If not, there were other means of encouragement that could be used. In fact, Gaultier would be disappointed if the prisoner confessed too much too soon.
The door was hauled open and Gaultier appeared on the threshold. His expression was grim and the cut on his cheek was angry. He looked to be in even worse temper than usual. The Scotsman was getting a bruise on his cheek—indeed, it looked as if he would have a splendidly blackened eye—and he looked scarcely more amiable than Gaultier. Royce did not doubt that Gaultier had already tried to encourage the man to confess more.
The Captain of the Guard did have an unbridled taste for violence. Doubtless the Scotsman had many more bruises beneath his garb.
Gaultier released the prisoner’s arm, and the Scotsman gave him a disparaging look before putting a step between them.
“I would not advise you to run,” Royce said smoothly.
“I do not intend to flee,” the Scotsman said gruffly. “I still have sufficient wit to recognize that the gates are barred against me.” His gaze flicked to the reliquary and Royce placed his hand upon it.
“Familiar?” he asked.
The Scotsman granted him a cold glance. “It is my sworn duty to deliver it safely to its destination. Of course, it is familiar.”
“You tried to steal it.”
“I tried to retrieve it.”
“I say it was not yours to retrieve.”
The Scotsman smiled. “And I say it is not yours to claim.”
“By what authority do you claim possession of this prize?”
His gaze was unswerving and he spoke with conviction. “By the highest authority there is.”
Royce was more unsettled than he chose to admit. He spoke mockingly as a result. “Are you saying that God granted it to your care?”
“Does God not grant all quests to all men?”
Royce frowned. “I mean, to whom did you swear that you would deliver it?”
“That truth is not mine to share.”
“And where are you pledged to deliver it?”
“Again, that tale is not mine to surrender.”
Royce flung out a hand. “But you must know your destination!”
“And clearly I vowed not to confide it in another. The one who dispatched it knows, and the one who awaits it knows. That is sufficient.”
Royce heard the implied threat. “And if it does not arrive as intended?”
The Scotsman’s smile broadened. “Then it will be sought, of course, and woe to any who have interfered in the great goodness of this plan.”
There was something chilling about the Scotsman’s manner. Surely he could not have had this prize granted to him by the divine.
But he could have been entrusted with the delivery of it by some man acting in the name of God. A bishop. An archbishop. The pope.
Royce licked his lips and considered the golden reliquary again. It was a prize worthy of the attention of such a great man. He could believe that it might be dispatched in secrecy, the better to protect it from theft.
Yet he had stumbled into possessing it, quite by chance. He could see no advantage to himself in letting the Scotsman continue on his quest. For all Royce knew, the Scotsman had stolen it from some other emissary!
“Saint Euphemia,” Royce said, making a show of reading the inscription. “I have never even heard of this saint. Perhaps her relics have little value.”
“So might a man suggest who did not believe in her powers.”
“Which are?”
The Scotsman shook his head, as if in pity. “The ability to distinguish between right and wrong. Perhaps it is no mystery that she is unknown in this keep.”
Gaultier glowered at him but Royce raised his hand to halt his Captain of the Guard. He closed the distance between himself and the prisoner. “I know the difference between right and wrong,” he said in a low, silky voice. “Which is why I do not believe you. No man alive with the power to dictate the direction of such a treasure as this would surrender it to the custody of the likes of you.” The Scotsman’s eyes flashed, and Royce took satisfaction at having irked him. “I say you lie. I say you stole this yourself from its true custodian. And I say that such a man as you should be cast in darkness and abandoned until you die.”
Gaultier seized the Scotsman with satisfaction and spun him around roughly, pushing him back toward the door.
“But what of the reliquary?” the Scotsman demanded. “Surely you do not imagine that you can keep it for yourself?”
“What I can or cannot imagine is of no concern to you,” Royce declared. He gestured, and Gaultier shoved the Scotsman out of the chapel, even as Royce looked back into the rich gold of the reliquary.
It was a prize beyond compare.
It was a treasure that awakened every covetous urge within him.
But the Scotsman was right. Someone would seek it. Someone would kill for it. And no one could find it in Royce’s treasury.
Nay, the best way to put this prize to work was to give it away. It would make a fine token of esteem for King Henry, for example, the perfect indication of obeisance from a loyal baron.
He would send it to Winchester with the tithes and his fondest regards.
But first, Gaultier and his men must ensure that the remainder of the party that had just left his gates were hunted down and silenced.
Forever.
He heard Gaultier’s footstep behind him and did not turn to address him. “What of your men?”
“They are ordered to pursue the vagabonds to the borders and then return to report on their course,” the Captain of the Guard replied. “I expect them before the dawn, with the party captive.”
Royce drummed his fingers on the board. “I hope they succeed,” he had to content himself with replying. “For your sake and that of our guest.”
“They will not abandon him,” Gaultier said with confidence. “Even if they outrun the knights, they will circle back for him.”
“Double the sentries on watch,” Royce commanded. “If we are surprised again, you will pay the price.”
* * *
“You are surprised,” the old woman said when Bartholomew passed her a piece of the bread Father Ignatius had brought from Haynesdale keep. He was startled by her words, because her eyes were milky and he had assumed her to be blind. She grinned at him when he did not immediately reply, and he realized she was more perceptive than most.
“And how did you guess as much?” he asked, his tone light.
She gestured. “I smell it.”
“Indeed?” He could not help but smile and was glad she could not see his expression. He did not wish to offend her, however whimsical she might be.
“When a reaction is anticipated, the subtlety of it can be felt or even smelled.” She smiled. “You may trust me on this. I hope that you never have the opportunity to learn that I am right.” She seemed to watch him. “So, tell me, sir, what surprises you?”
“That there are so many hidden in the forest,” Bartholomew acknowledged, for that was the most obvious confession. “And that you have evaded detection for two years.” He smiled. “That you have chickens. Are there not foxes in these woods?”
The old woman cackled, sounding much like one of her brood. “My son has made them a pen. They return to it each night and are hoisted high into the trees. It is some trouble, but we have eggs this way, and on occasion a fine stew.”
“Ingenious,” he acknowledged and she smiled.
She tapped him on the arm. “You are also surprised that we follow a woman.”
He was startled that she had overheard his question. “I wondered whether I merely imagined it. Anna is most decisive.”
“And yet you think it would be a marvel for so many to let a woman command them, even the smith’s daughter.”
“Even?”
She smiled. “Where have you been, sir, that you do not know the place that the smith holds in the hearts of the occupants of every village? His gift is akin to sorcery, and he
must labor long to master it. A smith is always held in high regard, and his words carry great weight.”
Bartholomew considered this and found it easy to believe. “That makes good sense. I have never lived in a village, so would not have thought of it.”
“Never lived in a village? Only in a castle?”
“In a few of them.”
She leaned closer. “Where else?”
“A monastery,” he said, just to watch her reaction.
She giggled with glee. “Or you are one filled with surprises. I am glad that Anna saw fit to bring you here. Did she tell you that she was the daughter of the smith?”
“Aye, she did, and the Percy is her brother.”
The woman nodded. “And she still carries the crossbow?”
“Not exactly.” Bartholomew laid the weapon across his knees. “I hold it hostage until our wager is completed.”
The woman reached out and he guided her fingers to the hilt of the crossbow so that she could not injure herself inadvertently. She stroked the wood with reverent fingertips. “And where would a woman of the woods win such a fine weapon?”
“You must know that it was her father’s.”
“She told you as much, did she?” The old woman raised her brows. “And yet, and yet, how curious that a smith should own such a fine crossbow. One would expect him to leave a hammer and forge to his children, or some fine metalwork of his own crafting. Not a crossbow.” She arched a brow, and Bartholomew did wonder.
“Any man may learn to use a bow,” he countered easily. “Although it is a noble weapon, its use is not proscribed to noblemen.”
She had a good laugh at that, shaking a finger at him in her merriment. Bartholomew had an uncanny sense that she was trying to tell him something.
Was Anna not the smith’s daughter?
Then why would she have told him that she was?
He knew that Anna had no capacity to lie. The truth was always clear in her eyes. Nay, this old woman must have it wrong. Perhaps she mingled two old tales together.
She might have been surveying him, by the way she seemed to look him over, but it was her hand on his forearm that told her the most, he would wager. “Chain mail,” she murmured. “And you are tall and young. A knight.” She seemed to peer at his face. “Are you the lost son returned?”
“You tell the same tale as Anna,” he said by way of reply and she appeared to swallow a smile.
“We do not have many knights visit our abode,” she said, and he was relieved she did not pursue her question. “You must have good reason to be here.”
“My party merely passed through the forest,” Bartholomew said, choosing to share only part of the truth with this stranger. “As you heard, we lingered because we were robbed.”
The old woman cackled. “By Anna and Percy,” she guessed.
Bartholomew nodded before he recalled himself. “The very same. Then Percy was captured by the baron’s men, along with what he had stolen from us, and both had to be retrieved.”
“I hear the boy,” she said. “But you must not have your own goods?”
“How so?”
“You would have ridden on, if that were the case. Anna would not have brought you here if she had not felt some obligation to you.” She leaned closer. “What else have you lost?”
“One of my comrades was captured. He carried our goods.”
“So both are in Sir Royce’s clutch.” She nodded understanding.
“You are perceptive.”
She smiled again. “One does not need eyes to see the truth, sir.”
“Clearly that is true. Though I cannot imagine how you knew me to be surprised.”
“Ah! You speak with authority and walk with a confident step. I believe you thus to be a man of good sense.” She ran a fingertip over the back of his hand and Bartholomew would not have been surprised if she guessed more about him from that light touch. “A practical man, who solves matters with his own hands. There is a callus here, from wielding a broadsword. Your spurs are not for appearances, sir.”
“Nay, they are not.”
“And such an accent. Not quite French. Not quite Norman. Where have you been, sir? Where was this monastery?”
“Outremer.”
The woman sat back with apparent wonder and great satisfaction. “That does explain much. There is something exotic about you, sir.”
“Exotic?” Bartholomew smiled.
“Uncommon, then. The kind of man we seldom see.” She lowered her voice. “The kind of man we await, whether you admit as much or nay.” Before Bartholomew could encourage her to change the line of her speculation, she did, raising her voice. “A man of good sense, it is clear, and what man of good sense would not be surprised to find all of a village living as outcasts in the forest?”
“It is hard to believe that nigh every resident of a village should be a criminal, even in the most foul of places.”
“’Tis indeed,” the woman agreed with a sage nod. “What baron of sense would have no use for his villagers? Who tills the fields and shods the horses? Who harvests the grain and salts the fish?” She shook her head. “His life must be worse without us, but he is too much a fool to see the truth.”
“He thinks us all dead, Esme,” Anna said, coming to stand before the old woman.
“Only because he listens to lies. It is a foolish man and a poor judge of character who relies upon the counsel of one such as Gaultier, Captain of the Guard.”
Anna stiffened at the mention of that man’s name, as if to lend credence to Bartholomew’s suspicions. Was she evading his gaze?
The old woman chuckled. “But then, Sir Royce has always shown undue respect for whichever man leads his forces. We each have our follies. Perhaps that is his.”
Bartholomew thought it was his trust of his wife that was misplaced, but decided not to share his thoughts.
Anna propped her hands on her hips as she surveyed him, a challenge bright in her eyes. “I go with Father Ignatius to the old burn. Do you wish to come?”
“Why?” Bartholomew asked, of all the questions he might have chosen.
“We bury our dead there, for the ash is easy to dig and vermin do not sully the remains. Father Ignatius would bless those who have passed without his prayers.”
“Is that the burned forest we passed?”
“Nay, another. We have the old burn and the new.”
“So much fire,” he mused and Anna almost smiled.
“Aye. Come and you will see.”
And because he did want to see, Bartholomew rose to his feet to accompany her.
Chapter Eight
Why had she invited Bartholomew to join them on this errand?
Anna could not explain her impulse and in hindsight, she wished she had not made the offer. She supposed that she wanted to ensure that she knew where Bartholomew was, just as he had vowed that they would remain together inside Haynesdale keep until their respective ends were achieved. Those goals had not been won, so their paths remained bound together.
But this was a moment she dreaded.
Her breath was hitching in her chest, and her pulse was unsteady. Her tears were rising and threatening to spill, and this long before they reached the old burn. She felt him watching her and more than once, he offered his hand to her as they climbed over logs or crossed a stream. How much did he discern?
She was weak enough to accept his assistance, even though she did not need it. She had fended for herself for years and had no need of a man. Perhaps it was the garb that betrayed her and made her comport herself more like a lady than was her usual manner.
“I have not been to the old burn in years,” Father Ignatius said, his manner so jovial that he might have been trying to lighten the mood.
“What of the place in the forest that was burned two years ago?” Bartholomew asked.
Father Ignatius exchanged a glance with Anna. “That is the new burn,” he said.
“No one goes there,” Anna contributed
flatly. Who could go there? She was sure that she could still smell burning flesh, the residue of those lives lost for no good cause other than a nobleman’s thirst for vengeance.
“When else were these woods burned?” Bartholomew asked.
“You have seen that the hall of Haynesdale is newly built,” Father Ignatius explained. “The old burn is the lost keep, the fire that Sir Royce struck when he invaded Haynesdale and claimed it for his own.”
Anna did not miss Bartholomew quick glance at the priest. “When was that?”
“In the year 1169, almost twenty years ago,” Father Ignatius said. “Few of us have been on this holding since that day.”
“Old Esme,” Anna said. “The one you were talking to. She was the miller’s wife then.”
“I arrived a few years later,” Father Ignatius said. “When Sir Royce wed the first time, God bless the lady’s soul.” He beamed at Anna. “I remember Anna’s birth.”
“And Percy’s birth,” she amended.
“Of course, I recall his birth very well.” Father Ignatius smiled. “Never has a child come into the world with such a ruckus. He was both welcome and unexpected.”
“How so?” Bartholomew asked.
“All knew the smith’s wife was with child, naturally, for she ripened most vigorously. But smith and wife were of such an age that they did not anticipate another babe.” Father Ignatius nodded with satisfaction. “Percy was a child destined to challenge expectations from the very first.”
“And still he is,” Anna said, even as she came to a halt.
They had stepped through the last of the trees into an area that had been burned clear. A few trees grew in the soil, which was still blackened with the ash of that fire, and a line of crosses adorned the ground. Beyond this field, the ruins of the old keep could be seen, its foundation stones washed clean in spots and stained with soot in others. The village could be discerned in the ruts in the ground and far to the left, the open fields were still rutted from furrows long left fallow. Beyond the keep was a sparkling expanse of water where the stream made a mill pond.
Bartholomew stared like a man struck to stone.
Father Ignatius crossed himself as he looked sadly at the new graves. “And still you use the consecrated ground of the old cemetery. That is most wise. Even without my blessing, they are safely in the hands of God.” He beckoned to her. “Come, Anna, and tell me who lies in each grave that I might pray for their immortal souls.”
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