you … you were a part of this … this treachery?” Sorcha’s lips curled in disgust.

  “Forgive me, Lady Sorcha. I thought he meant but to ransom you, and for that I was offered gold and a small castle of my own, but … when I found out his true intentions, I tried to return.”

  “Too late,” Sorcha said.

  “Aye.”

  “Know you why Sir Keane was killed?”

  “Keane? But he was not with Leah—”

  “He was with me. We, too, were attacked by outlaws.”

  “God in heaven,” Robert said in a rattling whisper. “I swear I knew nothing of it. I believed you would be riding with Henry to the village …”

  She believed him, and yet she could not forget that were it not for his treachery, Leah would be in the castle, and Gwendolyn, Henry, and Keane would still be alive. “I will never offer you my forgiveness, Sir Robert,” she said, “for your disloyalty has caused too much grief, but I will ask my brother to spare your miserable life when I return safely with my sister.”

  “You cannot think of going to Erbyn!” Isolde shook her head side to side. “Oh, child, no …”

  Sorcha ignored her. “Now, Sir Robert, you must tell me everything of Erbyn; how the keep is built, and how Darton spends his days. And … I needs know about Baron Hagan. When he is expected to return and what he will do when he discovers Leah within the castle walls.”

  Robert grunted. “I will tell you everything, my lady.”

  “If you lie to me, Robert, you will die.”

  The moon rode high in the night-black sky, casting a silver glow over the frozen ground of the inner bailey. The castle was asleep; even the sentries nodded at their posts as Sorcha led her favorite mount, her brother’s war-horse, McBannon, from the stables.

  Only Isolde knew of her hastily conceived plan. “ ’Tis tempting the fat
es, ye are,” Isolde said, her wrinkled features drawn into a frown of worry as the nervous horse sidestepped and snorted. “This … this plot of yours … ’tis a fool’s journey! As the saints are my witness, if Baron Hagan finds out that you’ve entered his castle as an enemy—”

  “The black-heart will discover me not. You heard Sir Robert last night; Hagan’s off warring with the Scots,” Sorcha assured the superstitious old woman. “Hagan, that beast, I won’t have to fear.” She took the cloak and old burnet tunic from Isolde’s hands and stuffed both pieces of clothing into her pack.

  “Then what of Hagan’s brother?” Isolde persisted as she gave Sorcha the basket she would use as part of her deception. “Sir Darton … he’s a mean one, he is. Ye’d best not be tryin’ to outfox him.”

  “He won’t be expecting me.”

  Isolde wrung her hands. “Holy Mother, you’re a stub-born one. Yer own brother will skin ye alive when he finds ye missin’ on the morrow.”

  “He’ll not know I’m gone.”

  “But takin’ his favorite horse—the one only a few can ride.” Isolde clucked her tongue with worry. “Satan himself would not be so foolish.”

  “ ’Twill be good for Tadd to be angry. He should have gone after Leah himself, and he knows not that I can tame McBannon,” Sorcha replied rebelliously, her fury with her older brother burning bright as a smith’s forge. Tired of the argument, she climbed astride Tadd’s anxious destrier, but Isolde’s fingers twined in the reins.

  “If you must go,” the midwife cautioned, her voice low and filled with premonition, “ ’twill end up in pain and bloodshed.” Her old eyes glazed as she stared up at Sorcha. In the light of the moon, Isolde’s face with its hooked nose and hollow cheeks did seem to have the visage of a witch, as many had claimed. “I’ve seen it.”

  Sorcha’s lungs constricted, but she would not let fear stop her. “You’ve had a vision of Leah.”

  “Nay, my child, ’tis your face that I see when I sleep. Always yours.”

  Sorcha’s throat tightened in dread. “And what see you?”

  “Ah, child. ’Tis ye who are imprisoned in the towers of Erbyn, ’tis ye who are held captive by Lord Hagan himself, ’tis ye who will not return.”

  “You’re trying to frighten me.”

  “Aye, and I hope I have, m’lady, for the wrath of the devil Hagan is swift as the strike of an asp and twice as deadly. Like a dragon, he is, but more crafty. You’d best be staying.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  With a sorrowful sigh, Isolde said, “Then take this …” She pressed a tiny necklace into Sorcha’s hand. “ ’Tis for protection. Wear it over your heart always.”

  Sorcha looked into her palm and saw, in the faint light of the moon, a small cross of twigs tied with red string.

  “And this as well.” Isolde removed the ring she had worn as long as Sorcha could remember. Tooled of silver, the band wound around the old woman’s finger in the shape of a snake. “ ’Tis magic, you know. Never take it off.”

  “Isolde, I cannot—”

  But Isolde caught her hand and forced the ring onto Sorcha’s finger, and the silver seemed hot against her skin.

  “You do not know the ways of the old people—this is your choice,” Isolde said, “but in your heart you are with us and you know the chants and spells, though Eaton forbade that knowledge.”

  “I know not—”

  “But you do, Sorcha. Listen to your heart; the magic will be with you. You will need your faith in the Christian God as well as your inner strength from the ways of the old ones.”

  Sorcha took up the reins, stripping them from Isolde’s bony hands. “I have no use for this talk of nonsense. I must save Leah.”

  “And sacrifice yourself.”

  Icy fingers of fear clutched Sorcha’s heart. “If needs be. Now, come. ’Tis time.”

  Isolde did as she was bid, walking briskly to the gate. While Sorcha held the nervous stallion from bolting, Isolde threw her back into the task of pulling on the rope that turned the gears and lifted the heavy portcullis.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” The tower guard’s voice was sharp.

  “ ’Tis only me,” Isolde called upward toward the battlement where the sentry was posted. “Isolde.”

  “You again!” he said, then let out a sound of disgust. “I’ll be lettin’ the baron know that you’ve been out diggin’ up yer witch’s ’erbs again, old woman.”

  “But he’ll not mind, now, will he, Sir Michael?” Isolde cranked the huge gate upward.

  Staying close to the wall, Sorcha held her breath and quietly urged the horse forward through the opening.

  Isolde kept the sentry distracted. “Go ahead and tell the baron what you know.”

  “ ’E’ll not be likin’ your witchcraft. Nor will Father Will.”

  Isolde chuckled. “Wasn’t it my magic that saved the baron’s daughter at her birth?”

  Sorcha winced. ’Twas true. Without Isolde’s magic, she might not have been born, but the old midwife had managed to bring her into the world as well as save the life of her mother seventeen years before. Isolde hadn’t been so lucky the next time, with Leah. Lady Cleva had died shortly after her second daughter’s delivery, and none of Isolde’s magic had been able to save her. The snake ring seemed to tighten around her finger.

  “Your own son came into this world with the help of chants and—”

  “So be it, witch!” the sentry said in disgust. “But ye’d best be diggin’ your roots in the light of day.”

  “Nay. Only with the moon’s blessing will they bear medicine,” she said.

  “Your black arts will be the end of ye, Isolde,” he grumbled. “I’ll close the gate behind ye, but don’t be expectin’ to come back through the gate tonight. You can bloody well stay out till morning!” The great horse walked quickly to the outer bailey. They only had a few minutes until the guard climbed down the steps from the tower to the gatehouse.

  Isolde grabbed Sorcha’s hand one last time. “Be careful, ’tis the Christmas revels, my girl, and many who visit Erbyn might know ye.”

  “You worry too much,” Sorcha replied, though the old woman’s words settled deep in her soul.

  “And you worry not enough! Now, be off with ye, if ye insist on going.”

  “Ha!” With a swift kick to McBannon’s sides, Sorcha leaned forward in the saddle. The feisty bay bolted, his strong legs digging into the soft loam of the outer bailey. As she passed through the gates of the castle, she wondered if she’d ever see the thick stone walls of Prydd again. From the corner of her eye she noticed Isolde pick up a handful of earth and toss it in Sorcha’s wake—for protection; a custom of the old ways.

  Yea, for her plan might not be perfect, but she had no time to improve it. She had to rescue Leah before the devil himself—Hagan of Erbyn—returned.

  With breath as cold as a demon’s soul, the wind blew through the trees, shaking the leafless black branches and bringing driving sleet that pounded on Hagan’s neck and head and dripped down his nose.

  He rode on, and with every step of his war-horse, he gritted his teeth against the pain, as hot as the day was cold, that seared his thigh.

  The wound was two weeks old and healing well. He’d developed no fever and had wanted to return to battle, but King Edward had insisted Hagan return to Erbyn.

  “Lord Hagan.” Sir Royce, astride a restless gray steed, commanded Hagan’s attention. Royce was a big man with good intentions and little brains. His courage and loyalty were never in doubt, though sometimes his judgment faltered. “Could I have a word?”

  Hagan swung his head around, but didn’t allow his horse to stop. They trudged through the icy rain, splashing water from puddles and heading ever west. “What troubles you?”

  “Mayhaps we should rest.” The heavy man’s gaze drifted from Hagan’s face to his thigh, the very thigh the arrow had pierced.

  “We’re close to Erbyn.”

  “Yea, but Sir Darton expe
cts us not until the morrow.”

  “All the better.”

  Royce seemed perplexed, but Hagan didn’t explain. For several years he had begun to worry about his twin brother’s ambitions, but he’d kept his fears to himself, content to observe. Darton had every reason to feel slighted; he’d inherited from their father, Richard, only a small piece of land in the northwest corner of Erbyn. And Anne, his sister, had been left with naught. Consequently, Hagan was always at odds with his siblings. Leaving Erbyn in their care during his pilgrimage to help the king with the Scots had been difficult. ’Twould be interesting to see how Darton ran the castle without his brother’s wary eye upon him.

  “We ride on,” Hagan said, setting his features in grim determination and allowing no evidence of the pain to show on his face. “We’ll be at Erbyn by nightfall and can plan the Christmas revels.”

  Sorcha shivered in the sleet. The sky was an ominous gray, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had ridden with her on her journey from Prydd. Fierce winds howled through these treacherous hills of Erbyn, shrieking through the trees and rattling the branches. Her clothes were soaked through and she was chilled to the marrow of her bones. As she stood in the thicket and peered through dripping pine boughs to Castle Erbyn, it seemed as if all the fates were against her.

  Erbyn was the largest castle she’d seen in all her years. Like a dragon from one of Isolde’s old myths, the keep loomed upon a steep hillside. Rain pelted the wide battlements, and the sturdy walls were built of the same yellow-gray stone as the sheer cliffs on which the castle had been constructed. Somewhere, deep within Erbyn, Leah was kept prisoner. As Sorcha should have been. “I will not fail you, sister,” she vowed as a frigid blast of wind rushed through the branches, causing them to sway in an eerie dance.

  Sorcha’s heart closed with fear and she wondered if Leah was still alive. What horrid tortures had befallen her at the hands of Darton?

  “By all that is holy, please give her comfort,” Sorcha prayed, her hands blue and trembling as she crossed herself. If only she had learned of the old ways—of Isolde’s spells and chants—she would curse the keep of Erbyn forever and call up the dark spirits to strip the baron of his lands as well as his manhood. As for Darton, there would be a place in hell for that maggot. But she, raised as a Christian, had never been allowed to know the secrets of magic, practiced by so many within the walls of Prydd.