by Lisa Jackson
“Adair’s a good man.”
“I love him not. I know him not. And he’s too old.”
“ ‘Tis a good match.”
“Have you gone daft? A good match? Mother, listen to you!”
Lodema’s jaw, sprinkled with a few bristling hairs, was set. “He needs sons. You need … you need a husband.”
“Nay!”
“Tara—”
“Sweet Mary, do not lie to me,” Tara insisted, advancing upon the table where the half-naked, headless chicken lay. Her heart was pounding, fear pumping through her. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The old cat hobbled over to Tara and rubbed against her leg, but Tara had no use for Luna’s fickle affection now.
“You needs not trouble yourself with—”
“With what? My life?” Angrily Tara swiped the dead hen aside and it landed on the floor with a thump. Brown and white feathers fluttered through the air. Luna scrambled to the safety of the woodpile. “What is this about? And do not lie to me, Mother—you have spent all of my life insisting that I tell you the truth, so, please … do me the same honor.” Her throat was tight, her eyes hot with furious unshed tears. Never in all her life had she known Lodema to deceive her.
The older woman opened her mouth, stared into her daughter’s face, then slowly bent to pick up the dirty chicken and put it back on the table. As if the dead carcass had never hit the dirt floor, she began removing quills again. “You must leave, daughter,” she said, her old voice cracking. “Marry Adair and have children and forget everything else.”
“Forget … ?” Tara repeated. “Forget what?”
“That you are my daughter.”
“Nay!” Tara blinked back tears. “Mother … why?” She reached out, grabbed Lodema’s tattered sleeve, and saw that the older woman’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery.
“ ‘Tis for the best.” Lodema twisted the bird and yanked out the longer feathers of one wing. “As I said, ‘tis time.”
“Time for what?”
“You are past the age most girls marry and have their own babes. I’ve taught you all you needs know—and mayhap more,” she added, stuffing a handful of speckled feathers into the bag.
“I want not a husband.”
“Oh, fiddle. All girls want husbands.”
“Except for you.”
A shadow of sadness passed in Lodema’s gaze and she sniffed loudly. Her lips pulled together as if drawn by a purse string, the way they always did when she had made a decision and intended to stick with it. “Even I, once years ago, longed for a man, Tara.” She cleared her throat and plucked the final feathers from the naked carcass. “ ‘Twas not to be.”
“So this is why you are sending me off to a stranger?” Tara’s eyes slitted suspiciously, and pain screamed through her soul.
“Aye.”
“There be no other reason?” Tara asked.
“Nay.” The hen was plucked clean. Lodema left it on the table and walked to the fire that burned brightly in the hearth, where she lit a thick taper. Holding the candle carefully so the flame would not burn out, she returned to the table and grabbed the carcass by its feet, then turned it slowly in the candle’s flame, singeing off a few tiny hairs that clung to the bird’s white skin. In the flickering light Lodema seemed older than she was, her skin more wrinkled, the lines near her eyes and mouth more pronounced. “You will marry the peddler and that is that.”
“I would rather die.”
Lodema jerked, burning herself. “Curse it all!” The flame sizzled against the hen’s skin. “By the gods, Tara, do not taunt the devil.”
“Something is amiss,” Tara insisted, refusing to back down even though her mother’s grimace silently told her to leave well enough alone. “I heard you leave last night and followed you to the river.”
Lodema glanced up and frowned. “Why would ye follow me?”
“You’ve been troubled.”
Resignation slackened Lodema’s jaw. Tara’s anger slowly ebbed into a deep, nameless fear.
“You went to the river, Mother, and there you began chanting, talking to Morrigu, begging the Great Mother to watch over me and keep me safe. I looked on as you dusted mistletoe, Saint-John’s-wort, and rosemary over a white candle, then you drew the rune for protection on the sand and placed a ring with a fine dark stone over your scratchings.”
Lodema blew out the candle and set the smoldering taper on the table. She dropped the hen into a bucket of cold water and sighed as she sagged against the table. “Why must you ask so many questions?”
“Because you taught me to.” Tara took hold of her mother’s hand, twined her fingers through the older woman’s. “ ‘Twas you who instructed me always to be wary but to seek the truth, never to accept a lie. And yet tonight all that is forgotten. What is it, Mother?” she demanded, her fingers tightening. “What worries you?”
Lodema glanced at her daughter, and Tara saw despair in the older woman’s expression. She withdrew her old hand and wiped it on her skirt. “ ‘Tis better if ye do not know.”
Tara shook her head vehemently. “Nay! You have always told me to follow the truth—that I should never lie. And yet you are keeping secrets from me. What is it that torments you?”
“Ahh, child.” Lodema shook her head, stared for a minute into the pot where the chicken soaked, its blood congealing, and she sighed. “ ‘Tis complicated, I fear. And dangerous.”
“What?”
She lifted her eyes and a small, sad smile toyed with her lips. “Who you are, Tara. ‘Tis a question of your birthright. Years ago, when you were brought to me—hush, yes, brought here.” She placed a staying hand on her daughter’s shoulder when Tara tried to protest. “Carried into this house in a basket, oh, the finest I’ve ever seen, and given me under the order of silence.” She leaned a hip on the edge of the table and worried her hands.
“You—you are not my mother?” Tara was stunned, her mind spinning in denial.
Lodema shook her head. “I was a mother to you in every way except that I did not bear you, Tara.”
“No—” A thousand memories flashed through Tara’s mind. She knew that she had no father, aye, that he had been killed in a far-off war, or so she’d been told, but she’d been raised believing that this woman who had taught her to mend a hem, cast a spell, shoot an arrow straight and true, as well as how to eat properly as a lady would, was her own flesh and blood. “Why do you lie?”
“You asked for the truth,” Lodema reminded her. “Now I give it to you.”
Tara’s mouth lost its spit and her stomach cramped. Never had she guessed this horrifying, soul-rending verity.
“You were motherless, I was told, and the man who brought you to me, Father Simon of Twyll, swore me to silence. It was only later that I heard the gossip and pieced together the truth.”
“Which is?” Tara asked, stunned. How could this be? Lodema wasn’t her natural-born mother? Nay! Her heart felt as if it might crack.
“Methinks you be the daughter of Lord Gilmore and Lady Farren of Twyll.”
Tara’s blood was ice. “Gilmore? Nay—the lord and lady were murdered.” She’d heard the stories, embellished over the years, of the baron of Twyll and his young bride, killed maliciously by the dark-hearted Lord Merwynn of Gaeaf.
Lodema nodded. “Aye. Lord Gilmore and his wife were slain in the uprising, and bloody it was.” Lodema tucked a wiry strand of hair behind her ear. “Lady Farren was heavy with child at the time, but the babe was never found—not dead within her womb, not newborn and wailing.” Her wizened gaze met the disbelief in Tara’s. “Not a trace of the child was discovered.”
Tara’s skin crawled. “And you think I be this infant?”
“Aye.” Lodema placed her hands on Tara’s shoulders. “But ye be mine as if I spawned ye. I could not have loved ye more. Believe that.”
“I—I do. But … how do you know I was not the daughter of a farmer’s wife who had too many mouths to feed or—or the mistake of some girl ravag
ed by a soldier or—?”
“There be proof.” As if she’d aged a hundred years, Lodema walked to the hearth, knelt before the flames, and used her knife to pry a stone free. From beneath the smooth rock she withdrew a small leather pouch, dusty and worn. “I have saved this for you,” she said sadly. “ ‘Tis all that I have of your birthright.” She tossed the tiny purse to Tara. The bag clinked as she caught it. Quickly Tara loosened the strings and poured the contents onto the table. A few gold coins and the ring—a gold band with the glittering dark emerald she’d seen the night before—rolled out.
“What is it?” Tara asked breathlessly as she picked up the gem and held it to the firelight.
“It came with you, daughter. A bribe for me to hold my tongue.” Lodema straightened, her old back popping. She dusted her hands together. “ ‘Tis yours now.”
“But—”
“Take it.” Lodema was firm. She would not change her mind. Tara knew this much as she held the green gem between her fingers, allowing the light from the fire to play upon its many facets.
“ ‘Tis beautiful.”
“And dangerous.”
“You say I be the true daughter of Gilmore?”
“Aye. ‘Tis what I believe. This”—she pointed a crooked finger at the jewel—”be not a peasant’s ring.” Lodema’s voice grew grave. “Why I was at the river last night, why I worry and fret and pray for your safety to any god who listens, is that Lord Tremayne, son of Merwynn, has started a search—not only for the emerald but for the child as well.”
“But why? Why now?”
“One of his advisers has had a vision—which Tremayne believes—that the true ruler of Twyll will return, reclaim his castle, and destroy Tremayne. He knows not how he will identify the son of Gilmore, but he makes ready. And he knows of the stone—that it disappeared during the battle.” Her old eyes held Tara’s. “What he does not know is that the babe was a girl and that the cursed dark emerald, a stone that is rumored to have mystical powers, is with her.”
Tara could barely breathe. Was it possible?
“Lord Tremayne is a ruthless man,” Lodema said. “He would not flinch at killing ye. He beat his half brother nearly to death, not that the blackheart didn’t deserve it, but after almost killing him, he banished him from the castle.”
“What happened to the brother?”
“Rhys? Why, he became an outlaw—a thief, mayhap a murderer, a man with a heart as black as all of hell. Though only a half brother to Tremayne, Rhys is just as duplicitous and foul, a vile outlaw who would sell his own soul for a piece of gold. He has become his half brother’s worst enemy.” Lodema sighed. “A bad lot, they are.”
Tara rubbed her arms. ‘Twas hard to believe.
“Trust me, daughter, Rhys would rob ye blind and laugh at yer misfortune, and Lord Tremayne won’t rest until he knows that no man, nor woman, will ever stop him from being baron of Twyll. If he believes the rumors to be true, that the babe of Lady Farron and Lord Gilmore yet lives, he will hunt him down mercilessly.” Her voice had grown so soft it was hard to hear over the hiss of the fire and the breath of wind rushing against the thatching. “You are in danger, daughter. I can feel it in my bones.”
“So you found a way to hide me by marrying me off to the peddler,” Tara said aloud while she contemplated where her true destiny lay. With new conviction she clasped the ring tight in her fingers. A plan was forming in her mind, one her mother would protest. “I cannot marry a man I do not love.”
“He is good and kind. Did not beat his wife. Owns a home in a village far off. You would be safe.”
And I would die of boredom and live in fear. Nay, I will never. Never! But she stilled her thoughts. “Worry not, Mother,” she said, as her scheme became more distinct in her mind. Though Lodema, clever and sly, was unconvinced that her daughter had changed her mind, Tara waited until long after the old woman was fast asleep, and snoring rhythmically.
Then, pocketing the ring and a few supplies, Tara stole out of the house that had been her home all of her nineteen years. She left two gold coins, took the horse, and determined to find the truth.
And what then? her mind now jeered as she stood in the dark halls of Broodmore. Outside, the wind cried mournfully in the night and Tara had no answer to her own question. She only knew that she had to find out the truth.
If I am not the daughter of Gilmore, then why was the ring with its dark stone left with me?
Lodema had always said that Tara’s curiosity would be her undoing. Tonight it seemed the old woman was right.
Chapter Three
Tremayne stared into the night. Standing high on the watch turret, he scanned the surrounding countryside. Only a few stars dared to wink through thick clouds that had showered and misted for most of the day. Dark as pitch it was, and though he strained to see the hills and forests that made up the land surrounding the keep, he saw only blackness. The rain had stopped, but if there were a moon in the heavens, it was hiding tonight, casting not one solitary beam. The wind was still fierce, however, howling through the canyons, whipping across the turret and snapping the standard as it screamed through the crenels and pierced the arrow loops.
Tremayne scowled, and his hands, covered in soft leather gloves, curled into fists. There was something in the air tonight, something sinister. He felt it as certainly as if he’d just signed a pact with Satan himself.
“Sire?”
He jumped as old Percival, bent at the waist, his shoulders stooped, appeared from the stairway. Wearing a long, hooded mantle, the ancient man was wheezing from the climb. At first Tremayne was surprised the exertion hadn’t killed him, but then he remembered that Percival was tougher than he first appeared.
“What is it?”
“The soldiers have returned.”
With the outlaw?” Tremayne asked, knowing the answer before the near-cripple shook his head. He’d spied the search party as they rode through the gates a few minutes earlier—there had been no prisoner.
“Nay. The outlaw is not with them.”
“Imbeciles! Why is it they cannot perform a simple task? I ask them to find Rhys and bring him back to me. How,” he asked, his irritation causing a tic to jump beneath his eye, “can it be so difficult? He is but one thief! One!” He held up a solitary leather-encased finger. “They … they are an army! My best men.” Tremayne kicked at a pebble, sent it slamming against the wall. At the thought of his snake of a half brother his blood boiled. For years Rhys had mocked him, made him appear a fool, when the truth of the matter was that Tremayne should have killed him years ago for his betrayal. He advanced on the bowed man who had been his father’s strongest warrior but these days was little more than a pain in Tremayne’s backside.
“There is other news,” Percival said, clutching his hood so that the gusting wind up here did not blow it off and expose his bald head. “ ‘Tis not good, I fear.”
“It never is.” Recently all news seemed to be bad. “What is it?” Tremayne wasn’t really interested. The old man was forever borrowing trouble.
“Innis of Marwood is dead.”
Tremayne frowned into the darkness. For once old Percival was correct. If Innis of Marwood was dead, then all hell was sure to break loose. Not that it already hadn’t. “How know you this?”
“Your spy returns with the news.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the gatehouse downstairs—the constable’s quarters—with the leader of the search party,” the old man explained, but Tremayne didn’t want to hear him out. Percival was still talking as Tremayne’s boots rang on the curved steps down to the second floor. Flames of torches flickered as he passed, casting shadows against the opposing walls. As he paused at the door to the constable Regan’s, chambers, he heard other footsteps hurrying downward, racing in front of him as if to scurry off before being discovered. Tremayne’s skin prickled. Had someone been listening to his conversation with the old man—a spy in his midst? Rhys? His lip curled with t
he hatred he felt for his half brother, the only man he feared. This was not the first time Tremayne had sensed unseen eyes staring at him, not the only time he’d heard the soft pad of footsteps nearby in the shadows and then found no one. ‘Twas unnerving.
Bah. ‘Twas his mind playing folly with him, naught more. Rhys was brazen enough to hide in the shadows outside this keep, but ‘twas unlikely that the coward had sneaked back through the guarded gates of Twyll and followed the old man to the turret. Aye, but was the bastard not bold enough to enter the keep and steal your steed from under your very nose? Could he not do it again and this time slit your throat?
Sweat broke out on his scalp, and he told himself he was a dozen kinds of fool. Rhys could not have scaled the thick walls, nor could he have passed the sentries, who since the stealing of Tremayne’s prized stallion were in fear for their lives if ever his bastard of a half brother tried to enter again.
He considered chasing whoever was in front of him but knew he was too far away, for the footsteps were muffled and fading fast. Tremayne would double the guard. Whoever it was would be found out.
Without knocking, he burst through the door of the constable’s chamber and discovered Regan seated at a small table where a solitary candle burned. Regan’s hair was mussed, his expression as sour as if he’d sucked vinegar. He was only half dressed, with no shirt over his breeches. Two men stood on the far side of the room, one stiff-backed and impatient, the other slouched against the wall, chewing on a piece of straw and staring in amusement at a nearly naked kitchen maid, her red hair askew, struggling into what appeared to be hastily discarded clothes. Embarrassed, she hurried to the door, pausing long enough to bow to Tremayne, who recognized her as a lass who had warmed his bed on more than one occasion. “Be off with you, Mary,” he ordered in a soft voice.
“Aye, m’lord.”
She was a pretty thing in her given state, tousled and half dressed. Blue eyes, upturned nose, and small breasts, yet she would mount a man and ride him hard and fast, giving enjoyment with an abandon that was lacking in so many of the girls he called to his bed. “Wait for me. In my chambers,” he said softly, not looking at her, his gaze connecting with the hot, angry eyes of Regan. Tremayne felt a moment’s satisfaction. He was the lord of Twyll and no one could argue his orders.