by Lisa Jackson
“Shh, lass.” Rosie waddled over, only to sigh. Crossing her heavy breasts with swift, practiced fingers, she whispered, “Saints be with us.” She shook her head in despair as she studied Rhys. “I believed, I truly did, that with ye still free we had a chance, but now—”
“Hey! He left us! Threw us to the bloody wolves, he did!” A voice Rhys recognized as belonging to Leland echoed throughout the dark chamber. Rushlights burned low and gave off only the barest light. Smoke crawled across the blackened ceilings, permeating the cells, clinging to the walls, tinging the stale air of this suffocating cage.
“Hush!” Kent this time. “We be with you, Rhys!”
Another voice, this one belonging to Benjamin, agreed, “Aye, Rhys, ye can count on me.”
“And me!”
“Hmph.”
“Shut up, all of ye! Prisoners ye be.” The jailer spat on the floor in front of Rhys’s cell. “Ye can claim yer allegiance from now until forever, but it matters not. Half of ye will be dead in a week, the rest will rot a while longer, then die as well.” He rubbed the stubble that covered the thick folds of flesh that had once been his chin. “Speak no more or I’ll see that ye do na eat fer a day or two.”
“The slop ye feed us here isn’t fit for the castle hogs,” Rosie chimed in. “Now, if the lord could see his way to allowin’ me to help in his kitchen—”
“And have ye poison him?” The guard laughed.
“And ye as well,” Rosie said sassily, as if she were flirting with the obnoxious animal who held the keys.
“Well, ye’ve got spunk, woman, I’ll give ye that. Careful or I might come in and have me way with ye.”
“Oh, would ye now?” Rosie said with a laugh. Rhys couldn’t believe his ears. Rose was not a woman who gave away her charms. Many men had tried over the years, but she’d rebuffed each and every one, saying that no man could ever replace her poor, dear dead husband.
“Aye, and that lass of yers too.”
“Nay!” There wasn’t a hint of flirting or laughter in her voice now. “If ‘tis me ye want, we’ll see if ye be man enough to handle me, but touch my daughter and I’ll rip off yer privates and stuff ‘em down yer throat with me own hands.”
The guard sidled up to Rosie’s cell. “Or with yer mouth and throat, woman?”
“Mayhap.”
Bile climbed Rhys’s throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but the glance Rose shot him stilled his tongue.
Adjusting her scarf, she let a tendril of graying red hair escape. “Ye never know what a woman might do for the right man.”
The jailer thought for a moment, and the cells were deathly quiet. Pigeon stared at her mother in petrified horror.
“Don’t be thinkin’ ye be pullin’ some trickery on me,” the guard warned as his gaze swept the interior. “Rosie, here, would only give herself to me if she thought she might find a way to escape.”
“Nay!” Rose said swiftly. “ ‘Tis not my freedom I’d bargain for, but I would give meself to ya if my daughter could be spared. That be me promise.”
“Mum, no—” Pigeon cried.
“Hush!” The jailer’s eyes narrowed, and Rhys, through his pain and swollen eyes, envisioned the battle being waged in the fat man’s head. Could he trust a woman who was the baron’s prisoner—nay. But would she offer herself up for her daughter’s life? ‘Twas hard not to believe that a mother would do anything to spare her child.
Rhys didn’t know the answer, but just the thought made his blood turn to lava and his fist tighten over the sharp metal barb that was his way out.
He would gather his strength and then strike.
Soon.
Before Rose did anything foolish.
And before Tara was discovered.
“Twyll is just over that rise.” Cavan, astride a sorrel steed with crooked white blaze and stockings, pointed to a wooded hill as the last of his army rounded a bend not far ahead. ‘Twas close to nightfall and the sky was dark with swollen clouds that poured rain.
“I’ve been there, many times,” Abelard remarked and couldn’t quell the feeling that he’d cast his lot with the wrong side. Aye, he hated Tremayne, and his stub of a thumb was only part of his anger, but in the time he’d been with Cavan he’d found the young ruler to have no interests other than his own.
Not unlike yourself, especially as a younger man, he thought as the two men advanced upon the troops.
Were you foolish to trust him with the ring? What if he betrays you? Or what if he loses? You gave up a fortune for a chance to destroy Tremayne.
Aye, and ‘twould be worth it.
Long had Abelard waited for this battle, and now he smelled it, simmering in the air—the scent of war yet to be waged, the heightened tension in the men, the crackle that surged through strained, nervous conversations, each man wondering if it would be his last yet each believing himself to be immortal and anxious for the chance to prove it.
As they rounded a bend, Abelard caught his first glimpse of the size of the army. Hundreds of foot soldiers, dozens of knights on horseback, and wagons filled with supplies. The wheels of the carts turned slowly in the mud, the oxen and horses strained at their yokes, and the heavy battering ram, dragged on small, mud-caked wheels, seemed to inch along.
“ ‘Twill take forever,” Cavan grumbled, his handsome face twisted in irritation. Abelard had seen the like—young cubs eager for their first battle and taste of blood, with no patience for the execution of a well-thought-out strategy.
Cavan rode his nervous horse to the wagon master, who was urging the team of oxen dragging the battering ram. “Move these beasts faster!”
“They’re laborin’ as it is, m’lord. There be nothing more I can do.”
Abelard agreed. He watched as the two beasts threw their combined weight against the yoke. Huge muscles straining, heads and horns low, drool and tongues hanging from their mouths as rain pelted their tawny hides, they slogged through the mud.
“Then get some men to help push and keep the wheels clean!” Cavan’s steed, an anxious animal, pranced and minced as he attempted to hold it in check, not letting it gallop ahead. “You and you—yes, you!” he ordered, pointing at some foot soldiers who were lagging behind. “Help this man out. We have little time!”
Wheels creaked as they slowly turned, the hoof-prints of hundreds of horses mashed the road along with the wheel ruts that carved deep grooves into the earth. Piles of manure were trampled and Cavan’s army, large and ready for battle, moved forward.
To Twyll.
To Tremayne.
To a final stand.
Abelard’s fingers, deep in his gloves, sweated with anticipation while cold winter rain slithered down his nose and cheeks. Blinking against the icy drops, he embraced the storm, for he considered early darkness a good omen.
Lightning forked in the sky and thunder boomed across the land, causing the horses to jump.
Aye, a very good sign.
By this time tomorrow, Tremayne of Twyll would be defeated or Abelard would be dead.
Either way, the battle that had burned bright in his soul for a large part of his life would finally be over.
Calming his prancing horse, he turned slightly, heard a movement over the rush of rain, and twisted in the saddle.
Zzzttt.
His body jerked. Pain burned through his chest. Hot. Wet. Something was wrong. He looked down and saw the shaft of an arrow above his right breast and blood, his own blood, weeping from the wound.
“Ah!”
“God!”
A man’s howl of pain.
A horse’s scream.
Suddenly the mantle of darkness turned against them. Soldiers fell as arrows hissed from the cover of the trees.
Abelard reached for his sword, but the world swam before his eyes. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He dragged the heavy sword from its sheath, then swayed. His horse buckled beneath him, seemed to sink down, squealed in terror. The blackness behind his eyes closed in on
him, and he looked down to see not one but two arrows buried in his body. The metallic taste of blood filled his throat and he pitched forward, knowing he would surely die.
“ ‘Tis time!” James pushed open the trapdoor of the stables and slipped into the darkness. Tara was right behind him, with Quinn at her heels. They passed the weapons up through the small hole, and though she heard no voices, saw no one, she felt the presence of several men.
When there was but one crossbow left, Henry reached down for it, but Quinn refused. “ ‘Tis mine.”
“Don’t be silly, ye be only a lad.”
“ ‘Tis mine,” he insisted again.
“Now, lad—”
“Did I not help steal all the weapons? Crossbows, longbows, swords and knives?”
“Yea, but—”
“Did I not listen to the baron, let you know his plans?”
“You be just a boy.” But as he said the words this time, James seemed to change his mind. “Just be careful. ‘Tis a heavy weapon.”
“Aye.”
“Now, you know your positions,” James said to the others, and there was the muted sound of boots making their way through straw. “You two stay with me,” he ordered. For once Tara didn’t argue. Any plan was better than none, and just the thought that they were doing something, anything, to help Rhys sent her into motion. She helped Quinn through the opening, and then they closed the door and covered it with straw. In the darkness she could see little, but she heard the sound of horses, the whisper of straw moving as the animals shifted, the snorts of curiosity at having been disturbed. Familiar odors of horses, dung, and musty straw laced the cool, fresh scent of rain-washed air.
She and Quinn followed after James, keeping close to him through the quiet keep. Only a few fires glowed from huts in the bailey, and the sheeting rain, though cold as death, provided a shifting veil that hid their movements.
She knew there were sentries posted in the towers, guards walking the curtain wall, knights searching the darkness for any sign of trouble. Yet she followed James. Fingers curled around the hilt of her little knife, she crept through the wet shadows toward the north tower.
Her heart banged against her ribs, her breathing sounded loud enough to wake the dead, and she tried to keep her wits—though ‘twas difficult. The thought that Rhys was a prisoner in the dungeon and that soon she would see him again, free him, touch him, propelled her ever faster over the sodden grass to the tower.
Please God, keep him safe.
At the door James met another man, and they spoke softly for a few moments. The man nodded. James pulled Tara into the shadows at a corner behind the pillory. “Wait here,” he whispered in her ear.
“Nay—”
“Aye, you must warn us if others approach.”
Rather than linger to hear her arguments, he and the other man disappeared down the stairs. Quinn started after him, but Tara reached forward, her fingers twining in the wet wool of his mantle. “We must be patient,” she reminded him.
“But ‘tis my father’s life.” He wiped the rain from his face with one hand. The other held fast to his heavy weapon.
“Aye, I know. We aid him best by watching the door.”
“Not both of us,” he argued.
“Nay, James has a plan—”
“He is but a mercenary,” Quinn said. “He said so himself.”
“But you must wait—”
In the darkness the boy glared at her for a second, until she relaxed her grip. As soon as she did, he yanked his arm away and was off, running through the darkness toward the tower.
She started to yell but snapped her mouth shut and took off after him through the rain, her boots sliding, her fingers icy as they clutched the handle of her knife. Curse the boy! She’d nearly caught him when she saw the movement and her heart pounded in her throat. A dark shape, the looming figure of a soldier, appeared.
“Halt!” the man ordered.
Fear tore at Tara’s soul.
“Who goes there? Oh … it be ye, lad.”
Tara flattened herself against the wall of the tower and prayed that she hadn’t been seen. Mayhap Quinn could talk his way out of this, but doubts still nagged at her. Slowly she edged closer, her back pressed so hard against the stones that she was certain they would make impressions upon her flesh.
“What’re you doing about at this time of night?” the guard asked Quinn, but before there was an answer, he added, “Say, what’s this? A crossbow? Why do you—no, wait! Do not aim that weapon—”
Thunk.
“Awwwww!” The man’s horrid cry rang through the bailey.
“Who goes there!” This from a sentry on the curtain. Doors creaked open. The man was screaming, writhing, intent on raising the castle. Quinn shot forward, running ever faster through the blackness toward the tower, but ‘twas too late.
Peasants poured out of their huts. The door to the great hall opened wide, and soldiers, backlit by the fires within and torches held aloft, filled the doorway. Swords gleamed malevolently.
Tara’s heart leaped to her throat. They’d been found out. All would be lost.
With a snap of his fingers a tall man, presumably Tremayne, ordered his men out of the castle. They ran through the bailey, torches sizzling in the rain, heading toward the soldier who was yowling. “Down there,” one of the sentries said, “in the bailey. Someone wounded Randall! The criminal’s there, near the north tower. Grab him!”
No!
A dozen soldiers headed toward them, and Tara ran for Quinn, snatching at his cloak. “Come,” she ordered, grabbing his arm and racing toward the stables. They could hide away again in the hut where the grain was stored and the tunnel opened. ‘Twas only a few paces. Then, when things quieted, they would return to the dungeon and—
Lightning flashed, illuminating the grounds in a blue-white blink.
“Halt!” A huge man leaped down from a cart, landing in front of Tara. With a sizzling torch in one hand and a sword gleaming silver in the other, he blocked their path. “What the bloody hell?” he said as he recognized the boy in the weak circle of light from his torch. “Master Quinn? And who be you?” His eyes narrowed for an instant, and then, as if the doors of memory opened in his brain, allowing a shaft of understanding to pierce through, he roared, “Over here! ‘Tis Master Quinn and the witch! She be taking him hostage!”
Nay! Tara’s mind screamed. Nay! Nay! Nay! Her legs were trembling, but she couldn’t give up. She pulled Quinn in another direction. She wasn’t stealing the boy. Never. Boots slipping on the wet grass, she ran, but at every turn a soldier appeared, blocking her way and giving chase.
Think, Tara, think! Use your wits! She was pulling Quinn toward the chapel when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Hard fingers dug into her flesh. Nay!
“Come with me, witch,” a thin man ordered as he dragged her to a stop. Another soldier blocked their path. Quinn’s legs skidded, and he nearly toppled over. Dogs barked from the kennels.
Tara whirled upon the man who held her. “Let me be,” she ordered, her eyes locking with the soldier’s. “Aye, I am a witch and if you don’t leave me be, I’ll level a curse on you that will swell your tongue and shrink your manhood.”
“Nay—”
“By Morrigu, I will,” she insisted, throwing off his hand and watching the doubts fill his eyes in the weak, reddish light.
“ ‘Tis nonsense.” But his voice quivered slightly.
“Is it? So ye be willing to take a chance?” Closing her eyes and lifting an arm to the heavens, she whispered loudly enough for him to hear, “By earth and water, air and fire, save me now and cast mine enemy into the brine that swells the tongue and makes his cock—”
“Stop!” an authoritative voice commanded, and her eyes flew open. “So you would steal my son,” said a tall man with lips that flattened over his teeth. She shivered, for this was not a man to be bullied. Pure hatred poured from him. “You be the bastard’s witch,” he said, and she realized with a feel
ing of horrid desperation that she was staring into the cold, hatefilled eyes of the baron of Twyll. Lord Tremayne. Her sworn enemy. “Leave my son be.”
“I be not your son!” Quinn insisted, puffing out his chest.
Oh, God, no. Not now. “Nay, do not—” Tara warned, fearing that the wrath of hell was about to explode.
“ ‘Tis true. I … I be sired by Rhys.”
Tremayne whirled on the boy and cuffed him with the back of his hand. “Never,” he warned. “Never again say such heresy!”
Blood spurted and crawled down the corner of Quinn’s mouth. Rebellion flared in his eyes, and he spat at the feet of the man who had raised him. “ ‘Tis true,” he said. “If ye believe me not, talk to Father Simon.”
“The silent priest?”
“ ‘Tis why he cut out his tongue. When me mum confessed to him.”
“Nay,” Tremayne whispered, but his voice was low, his color pale as a waning moon. He spied the crossbow still in the boy’s hands. “What be this?”
“He wounded Sir Randall with it,” one of the soldiers said as they gathered around, their swords gleaming red in the dying light of their torches.
“Simon cannot speak.”
“But I can read,” Quinn insisted. “And Father Simon … he writes in secret journals that he thought would not be discovered until his death. He told me as much when he found me with the books he’d hidden in the hole in the castle walls. ‘Twas his way of holding on to the truth.”
For a few seconds no one said a word. Rain pummeled the ground. Tremayne stared at the boy, and his expression changed from disbelief, to acceptance, and finally to seething rage. His gaze swung to Tara. Anger burned in his eyes and his fists clenched. Icy rain dripped from his nose. “Bring the bastard to me,” he ordered to the men surrounding them. “Into the great hall. And,” he pointed a damning finger at Tara, “bring her and the boy as well. ‘Tis time the truth be known.” As if another thought struck him, he added through lips that barely moved, “And you, woman. Show me the stone. The dark emerald of Twyll.”