Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  But she couldn’t let him win. No matter what else happened, she would never let the Baron of Erbyn become the man who destroyed her and all that she held dear. He would have to let her visit Leah, and once her sister was well enough, they would escape.

  With new conviction she walked to the window of her room and stared down at the inner bailey. The window was set high into the castle wall, far above the bailey, placed too high for her to jump to the ground, and the smooth stones were far too slick to scale downward. She could not escape without help, that much was certain.

  But who would help her win her freedom? She leaned against the wide windowsill and eyed the guards standing rigidly at their posts, then forced her attention to a lad carrying a heavy basket of fish into the kitchen. A knight was giving a lesson in archery to several young squires, and still another worked with a stubborn lad at the quintain. Surely someone would help her. The trick was to find out who would be a traitor to Erbyn, who hated Hagan as much as she.

  Once she had uncovered a servant’s disloyalty, she could use it to her advantage. To do so, she would have to gain access to the castle, and Hagan would not be so foolish unless she deceived him into thinking that she would do his bidding. The thought was like a stone settling deep in the pit of her stomach, but she had no choice. She had to pretend to accept her fate.

  Leah’s life and the safety of Prydd were in her inexperienced hands.

  “What were the herbs that you gathered last night, old woman?” Tadd asked. Seated at the scarred trestle table, a cup of wine cradled between his fingers, he stared at Isolde as if he knew her darkest secrets.

  Isolde shivered within her soul, but tried to remain outwardly calm. She noticed one of the scullery maids stringing ivy and ribbons to decorate the great hall. The girl, a gossip with gapped teeth and freckles, worked slowly, her ear trained to the conversation at hand. Isolde cleared her throat. “I found some witches’ briar and loveroot,” she answered. “Near the edge of the forest.”

  “ ’Tis not the season for flowers or seeds.”

  “True, but ’tis time to dig roots,” she said. “Some herbs are best harvested while the moon is waning, others while the moon is waxing full—”

  “My horse was stolen,” Tadd cut in, obviously bored with her. His gaze never left her face. “The deed happened last night, while you were out performing your dark arts. The stable master’s missing along with McBannon.”

  Isolde’s insides quivered, but she showed no outward sign of emotion.

  “What know you of this?”

  “Nothing, m’lord.”

  His lip curled in disbelief. “You saw and heard nothing, though you were outside the castle gates?”

  “I was busy, m’lord, and my eyes are not as strong as they once were.”

  “You know, old woman, digging herbs for your black magic is frowned upon by Father William and the church. Should the good priest find out that you practice the pagan ways of the old people, you could suffer banishment or worse.” Lazily Tadd unsheathed his dagger and, while watching Isolde with his cruel eyes, picked at his teeth.

  “I worship not the dark one, Lord Tadd. You know me to be a Christian woman.”

  He stopped working on his teeth and stuck his knife into the thick boards of the table. The scullery maid moved closer, and his eyes wandered to the sway of hips before he turned his attention back to Isolde. “Yea, I know of your beliefs, Isolde. I know you still practice the old ways while pretending to have faith in the one true God.” He took a long, slow swallow of his wine, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  Isolde’s palms began to grow moist. Tadd was the least Christian man in all of Prydd. Aye, he attended mass each morn and bowed his head as if in prayer, but Isolde suspected that his piety was false. His heart was black, his soul that of the very devil.

  Still watching her intently, he said, “Think hard. I trust you would tell me what happened to my destrier, should you know, should you have seen anything unusual last night.”

  “Of course, m’lord.”

  Another slow sip of wine. He swirled the dark liquid in his cup for long minutes, and Isolde felt sweat trickle down her backbone. “You are loyal to Prydd, are you not, Isolde?”

  “M’lord, I’ve been here since the birthing of your own mother—”

  “Hush!” He leaned forward so swiftly, he spilled some of his drink. His face was suddenly so close to hers, she could see the small scar near his eyelid where an unhappy maiden had scratched him, cutting deep into his skin. “I know that you believe in the savior of Prydd and the kiss of the moon and all the foolishness of gossiping old women. I know that you would lay down your life for my sister, but not for me.” She could smell the foul stench of his breath as he said in a low, evil voice, “If I find out you have lied to me, I will take that knife you use to dig the herbs for your spells and I will use it on you.” He smiled coldly, as if the thought of bringing her pain gave him great pleasure.

  Isolde’s insides knotted, but she bowed her head and bit her tongue. “It hurts me that you have no faith in me, m’lord. Please trust that should I hear anything, I will speak with you.”

  “ ’Tis wise,” he said, his eyes narrowing as if he were not quite convinced of her loyalty. “Now, bring me my sister; I should have a word with her.”

  Isolde’s blood turned cold as death, for Sorcha had not yet returned. She nearly argued, but thought quickly, knowing that the only way to beat Tadd was to outwit him. She offered a smile that she didn’t feel. “ ’Twill please m’lady to leave her chamber. I’ll go fetch her at once.”

  “Said she that she was unhappy?”

  Isolde grinned inwardly, but shook her head. “Oh, nay, m’lord. But Sorcha likes not to be penned like an animal. She is one with the wind, her spirit soars to the hills, and being locked up makes her feel tethered and anxious. I will get her—”

  Afraid her bluff may not have worked, she started for the stairs, her heart drumming in her chest.

  “Wait, old woman! We needs not disturb her just yet.” Tadd cleared his throat. “I will call for her later.”

  Isolde’s old knees went weak with relief. “But she may know—”

  He waved aside her arguments. “She’s been locked up and would know nothing. Leave her be.”

  “She’ll be unhappy—”

  “I care not,” Tadd said. “Because of her, Leah is held prisoner and two knights and a maid are dead. Let her sit and think about her actions. I’ll talk to her on the morrow.”

  Isolde scurried out of the great hall, and with a prayer to the Christian God, she planned a few special runes and spells for Sorcha’s safety.

  “I need no assistance,” Sorcha told the quivering maid standing before her. A large tub of fragrant water had been delivered to her chamber by two stout guards. They’d returned to their posts, and this frail simpleton of a maid was left holding soap and towels and the finest tunics and mantles Sorcha had ever seen. Though she’d promised herself to do Hagan’s bidding, thereby earning his trust, she couldn’t help the sharp words that sprang from her tongue. ’Twas not her nature to be subservient, and doing so seemed impossible.

  “Lady Anne asked me to tend to you.”

  “As I said, I need no help.”

  “The lady will be offended.”

  “Not if you do not run back to her chamber and tell her.”

  The girl set the clothes on the bed. “You must be tired, m’lady, and sore.” She let her eyes wander down Sorcha’s body, lingering on her matted hair and dirty face. “Please, let me assist you.”

  In truth, the bath, smelling of lavender, looked inviting. But Sorcha wanted privacy and time alone to grieve for Keane. For Henry. For Gwendolyn. Sorcha’s throat threatened to close and she blinked rapidly against hot tears building suddenly behind her eyes. If only she were back in Prydd, she would cry a thousand tears for those who had trusted her and given up their lives, but not here, not when she had to find a way to escape with Leah
.

  “ ’Tis my duty to tell the baron that you are disobeying him.” Her fingers moved restlessly in the folds of her bliaut. “ ’Tis not wise to go against Lord Hagan.”

  “I care not.”

  “He will be displeased—”

  “As I am.”

  The maid sighed loudly and dropped the towels and clothes on the bed. “As you wish. But I heard the baron tell the guard that if you refuse the bath and bed, he will come in here himself and bathe you. As for the bed …” She let the sentence trail off and a dark blush stained her cheeks.

  Sorcha swallowed hard. She had a vision of Hagan, so furious his face was mottled, his strong hands surrounding her waist before he stripped her of her tunic and tossed her into the tub of hot water. In her mind’s eye she saw herself sputtering as he shoved her head under the water and lathered her hair until her lungs felt as if they would burst. Then as she sat mortified, he ran his callused hands over her body, cleansing her in the most intimate of places. “God be with me,” she whispered, and she felt herself no better than a wench because her vision was not entirely unpleasant.

  The girl managed a sly smile. “ ’Tis your choice, m’lady.”

  Furious with herself, Sorcha stripped and stepped into the tub, feeling the hot water caress her skin, just as Hagan’s hands had touched her the night before. Shame seared through her and she closed her eyes and dunked her head, scrubbing the dirt from her body and rinsing the lavender-scented water through her hair.

  When she’d finished, the servant girl handed her a towel. Glancing over her shoulder to see that they were still alone, the girl whispered, “ ’Tis said that you saved your sister’s life, that you brought her back from the dead. Tell me, Lady Sorcha, are you truly the savior of Prydd?”

  Suddenly Sorcha realized that escaping the thick walls of Erbyn would be easier than she’d first thought. Many of the servants here still believed in the old prophecy. She wrung her hair in the tub, careful so that her birthmark was visible to the girl. “Aye,” she said with a smile as she shook out her black curls. “ ’Tis true, but this must be our secret. No one else in the castle is to know.”

  “My word of honor,” the girl said, her eyes round as she stared at the dark crescent on Sorcha’s skin.

  “Good.” Sorcha wrapped herself in the towel and shivered. “Now, tell me, is my sister well?”

  Six

  he girl, Leah, will live,” Rosemary predicted as she rubbed ointment into Hagan’s wound and cast a glance at Anne, who was sitting near the window stitching embroidery. “Leah’s restin’ now, and Nellie is watchin’ over her.” She crossed her heavy bosom quickly. “Lord, that was somethin’ to see when the girl came back from the dead.”

  “She couldn’t have been dead,” Anne said.

  “What of Nichodemas?” Hagan grimaced as Rosemary cleaned the cut and blood began to flow again.

  “That old bloodletter, he left sayin’ there was nothin’ more he could do. I wasn’t one to argue with him, not after I saw with me very own eyes the magic of Sorcha of Prydd. Lord in heaven, did you ever see the like?”

  Anne’s gaze lifted to meet that of her brother. “I heard that she casts magic spells.”

  Hagan snorted.

  “I’ll not have witchcraft in the castle—”

  “Worry not. There was no witchcraft, only the clever tricks.”

  “Darton, too, says she brought the girl back from the grave.”

  Hagan was tired of the argument and didn’t bother answering. Sorcha had tricked them all, including him, but he didn’t believe that a few sticks and some red thread tossed around a dead person’s neck would bring her back to life.

  Anne’s lips pulled into a frown and her forehead furrowed as she drew her thread through her hoop. A few curling brown strands escaped her wimple, and from the set of her chin, Hagan knew she was vexed. He shifted on the bed.

  “Be still, m’lord,” Rosemary commanded. A hefty woman, she’d raised Hagan since he was a boy. “I’ll be stitchin’ ye up ’ere and I’ll not be ’aving you wiggling like a sucklin’ pig searchin’ for a teat.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Always am. Been sewin’ this family together as long as I can remember.”

  Anne tossed down her hoop impatiently. “You can’t keep Darton locked up like some common thief.”

  “He is a common thief,” Hagan replied as he felt Rosemary’s needle prick his skin. “He stole a woman. A lady. Daughter of a rival baron. You think he should not be punished?”

  “He made a mistake, aye. But he’s your brother and it’s the Christmas revels.”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” Hagan said.

  Anne rolled her eyes to the coved ceiling.

  “A woman nearly died, Anne,” Hagan said.

  “But she didn’t. Rosemary said she’ll be fine.”

  “I said she was restin’,” Rosemary clarified.

  As if feeling a sudden bone-chilling draft, Anne rubbed her arms and cast Rosemary a look to put the woman in her place before training her eyes on her brother again. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t punish him, but please, for the sake of our family’s name, don’t make Darton a joke to his servants.”

  Hagan winced as Rosemary tugged on the thread binding his wound. “Trust me. This is no joke.”

  “Just remember that Darton is your twin.” Anne, who had never had a stomach for seeing blood spilled, kept her eyes averted from the nursemaid’s handiwork. She stood and turned, her back as stiff as a scepter, her arms folded under her breasts. Hagan knew that she detested public displays of emotion and she would go to great lengths to keep any hint of scandal from touching her family. Anne and Darton had been close as children, though Hagan suspected that she knew of Darton’s temper and his ambitions. However, his sister had been blessed with the uncanny ability to delude herself into believing that if she denied something long enough, it didn’t exist.

  “I’ll not tolerate Darton’s disobedience,” Hagan said as the nursemaid drew hard on her thread again. Gritting his teeth, he added, “Our brother is not above the law, Anne.”

  “Don’t you see what’s happening here? It was all a mistake, a tragic, unfortunate mistake. Surely you know that Darton didn’t ask her to slice her wrists.” As if she could read the protest forming on his lips, she held up a hand to keep him still. “I know that Darton is … well, not like you. He sometimes bends the rules. But he’s not a murderer, for God’s sake,” she declared, though Hagan guessed she was trying to convince herself.

  “I pray you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. He’s our brother, Hagan. Your twin. The same blood that flows through your veins, runs through his. What I find hard to believe is that you, as baron, won’t stand by him and put an end to this nonsense.”

  “I think she tried to kill herself because she couldn’t stand being held prisoner, because she couldn’t allow herself to be used by Darton as his wench.”

  Anne’s fine lips clamped into a firm line, and Hagan felt that he’d finally struck a chord.

  “Darton held her prisoner and used her for his own pleasure, did he not?”

  Swallowing hard, Anne shook her head, but without much conviction. “I know not, Hagan. He … well, he’s always fancied the women, and they find him attractive.” She let out a long, unhappy sigh. “I knew not that he had taken the woman prisoner. I learned of it later.”

  “Did you not speak with her?”

  “Nay. She was only here a short while, and Darton would not allow it.”

  “Still you trust him?”

  She shifted from one foot to the other and walked to the window. “He is my brother. That is all that matters.”

  Hagan lifted a dark brow. “ ’Twas his men who brought the girl here. On his orders.”

  “Darton’s … ambitious,” she said, walking to the bed and trailing a finger along the posts that supported the canopy.

  “To a fault. Ouch!”

  He slid a
glance over his wounded shoulder to the nurse-maid, but she only muttered, “Be still.”

  Growling an oath, Hagan fixed his stare on his sister once again. “Darton will stay in his chambers until I’ve contacted Tadd of Prydd and told him … God’s teeth, I don’t know how to explain—” With a grimace, he shot a look at the nursemaid. “Aren’t you finished yet?”

  The nursemaid grunted, then clipped the thread with her teeth. “There ye be, m’lord, but I’d be advisin’ you to see the physician—”

  “There’s no need to bother Nichodemas.”

  Rosemary carried her towels, thread, and water out of the room, and Hagan pulled on his tunic.

  “Ona told me the girl will not come down for meals, and only agreed to bathe when she was threatened,” Anne said.

  “Threatened?” Hagan repeated, his eyes fixing on his sister.

  “Oh, do not worry. ’Twas not by beheading or torture or anything so vile, brother,” she said with a laugh. “Ona told her that if she didn’t get into the tub herself, you had vowed to do it for her.”

  Hagan’s jaw tightened in silent fury. “Ona makes trouble. I know not why you decided she was to be Sorcha’s maid.”

  “Ona may have a bit of an imp in her, but she’s trustworthy, Hagan, and she will tell me everything that … What is it they call her? The chosen one …?”

  “The savior of Prydd.”

  Anne’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Aye, the savior. Ona will tell me everything, and that is good, for the savior is a sly one.” With a lift of her eyebrows, she added, “She was clever enough to pass through our gates, was she not?”

  Hagan didn’t answer.

  “Then she hid herself in the castle and what … ? Waited until nearly dawn to try and slit your throat.” Anne look pointedly at the sleeve of his tunic. Though Hagan had washed and changed, the wound was bleeding again, despite Rosemary’s efforts. “Her aim wasn’t so good, though, was it?”

  “You give me no credit, sister, for being able to disarm her.”

  “And get yourself cut in the bargain.”