Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  “The girl was not dead.”

  “Nearly so. And you admitted that you, too, felt the power in the room. As if the eye of the storm was in that chamber. By the gods, I have never seen anything like it.” Darton’s mouth curved into a cruel smile. As if anxious to reach out and grab that power for himself, he paced the room, his strides swift. “You remember the prophecy, do you not?”

  “She is a woman. How can she be savior?”

  “Ah, ’tis a trick of fate. She should have been born a man.”

  Hagan thought of her naked body beneath his, the play of firelight upon her skin, the rise and fall of perfect breasts with dark nipples. His throat tightened as he remembered her nest of black curls and the slender whiteness of her thighs. His groin began to throb. “ ’Tis hard to think of her a man.”

  “But she is the savior, trust me. She holds in her palm the most wondrous power on earth, brother,” Darton said as he buckled the belt that held his sword into place.

  “I don’t know that there was any force working—”

  “By the gods, Hagan, you have eyes and ears. You saw what happened when she placed that damned necklace of twigs around her sister’s neck and the serpent ring seemed to glow in the darkness. There was magic in the room.”

  “Or trickery.”

  Darton snorted, shaking his head. “How can you doubt when you were there?”

  “Is this why you wanted to kidnap her? For her power?”

  “I told you—”

  “I know what you said, brother,” Hagan cut in swiftly, “but none of my scouts has reported an army being gathered at Prydd. Only you and a handful of your men seem to think there will be an attack.”

  “You think I lie?”

  Hagan thought long and hard. “ ’Tis no secret that you have plans, Darton. There are new faces in the castle, men who are loyal to you.”

  “You think I’ve plotted to wrest control of Erbyn from you?” Darton said, one brow lifting. “Aye, I’m ambitious, brother, and there is nothing I would like better than my own keep, you know this, but I’m also loyal to Erbyn and the lord thereof. I would be satisfied with a castle somewhere to the north, Benwick mayhaps.”

  “Benwick?” Hagan wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “But it’s occupied by—”

  “Father’s whore. I know. Lady Aileen. But she is old and I’ve heard she’s ill. She will not last much longer.” His eyes held Hagan’s. “I would be glad to be lord of Benwick … or of Prydd.”

  “Prydd?” Hagan repeated, though he finally understood the reasons behind his brother’s behavior—why he stole the girl, why he wanted the savior of Prydd.

  “When Tadd attacks, and surely now, with his two sisters prisoners here—”

  “They are not prisoners.”

  “Guests, then. Call them what you will. But they cannot leave, and Tadd has his pride to consider.”

  “You want this war?”

  “Nay, brother, but ’tis nothing we can stop, and when the fighting’s done and we’re the victors, I see no reason that I shouldn’t become the baron of Prydd.”

  “What of Eaton—off fighting the Scots? He has only to tell Edward, and Longshanks will send hundreds of men to give Prydd back to its rightful baron.”

  “Eaton is old. ’Tis unlikely he will survive the war,” Darton observed.

  Hagan was astounded at the depths of his brother’s deception, and he knew with a sudden vision into the future that Darton would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Benwick wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him, nor would Prydd. Until Darton ruled all of Erbyn, he would be dangerous. However, Hagan had no proof, only suspicions. “I’ll consider giving Benwick to you,” he said, buying time, “but Lady Aileen would be allowed to live out her days there as the castle is her home.”

  Darton didn’t respond.

  “However, when Lady Leah awakens, I will hear how she was treated.” Hagan frowned as he stared at his brother. “If she wasn’t cared for like the lady she is, you will be punished, Darton. Tadd will demand it, and I will see that it’s done.”

  “She was not hurt.”

  “And yet she nearly died.”

  “At her own hand.”

  “Because of you.” Hagan raked furious fingers through his hair. “I’ll not keep you in your chamber like a wayward child,” he said, though his eyes narrowed on his brother, “but, Darton, I warn you, if I find out you’ve mistreated Leah, or if you have done anything disloyal, there will be the very devil to deal with.”

  “The girl will be fine,” Darton said, slowly withdrawing his sword and watching the reflection of the fire’s flames on the smooth steel. “And to prove to you that I want to make up for the mistake of kidnapping Lady Leah, I’ll agree to marry her sister.” He slid the sword into its case.

  “Her sister?” Hagan repeated, trying to keep his temper under control, although his blood thundered through his brain. The thought of Darton and Sorcha … His stomach turned over, but he managed to remain outwardly calm. “You want to marry Sorcha?”

  “Aye, as I said, she is a beautiful woman with a power that is rare. I think her passions are deep and she would be a tigress in a man’s bed.”

  Hagan’s guts twisted painfully as he envisioned his brother tearing off Sorcha’s chemise and mounting her. It was all he could do to keep his voice from shaking in rage. “You’ll not marry Lady Sorcha.”

  “Certainly Tadd would be satisfied with a marriage that would link Prydd with Erbyn.”

  Hagan’s jaw tightened. “There will be no marriage, brother, until it is certain that Leah does not carry your child.”

  “What if she does?”

  “Then you shall marry her and give the babe his birthright.” Hagan noticed the whitening of his brother’s skin.

  “Suppose Leah is not with child and I convince Sorcha that she and I should be wed.”

  “She hates you,” Hagan replied, but knew of his brother’s power over women. There were several bastards already toddling around the castle, the result of Darton’s seductions. Two kitchen wenches, a laundress, and the armorer’s daughter had borne Darton babes that he didn’t recognize as his own. When called to claim the children, he’d laughed. “Those wenches have lain with half the soldiers in this castle, brother.” His smile had turned wicked. “Do not blame me for their births. Asides, could the babes not be from your own seed?”

  Hagan hadn’t bothered to reply, but he was certain the children were Darton’s.

  Now his brother seemed unconcerned about Sorcha’s feelings for him. “There are ways around hatred, brother.” Darton straightened his tunic.

  “Be careful, Darton, she is not a woman to anger.”

  “I have no intention of angering her, brother, but I do plan to lie with her.”

  Hagan’s temper exploded. He grabbed Darton by the scruff of his neck and carried him back into the room. His blood was boiling, and jealousy, a new and hated emotion, flexed every muscle in his body. Suddenly he wanted to snap his twin’s foul neck. “Stay away from Sorcha,” he ordered, his eyes thinning upon his brother. “You have caused enough trouble as it is.”

  Darton reached for his sword, and Hagan dropped him onto the floor. Hagan swung out of the room before he did further damage as Darton stood watching his retreating back.

  The scent of sizzling meat drifted upward in a cloud from the spit where the rabbits were roasting. Several of the outlaw band had taken cover in the dense foliage, wrapping their fur coverlets and thick cloaks around them. Mead was passed from one man to the other from a heavy jug. There was laughter and bawdy jokes, but Wolf, the leader of this ragged group, kept his distance, sitting upon a log, his thoughts dark and far away. He’d been in his own private hell for years—an exile he’d imposed upon himself—and yet none of the men knew his Christian name. ’Twas best that way. As his band had grown, he’d taken in strangers, not asking more from a man than a single name. He cared not what crime any man had committed; his only demand was each man’s c
omplete loyalty.

  There were no questions about families. No curiosity about the lives that his men had led before they became outcasts and scavengers of the forest. A man pledged his loyalty and became part of the band. There were no women, no children, no ties of any kind.

  Wolf licked his knife and felt the cold December fog cling to his skin. Through the rising mist came the sound of hoofbeats and snapping twigs, brush being slapped aside. A horse was running as if the devil himself were on his tail. The men scrambled for their swords and bows. Wolf leaped to his feet, his instincts wary, his fingers curling over the hilt of his own weapon.

  “Don’t shoot! ’Tis only me: Odell,” a high-pitched, wheezy voice proclaimed, and a ghost of a smile curved Wolf’s cynical mouth. “Put down yer bloody weapons! God’s teeth, Jagger, it’s me!”

  “Hey, Wolf. He’s got a bloody prisoner with him,” Jagger called through the dark forest.

  Wolf shoved his sword back into its sheath. The men knew they were to bring no captives to their camp. Even though this spot was only a temporary resting place, Wolf planned to use it again. That would prove impossible now. Damn Odell and his headstrong ways.

  Odell, riding his old brown hack, emerged from the shadows. Both horse and rider were splattered with mud. Smiling as if he’d won the war against the Scots single-handedly, Odell held the reins of a handsome animal, a gray courser who balked at the sight of the fire, rearing and nearly losing his rider. Astride the stolen horse was a huge man with his wrists bound behind him and a hood over his head. He was muttering and cursing and attempting to stay astride. “Down, you bloody beast,” Odell ordered.

  “What nonsense is this?” Wolf demanded as Odell dropped to the ground, his boots sinking into the mud near the fire.

  “ ’Tis not nonsense. This one—” he tugged on the prisoner’s arms, and the captive fell hard to the ground “—is worth much ransom.”

  “I’ll kill ye, I will,” the prisoner snarled from behind his blind.

  “Ah, sure ye will, and I’m shakin’ in me boots.” Odell landed a swift kick to the man’s back, and the captive fell forward, face-first into the dirt.

  “Stop! No prisoner is beaten!” Wolf ordered, standing between Odell and the man struggling to his feet.

  “Who are you?” the prisoner demanded.

  Odell spat on the ground. “Ah, shut up,” he commanded before turning to Wolf. “This here’s a messenger from Erbyn, one of the baron’s most trusted men.” Odell smiled at his captive. “Isn’t that right, piggy?” He made hoglike grunts, and the rest of the men laughed.

  “You dirty cur, I’ll kill ye with me bare hands!” the prisoner yelled.

  “ ’Cept yer hands are bound now, piggy, ain’t they?” Odell chortled, pleased with himself.

  “Enough,” Wolf ordered. “From Erbyn, are you?”

  The messenger turned toward Wolf’s voice. “Aye. Mindin’ my own business, on my way to Prydd, when this old man at the side of the road begs for my help—says his horse is crippled.”

  Odell cackled, and the hooded man snorted at his own foolishness.

  At the mention of Castle Prydd, Wolf’s head snapped up. He had his own private war with Tadd of Prydd, though no one, not even his most trusted man, knew the truth.

  The messenger was prattling on like an old woman. “When I stop and get off my horse to offer some assistance, he sticks a knife in my ribs and—”

  “Oh, y’re a fool, that’s what ye are,” Odell crowed, grinning wickedly, enjoying his moment of triumph.

  “Let him speak,” Wolf commanded, his eyes slitting on the frightened soldier.

  “Your man binds me wrists and plops a hood over me head and brings me here.”

  “Why were you on your way to Prydd?” Wolf asked, annoyed at Odell’s jeering.

  “I have a message from Baron Hagan to Lord Tadd.”

  “Hagan’s returned?” Wolf asked, his muscles tightening at the thought of an old acquaintance. Hagan once thought he might turn outlaw himself, but he changed his mind, all for the love of a silly woman. “The message, from Hagan; what is it?”

  “I know not—”

  “It’s in his pouch,” Odell said, pointing to the leather bag on the courser’s flank.

  “Don’t!” the man yelled from behind his mask. “ ’Tis sacred—”

  Wolf reached into the bag and without a qualm broke the seal on the scroll with the blade of his knife. Of his band of outlaws, only he could read. The information contained in the letter was his alone. He could tell his men that the words contained anything he wanted, and they would believe him. Bending on one knee, he held the letter close to the firelight, letting the red-gold shadows play through the parchment.

  Trouble was brewing between the houses of Prydd and Erbyn, and since his personal feud with Sir Tadd was not over, he was interested in how the armies would ally. A cunning plot stole through his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile inwardly as he rolled the parchment back into a scroll and pointed at the prisoner. “Sit him down,” he told Odell. “Remove his hood and offer him food and drink.”

  “But then he’ll know—”

  “We have naught to fear from him,” Wolf replied.

  Odell slid the hood off the man’s head and kicked him toward some logs surrounding the fire.

  The soldier stiffened. “ ’Tis important that I take this news to Lord Tadd.”

  “Worry not about that,” Wolf said as the man’s hands were cut free and he was given a shank of rabbit and a cup of mead. “There has been word of trouble at Erbyn.”

  The messenger regarded his captors mulishly and silently but finally took a long swallow from the offered cup.

  “Bloodshed and trickery are rumored,” Wolf said.

  There was no answer.

  Wolf sat next to his prisoner and stared long at the young face. Though the temperature was near freezing, the man was sweating; long drips drizzled down the side of his face. “I can make your stay with us comfortable. Even pleasant. Or I can make it more painful than the fires of hell. ’Tis your choice.” He leaned back on an elbow and waited. “Either way, you will not leave with your message tonight—”

  “But I must—”

  “Worry not.” Wolf’s mouth stretched into a silent leer that caused the messenger’s blood to congeal. “I will see that the letter is delivered.”

  “By who?” Odell asked.

  “I’ll visit Tadd of Prydd myself,” Wolf said with an inward grin of satisfaction for finding a way to best his sworn enemy. “I’ll go when the time is right. Now, tell me of Sorcha of Prydd—Lord Tadd’s sister.”

  The captive swallowed.

  “She’s the bloody savior!” Odell said. “I’ve heard that—”

  “Savior?” Wolf had not heard this piece of gossip, and he silently cursed himself for not listening to the rumors that were brought back to the camp by the men when they ventured into the villages in search of women or drink.

  “Aye. Born during a tempest, with hair as black as a raven’s wing and the kiss of the moon upon his skin, the savior of all that is Prydd will arise—”

  “His skin?” Wolf asked. “But she is a woman, is she not?”

  “Aye,” Cormick, one of the older men in his band, whispered. “But ’tis said she can conjure up the winds, and talk to the spirits—”

  “A woman?” Wolf said, scoffing, though he felt a premonition of dread, as if a phantom had walked with cold foot-steps upon his spine. Memories, long dead and buried, swam to the surface of his mind. “Does she talk to the wind?” he asked, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. Was it his mind playing tricks on him or did the icy breeze stir the branches overhead in a sudden rush?

  “Yea, she speaks to everything: The wind. The gods. The animals. She is Mother Earth, born of woman but sired by one of the true rulers of Gwynedd,” Odell said, his voice filled with respect.

  “Llywelyn?” Wolf asked as he studied the faces of his men. Some were cast in awe; others
, doubt.

  “Some say she is the bastard of his bastard,” Cormick said, obviously a believer. “Maybe even his grandbastard.”

  “ ’Tis rubbish!” Jagger, the silent one, said. He was a huge man with a black beard and the scars of many battles on his face and body. He carried a rosary with him always and prayed often. Wolf knew not whether he’d once been a priest and had somehow been banished from the church, or if he’d simply stolen the string of beads from a man of the cloth. As they spoke, Jagger rubbed the worn beads between his fingers.

  “Tell me more about Sorcha of Prydd,” Wolf encouraged, and when the man did not comply, Wolf unsheathed his sword and heated it on the rocks that glowed red around the fire.

  “He’ll cut out your tongue if ye don’t talk,” Odell said.

  “And I’ll cut off your balls if you don’t hush!” Wolf warned.

  Odell sulked, and Wolf waited as he watched drips of perspiration slide down the captive’s face. Swallowing hard, the prisoner watched as his tormentor took up his sword and laid the hot blade against his tunic. Steam rose in the foggy air.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Frederick. Frederick of—”

  “We use only one name here, Frederick. I’m Wolf; these others will introduce themselves if it becomes necessary.”

  Frederick’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

  “Now, either you give us the information we need or … I’ll let the men decide what to do with you.”

  Frederick glanced at the eager, mud-smeared faces surrounding the fire, and his shoulders slumped. All of his courage seemed to disappear on the wind. “All right,” he said, finally realizing he had no choice. “I’ll tell you of Sorcha of Prydd. But you’ll not believe me.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “ ’Tis said she can raise a man from the grave.”

  Jagger snorted. “No one but the Lord can—”

  “Hush! Let him speak.” Wolf sheathed his sword deliberately, then settled back on his rock. Overhead he thought he heard the eerie whisper of the wind. “Speak, soldier,” he commanded in a voice that no one in the forest dared dispute. “Speak to me of Prydd, the savior, and Lord Tadd.”