by Lisa Jackson
“And Rhys?”
“Let us hope he has his wits about him and isn’t foolish enough to follow you here. Now, there be one more question, m’lady. If you be the daughter of Gilmore, then who is Cavan of Marwood?”
“An impostor,” Quinn said, reaching for a dagger.
James grinned wickedly, his smile evil in the golden shadows. “As are we all, lad. As are we all.”
The sky threatened rain again. Clouds gathered, blocking the sun, and the wind swept across the bailey in sharp gusts that tugged at skirts and tore off hoods as the women and men hurried through their tasks.
Livid, Tremayne tried to rein in his anger, but it proved impossible. He’d spoken to the damned atilliator, Albert, a miserable ever grumbling man who for a healthy price constructed crossbows, and the baron was disgusted with how few new weapons were being made. Albert, a wiry man with pock-marked skin and no lips, had been adamant that it took time and skill to create a true and reliable weapon and that he was certain someone was stealing from him, though he couldn’t say who. Tremayne suspected the old man was just plain lazy. As were most of the workers in Twyll. He glanced at the top of the wall walk and towers and saw that the wooden hoarding was nearly in place. And not a minute too soon. Cavan’s army was on the march, according to Red, if the lackluster spy was to be believed. Tremayne eyed the work, watched animal hides being stretched over the slats. Soon they would be drenched with water in case that son of a dog Cavan had the audacity to shoot fire-burning tar pots over the wall.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled, kicking at a cat that was slinking around the wheel of a manure cart and had the nerve to cross his path. “Out of the way.” With a hiss, the insufferable tabby arched its back, streaked across the mashed grass of the bailey, and slipped through a crack in the wall near the shed where the oxen were housed.
Would nothing go right?
“Is something troubling you, m’lord?” ‘Twas the irritatingly pious and calm voice of Father Alden, who was hurrying along a stone path leading from the chapel. His robes, as fine as any king’s, billowed behind him and his face was round, his expression so serene Tremayne wanted to shake him. Did he not know that the castle was threatened? That the Bastard Outlaw was plotting against them all? There were spies within the keep and talk of the dark emerald of Twyll’s magical powers, and Cavan’s army was intent on destroying everything Tremayne held dear. Father Alden hiked his vestments closer to his neck. “You seem vexed.”
“Do I?” Tremayne sneered as the first drops of rain fell from the dark heavens.
Again the patient, condescending smile that Tremayne wanted to wipe off the man’s face. “Mayhap a quiet moment in the chapel—”
“The soldiers have returned!” a sentry crowed from the tower near the main gate, and the portcullis, which had been lowered pending Cavan’s attack, rattled as it was winched upward.
Tremayne whirled, ignoring the priest. Hooves clattering, earth shaking, horses and riders flew into the bailey. Leading the charge was Regan, triumph in his eyes. With one hand he held fast to the reins of a following steed. Atop that familiar animal was a prisoner, hands bound behind him, lower jaw covered with a gag, eyes flashing rebellious fire. His breeches were torn. Blood and mud covered his tunic. His face was scratched and swollen, and the scar that cleaved his eyebrow seemed to pulsate.
Rhys! At last!
Tremayne’s smile slowly stretched from one side of his mouth to the other as he recognized his bastard of a half brother. Finally! Oh, by the saints, he wanted to fall down on his knees and pray to God, Mary, Jesus, and any other deity who would listen.
Near the eel pond Regan yanked on his horse’s reins and the destrier slid to a stop. The horse behind nearly ran into the first. Rhys almost toppled off the beast. Almost.
“M’lord!” Victorious at last, Regan threw a leg over his mount’s back and hopped lithely to the ground. “We caught the prisoner in the forest. He was just where you thought he’d be, with your horse.” Regan tossed his reins to a page who had appeared. The stable master, Henry, was on his heels, ready and willing to take charge of the horses.
Tremayne’s eyes left Rhys for a second to appraise Gryffyn, whose reins were held by another of the soldiers. The beast was none the worse for wear, proud and soaked in sweat, dirt flecking his coat, eyes as bright as ever. Dark ears pricked forward and he shot out a stream of breath, pulling at his bridle with the fiery spirit that so many of the horses at Twyll lacked.
Some of the work in the castle stopped. Tremayne felt curious eyes turn toward the warriors. A few men wandered closer. Children peeked out from behind their mothers’ skirts as the laundresses and alewives paused in their duties, inching toward the center of the bailey.
“Bring the outlaw to me,” Tremayne commanded.
Regan, along with two other soldiers who had dis-mounted, dragged Rhys off his horse and pushed him forward.
“Remove the gag.”
One man untied the rag covering Rhys’s beard-stubbled jaw.
Hammers stopped banging, the potter’s wheel no longer creaked or hummed, conversation at the dye vats was muted, and even the geese and chickens ceased to honk and cackle. Only the mill’s sweeps turned in the wind, the gears groaning a bit, the sails shushing. Somewhere near the kennels a dog gave off a solitary bark.
Stiff-spined, arrogance radiating from him, far from broken, Rhys stood before Tremayne and held his gaze though one of his eyes was bruised and nearly swollen shut. Rain drizzled down his nose and clung to his hair.
“So, Bastard, your luck has finally run out,” Tremayne said, glaring at the man he’d hated for nearly all his life. Son of his father’s whore, Rhys had not only stolen Merwynn’s attention from Tremayne but he was a constant reminder of his father’s lack of faith to his mother. And if that weren’t enough to stoke the fires of rage in Tremayne’s soul, there was always Anna—sweet, beautiful, lying bitch of a wife.
Rhys didn’t answer. Just managed a half smile, as if he were amused at the situation. Amused!
Tremayne’s blood boiled. His fists clenched. “Do you not understand that you are my prisoner? That your life is in my hands?”
Rhys’s lips twitched. The wind snatched at his hair. His eyes glittered irreverently. “Never.”
“You have always been a fool,” Tremayne growled.
Again silence. A horse’s bridle jangled and a pair of ducks landed on the eel pond with a slight splash, but the crowd that had gathered, the peasants and freeman who had been so furiously laboring before the return of the search party, had stopped their tasks. The gong farmer leaned upon his shovel, the farrier had stepped out of his hut, the carpenters on the hoardings had stilled their hammers and were looking down on the bailey from their precarious perch. Boys lugging firewood or strings of fish paused on their way to the kitchens, and girls tossing oyster shells and grain to the chickens forgot their tasks.
Tremayne felt the dozens of pairs of eyes upon him and knew everyone was wondering what he would do. Asking, now that the traitor was captured, what would happen. Rhys had once cuckholded Tremayne, gained a reputation as an outlaw and thief, spurned any kind of legality and, as Tremayne’s half brother, the son of a whore, had defied the baron at every turn. ‘Twas time for justice.
His fingers itched to grab Rhys’s thick throat and shake the life from him, but ‘twas important now, when the castle was about to be attacked, when there were spies within the very walls of Twyll, when loyalty was needed, that Tremayne appear to be fair and just, a ruler all could depend upon.
“Toss him into the dungeon,” he ordered the constable and wiped at the moisture that had collected on his face.
“With the others?”
“Nay—alone. Separate from the rest of the thugs and thieves in his band.”
Rhys’s shoulders flexed, his back snapped to attention, and for a second there were questions in his eyes. “Ah, brother, did you not know?” Tremayne asked, satisfaction melting like warm butter i
n an empty stomach. “Those you left to fend for themselves at Broodmore are now my prisoners.”
Rhys’s smile disappeared from his face. White brackets pinched the corners of his mouth.
“Ah, well, I see you didn’t. They, too, will be brought before me and tried as the traitors they are. Their lives are on your conscience, brother.” Seeing that he’d finally hit a nerve, Tremayne couldn’t resist adding, “And their fates will be determined long before yours so that you will be able to hear their punishments and watch as they are meted out.” Warming to his subject, he clasped his hands behind his back and paced in front of the band of soldiers who stood near their mounts. “ ‘Twill be interesting, will it not? For you are the reason they are here, the cause for their incarceration.” Rhys’s muscles bunched. His eyes flashed fire as the wind picked up and the storm advanced.
Oh, ‘twas worth the wait! “Yes, bastard, were it not for you, all of the men and women—oh, you know there is a woman and her daughter, along with the men who banded with you? Yes, I see you do. Anyway, were it not for you, they would all go free. I would not have had cause to chase them down. As it is, I have no choice but to punish them. Each and every one. Including the girl.”
A vein throbbed near Rhys’s temple.
Tremayne motioned toward the tower above the dungeon “Take him away.”
“Excuse me, m’lord,” Regan interjected.
“What?” Tremayne shot back. Could not one man obey him without question?
“ ‘Tis true we found this one at a clearing where Gryffyn was tethered, but there was a second horse as well. Sir Giles’s steed. We came upon Sir Giles in the forest, wounded, and yet another horse, a white palfrey”—he pointed at a dirty mare held by a bearded soldier—”running free.”
Tremayne scowled.
“Three horses. Two riders,” Regan said.
Tremayne felt the prick of apprehension and glanced at Rhys, whose face had turned to stone, as if he’d suddenly willed that no expression would cross his features.
“There may be an intruder in the keep—someone other than this one,” Regan ventured.
“Another one?” Tremayne muttered, his fears beginning to gel. Hadn’t he felt as if someone was following him throughout the castle? Hadn’t he sensed a presence looking over his shoulder at odd times? Hadn’t he heard footsteps scurrying off more often than not? “Who?”
“Mayhap Sir James. He has not yet been found,” Regan offered, though he didn’t seem convinced.
“Or the woman,” another soldier with a blade-thin nose and a fringe of graying hair that nearly covered his eyes offered.
“Woman?”
“Aye, the candlemaker, she and ‘er daughter spied a woman with black hair in the bailey this morning— a woman Sylvie knew not.”
Was it his imagination or did Rhys pale a bit? No longer was there a cocksure grin on the prisoner’s lips. “A dark-haired woman? A stranger?” He remembered the discussion when Rhys had eluded his soldiers in the mist-shrouded canyon soon after he’d stolen Gryffyn. There was talk that he had been seen embracing a woman with black hair. The same woman the girl prisoner claimed carried a mystic ring? “Know you whom we speak of?” he asked, enjoying the moment once again.
The son of a whore’s gaze was rock-steady. “I know many women.”
“But this one, she was with you before, methinks. At the creek in the canyon near Gaeaf when you eluded my soldiers?”
Rhys didn’t answer.
“My men saw her. And you. Embracing, they claimed. She has a ring with her, does she not? And it may have a dark stone not unlike the dark emerald of Twyll.”
“ ‘Tis only a myth.” Rhys never faltered. He didn’t so much as blink, just stared, like a hawk focusing on its prey. He didn’t seem to notice the rain that had collected on his skin and eyelashes, drops he could not wipe away since his hands were bound.
“But the child—what was her name?” Tremayne asked, knowing full well as he snapped his fingers. “Peony. That was it. She talked of this woman but called her a witch, said she’d heard about a ring with a dark stone that you and your friend Abelard discussed. This girl, she was certain that you were bewitched by this woman.”
Again the prisoner didn’t flinch. “She is a child, her mind is filled with fantasies. She sees what she wants to see.”
“She thinks you are in love with the witch.”
Did Rhys’s jaw tighten ever so slightly? “Then she is mistaken.”
“So you have no cause to worry, do you?” Tremayne didn’t believe this traitor for a second. He glanced at the soldiers who were still astride their horses. “Find her,” he ordered. “Bring her and the damned ring to me.” The vein was throbbing madly at Rhys’s temple again and the scar running down his face was as pale as winter snow. Tremayne nearly grinned. Ah, revenge was so, so sweet. He would savor it long this time. His gaze skated over each of his soldiers. “Do not fail me.”
Regan had the nerve to clear his throat. “What of Cavan?” he asked. “Red returned with the news that his army moves ever closer. They come well equipped, with a trebouchet large enough to hurl boulders or dead hogs over the castle walls, a battering ram to force open the portcullis, and mantlets for their archers and miners to hide behind as they lay siege to the castle.”
“I have not forgotten Cavan!” Tremayne snapped, the taste of revenge souring on his tongue. “But what better way to take the wind from his regal sails than by proving he is not the son of Gilmore?” As he paused, he heard the whisper of conversation between some of the freemen and serfs who had lived long enough to hear of and believe in the stone and the lost heir of Gilmore. “If we find the woman with the ring, his claim of being the ruler of Twyll will be for naught. I have a plan to stop him. Now—” He looked at the men and women who had gathered in a wide circle around him. His gaze moved slowly from face to face and he wondered who among them were traitors. “All of you! Back to work. We have not much time.” His voice rang with authority and everyone scattered to his task. Within seconds the bellows was whooshing again in the armorer’s hut, the wheel-wright’s hammer pinged, and the soldiers dismounted, leaving Henry and several stableboys to tend to the horses. Carts rolled, wagons creaked forward, and conversation buzzed.
“May I have a word, m’lord?” ‘Twas Henry, the stable master, a man whom Tremayne loathed. Were it not for Henry’s uncanny way of making even the most temperamental steed take bridle and saddle, Tremayne would have dismissed him years ago. But he was the best horseman in all of Twyll, mayhap Wales. “I would like to speak with the prisoner—just a word.”
Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Tremayne nodded and watched Henry hand the reins of the horses he was holding to a witless page; then he rolled up his sleeves and approached Rhys with determined steps. Hatred burned bright in the burly man’s eyes.
Two soldiers still held the prisoner. Henry stopped three feet from Rhys, held out an arm, showing off a new brand upon his palm, one Tremayne had ordered put upon him. “This is the thanks I got fer losin’ the baron’s horse to ye,” he growled.
Rhys didn’t move.
“A bastard ye’re called and a bastard ye be!” Henry hauled back and spat. Spittle flew through the air, landing on Rhys’s neck, and dripped down.
Rhys’s temper unleashed at the insult. Swearing roundly, he lunged. The two guards holding him lost their grip. “Go to hell!” Rhys screamed. He threw his body at Henry, knocking him back.
“Ooof!” Thud! They fell to the ground. Grappled.
Men shouted. Women screamed. Henry smashed his curled fist against Rhys’s jaw.
Crack! Rhys’s head snapped back. His hands were useless tied behind his back, but he kicked with a vengeance and the two men rolled in the mud, swinging, kicking, muscles straining. The soldiers watched and hooted, incensed by the sight and smell of blood.
“Give ‘im ‘ell, ‘Enry! The bastard deserves it!”
“That’s it! Hit him again!”
“Watch his
feet! Christ, look at him kick!”
One group of farmers fell back as the two men struggled, rolling on the ground, gasping, blood flowing from noses and cuts. Sweat and rain poured off them. Mud covered their clothes. Given enough time, Tremayne thought, with a grain of satisfaction as the bastard was being beaten senseless, the men would start betting and Rhys would die. Tough as he was, he was losing this one and badly.
“Enough!” Tremayne ordered.
“Break it up, you two.” A guard reluctantly reached down and pulled Henry off Rhys. But the prisoner lunged again, and another man, one Tremayne couldn’t quite place, pulled him back. Both men finally stood, heaving, eyeing each other with hatred, their lips curled, their nostrils flared.
“Take him away!” Tremayne ordered, waving to the guards to haul Rhys to the dungeon.
Two burly knights half dragged Rhys toward the square-faced north tower that spired above the curtain wall and hid the dungeon at its base.
Tremayne blinked against the icy rain that slanted from the sky. The black clouds were not an omen— sleet was to be expected in winter—but the few seconds’ jubilation and satisfaction he’d felt at Rhys’s capture had quickly evaporated.
There was much to do.
The first was to find the woman—or was she a witch?
Tremayne reminded himself that he didn’t believe in witchcraft and the dark arts. Though he had no fear of immortals, ghosts, or creatures of the night, a tiny niggle of concern wormed its way into his brain, and a strange sensation of icy desolation froze his soul.
Even now, standing in the bailey surrounded by men and women who had pledged to be loyal to him, he sensed unseen eyes upon him, a plot forming against him, a fear that he could trust no one. Who were the traitors? Regan, his constable? The old cook, who regularly boxed the ears of his own son? Red, who had returned only with the news that Cavan was approaching? Grumpy Albert, who couldn’t seem to make enough crossbows? Henry, the stable master, who had been fast asleep when Gryffyn had been stolen from under his very nose and now just almost beat the life out of the bastard? Old Percival, who leaned on his cane only when he thought ‘twould gain him sympathy? Mary the kitchen maid, who tried and failed to please him in his very own bed? Who? Who?