by Sandra Heath
For the moment, however, his attention was on Taynton and his friends, who had gathered by an old hollow oak tree on the far side of the water. It was the only oak Hal had seen in a wood that was predominantly beech. The lantern had been hung upon a low branch, and the squirrel was in its cage on the grass among the flowers. He could see the little creature—Eleanor Rhodes?—cowering inside, clearly terrified. What had it been brought here for? A sacrifice? He hoped not.
Chapter 14
The white clothing Taynton and his accomplices had carried from the inn had proved to be long, loose robes, which they all donned with care. Taynton himself wore the antlers, which were somehow fixed to a metal circlet adorned with mistletoe and oak leaves. He also wore a golden torque around his throat, and held the staff, which he raised before him as the others began to form into a line. Vera was reluctant to join them and had to be pulled into place.
Conan watched carefully from the other side of the pool. Thirteen, including the innkeeper. A coven, maybe? He glanced up as the hazels trembled suddenly. Many squirrels had joined him, and were quivering fearfully as they too watched what was happening across the pool. Were they really Eleanor’s attendants? Theo certainly seemed to think so, and their presence here now suggested they were definitely connected with her in some way, or at least with the white squirrel in the cage. But Conan knew in his heart there wasn’t any “or at least” about it. The two were one.
Taynton used his staff to knock a nail into the oak’s gnarled trunk, and a magic ritual of some sort commenced. His companions began to weave a serpentine pattern through the bluebells, chanting the old ring game that Conan also knew from childhood. They would have looked rather laughable if it were daylight, he thought, but at night they were rather eerie. It was Taynton alone who uttered the words “I am your master,” and when he said it, he touched one of them with his staff. This was repeated until all twelve had been touched. Then they became still and silent, and he spoke on his own.
Conan couldn’t fully understand his words, but they sounded like “Loo-nass-ah, Sow-inn, Im-olk—then something Conan couldn’t hear, followed by— May all the secrets be known to my might. Loo-nass-ah, Sow-inn, Im-olk—then the something again—by the turn of the last may it be mine by right.” A spell had been cast, Conan thought, shivering. Then the staff was stretched forward again, this time to touch the squirrel’s cage. As it did so, a shooting star suddenly curved brilliantly across the sky, clearly an auspicious sign, for Taynton gave a triumphant cry and spread his arms to the heavens as if giving thanks to the gods.
The squirrels in the hazels became agitated, flicking their tails and making angry little noises. Then Conan suddenly heard a twig snap nearby. He whipped around to see his Lady of the Ribbons creeping toward the pool to spy on the goings-on by the hollow oak. Her hood was raised, but he knew it was she. In the same split second he realized she was too intent upon the other side of the pool to notice one of the fearsome wooden guardians a few feet in front of her. Before he could whisper a warning, she suddenly saw it. She wasn’t prepared, and a terrified, only too audible cry escaped her lips as she instinctively stumbled backward.
* * * *
Ursula had never been filled with more dread in her life. In a sudden flood of clear moonlight the awful figure seemed somehow to move, as if it were alive. Suddenly, she knew only too well what had frightened Rufus Almore so much.
Somehow she gathered her wits. Taynton and his companions had heard her, and most of them were already running around the pool, so she turned and fled the way she had come. She left the path, running headlong through the bluebells, trees, and undergrowth. But after going less than fifty yards she caught her foot in a protruding root and pitched forward into an old badger set. It was a heavy fall that winded her painfully. She lost consciousness, and the last thing she heard was the distant baying of a wolfhound.
* * * *
Conan gave no thought to running after her, believing her to have escaped safely. There were other things happening at the pool. Taynton and his robed friends did not run far around the water’s edge, for Bran suddenly appeared from nowhere in front of them, crouching down and growling with such menace that now it was their turn to stumble backward in fear. As they edged away, the wolfhound leapt forward, barking at the top of his lungs as he fixed upon Taynton, meaning to wreak full revenge for the leather strap. Then the squirrels poured from the hazels as well, darting in all directions at once to cause as much disruption as possible.
Chaos soon reigned at Hazel Pool, and Conan could only watch, helpless with laughter, for it was the most comic spectacle he had ever seen. Most of the white-robed figures scurried everywhere, holding up their skirts like startled matrons, but one or two had wit enough to throw missiles at the wolfhound, or try to kick him if he came near, which wasn’t often. And all the while the squirrels ran under as many feet as they could, managing to topple more than one white-robed figure.
However, some of the squirrels had other goals, such as trying to open the cage to release the captive. With all the dexterity and ingenuity of their kind, they swarmed over the metalwork, scratching and scrabbling at the handle. Vera Pedlar watched them. She was the only one of the thirteen who had not left her place beneath the oak, and she made no move to drive the squirrels away. Neither did she assist them, although Conan felt that was what she really wished to do. Perhaps she was afraid. Yes, that was probably it, he decided. She was fearful of doing anything that would be against her master’s wishes.
Then his attention was snatched back to the pandemonium Bran was causing. The wolfhound worried joyously at the hem of Taynton’s robe’s, trying to get at the legs beneath. At last the snapping jaws and sharp teeth found a soft calf, and with a howl of pain Taynton flung himself in the pool to escape. But if he thought that would rid him of his canine pursuer, he was very much mistaken, for Bran leapt in after him. There were two tremendous splashes, causing ripples that spread rapidly to wash against the bank where Conan was hiding.
Taynton floundered around, hampered by his cumbersome robe, but hastily began to swim when he knew Bran had followed him into the water. He wasn’t a good swimmer, and was hard put to stay out of the wolfhound’s reach. The men on the bank tried to help him by aiming what they could find at the wolfhound, but when one was toppled into the water by the milling squirrels, the others lost courage. Robes flapping, they scurried back to the oak to start grabbing their belongings, and were only halted from fleeing by Taynton’s bellow for help. He had managed to reach the bank, but couldn’t haul himself out because his wet robe was too heavy. Bran was bearing down on him at a spanking paddle, his teeth bared in readiness, but two of the men managed to pull the bedraggled innkeeper to safety in the nick of time.
Bran knew when to call it a day—or night—and veered hastily away, paddling for all he was worth toward Conan. The remaining men and one woman had now had more than enough of the situation. Everything was hurriedly collected, including the still unopened cage, and they all fled along the path toward the field and safety. All that showed them to have been there at all were the nails in the tree and the horrible wooden figures. The squirrels had disappeared too.
Conan emerged from hiding as Bran neared the bank, and reached down for the wolfhound’s collar to help him out of the water. “Well, my friend, you were certainly a fox among those chickens,” he said, stepping out of the way as Bran shook himself. Droplets of water showered everywhere. Bran was delighted with himself, wagging his tail and panting. He seemed to be grinning, for his mouth was turned up at the corners, and his eyes bore a wickedly pleased look. Revenge was very sweet, and he had savored the sinking of his teeth into Bellamy Taynton.
Conan bent to pat him. “I’m sorry I left you behind, but glad you managed to get out anyway. It was a rout, was it not? And very timely,” he added, thinking of the Lady of the Ribbons.
Bran whined, stood up on his hind legs, put his wet paws on Conan’s shoulders, and licked his face.<
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Conan managed to ease him to the ground again, for it wasn’t exactly pleasant to be leaned on and slobbered over by a very large, very wet wolfhound. “Come on, let’s take a look at what’s been going on here.” He began to walk toward the wooden figure that had frightened Ursula into revealing her presence. It was as tall as he was, and roughly but cleverly carved to appear real to someone who came upon it without warning. He himself had been given a start when he saw the first one, so he could only imagine the dread it must have struck through his Lady of the Ribbons.
Conan studied it dispassionately. He remembered reading somewhere that the ancient Druids had protected their sacred groves with figures like these. Was that what Taynton and his cohorts imagined themselves to be—Druids? Anything was possible, he supposed.
Bran growled again suddenly, looking intently in the direction Ursula had taken. Conan turned warily, although he didn’t think Taynton and his crew would be back tonight. Nevertheless, the wolfhound had heard something. “What is it, boy?”
Bran set off into the trees, and Conan followed, remaining very much on his guard, for after all that had gone on so far tonight, who knew what might happen next?
The sound Bran had heard was Ursula’s slight groan as she regained consciousness in the abandoned badger set. She sat up dazedly as fearsome memories returned. Realizing the danger she had been in before she fell, she glanced back toward the pool. Fresh fear settled coldly over her at the sight of a large white dog running toward her through another wash of sudden moonlight. She fumbled in her cloak for the pistol, cocked it, and aimed with both hands. She was trembling so much that the pistol wobbled visibly, but if the hound made to attack her, she would not hesitate to shoot.
“Hold your fire! Bran won’t hurt you!” cried a man’s voice.
Her breath caught anew as she saw someone pushing past a low-growing holly tree. Who was it? One of Taynton’s men? She leveled the pistol at him. “Stay where you are!”
“I want to help you. I saw what happened back there.”
She recognized the voice ... but not to whom it belonged. “Who are you?” she demanded, not lowering the pistol.
“Sir Conan Merry down, your servant, madam.” Conan sketched a bow. As he straightened, he looked intently at the pistol, for there was something very alarming indeed about the way the muzzle wavered in his direction!
Ursula’s mind was still upon Conan’s name, which meant nothing to her. “What are you doing here in my— She broke off quickly, for she had been about to say that the woods were her father’s, which would have given away her identity. “Are you one of them?” she asked then, still very suspicious.
“Them? The precious thirteen, you mean? Certainly not. If I were, do you honestly imagine I would have helped you try to free the squirrel?”
With a shock she realized who he was. “No, I-I suppose you wouldn’t,” she conceded, and lowered the pistol.
Chapter 15
Ursula was covered with confusion as she set the pistol aside and then looked at Conan. The night was suddenly more fey than ever, and all the eerie events of the past day or so flooded over her anew. Yet, if she was honest, might everything not still be coincidence? Or daydreaming? Or—as she had wondered earlier—that her absorption with ancient myths about sorcery and the Otherworld had finally taken over completely!
Suddenly, his words nudged her. “But what do you mean ‘try to free’ the squirrel? I did free it,” she said.
“Only briefly. It was recaptured within moments. You’d barely ridden off before it was back in the cage.”
“Oh. I-I did so hope ... ”
“I know. They had her with them tonight, didn’t you see?”
“Her?”
He felt a little foolish, for he had almost referred to the creature as Eleanor! He didn’t know anything for absolute certainty; he was simply making an educated guess. “I wasn’t thinking. I meant to simply say ‘it.’ “
Ursula could not ignore the implication of the squirrel’s presence at the rites. “You don’t think it was there as a-a—?”
“Sacrifice? I don’t know. If they did, your arrival put paid to their plan. They took it away with them and fled. It’s probably back in the taproom now. Don’t worry, if there’s a chance to release it again, I won’t hesitate to do it.”
She gave him a shy smile. “We are strange allies, are we not, Sir Conan?”
“We are indeed.”
They gazed at each other, their separate thoughts upon the same emotional path. Love filled the air around them, and yet neither was prepared to speak of it, for to do so might appear to the other as utter lunacy.
At last Conan approached the set. “I didn’t realize you’d only come this far before hiding. I thought you’d long since gone,” he said, scrambling down to her and dislodging earth and stones, which rolled away into the darker recesses of the hole.
“I should have been, but I tripped and fell. Then I fainted.” She glanced uncertainly back toward the pool. “Have they really gone?”
“Oh, yes, with no little help from Bran here.” He decided not to mention the squirrels, for that would also require the suspension of common sense, and he did not know her at all. Just because he had experienced apparently supernatural events, it did not mean she had too. But being so close to her filled him with sensations such as he had not experienced before. Warm sensations that invaded his entire body.
Ursula felt the same things, and tried to hide the fact by looking at the wolfhound. “I-I heard him barking just before I lost consciousness.” She shivered as she remembered what had sent her into such reckless, headlong flight. “Do you know what was going on by the pool?” she asked then.
“No, just what appeared to be sham magical rites. To be honest, I was rather hoping you might have some idea.”
She shook her head. “All I know is that it isn’t the first time they’ve met. I heard them last night as well. From what I saw tonight, I can only imagine they are Druids of some description.”
“That crossed my mind too. Here, let me help you up. There’s a grassy bank just over there.” He held out a hand.
She hesitated. If she touched him, would he suddenly vanish? Would she find herself alone in the woods with her fear?
He smiled, and stretched down to actually take her hand. At his touch a feeling engulfed her that surpassed everything she knew. It was as if a part of her awakened that until now had been deeply asleep. She felt a beguiling warmth spread across her skin, an erotic warmth that was tinged with a need that ached sweetly through her veins. There was something wanton too, a desire to seduce, to surrender, to give herself completely ...
Covered with confusion by the sheer force of these new emotions, she snatched her hand away. “I-I can manage, thank you,” she said, and avoided his eyes by making much of getting out of the set by herself. Then she shook her cloak a little, and took a long steadying breath in a vain effort to compose herself, before going to sit on the grassy bank. Bran promptly joined her. She could smell his wet coat, and the herbs Theo had used to rid him of unwelcome guests.
Conan had not survived the moment unscathed either. Touching her had stirred desires so strong that he had wanted to pull her up into his arms in order to taste her lips, feel her body against his. He wanted her so much he was hard put to suppress the imperative craving that excited his heart. And his loins. He had wanted many women, and possessed most of them, but nothing could compare with the almost primitive passion he fought against now. He could feel his whole body trembling, and when she snatched her hand away, he was almost relieved, for if they had touched for much longer, he did not know if he could have contained his base male instincts. Dear God, he thought, what was happening? What forces were at large in these woods that he could come so close to forgetting every rule of conduct? He took a moment to control himself before he too climbed out of the set.
When he joined her on the bank, he hoped his voice sounded relaxed. “How are you feeling
now?” he asked her.
“I-I’m still a little shaken, that’s all.” Shaken? She was in such a state of secret disarray that she hardly knew what to say or do. Never had she imagined such feelings existed as she had felt a few moments ago. In a heartbeat her whole existence had been turned upside down, nothing was as it had been, and her quiet existence was in turmoil. And all because this man had taken her hand!
“Are you quite sure you’re all right?” he asked, detecting the quiver in her voice. Had she realized how he’d felt? He prayed not, or she would be terrified all over again!
She summoned a wan smile. “Yes, I simply need a few moments to recover. It was alarming enough to see those robed figures, without the fetish, or whatever it was. Something about the moonlight made the horrid thing seem to move! I almost passed out with fright, but somehow found the strength to run. And then to come around only to see your wolfhound coming toward me, all white and super— She didn’t finish the word.
“Supernatural?”
“Something of the sort, although of course that would be silly.” She wasn’t about to elaborate on the supernatural, for she did not know anything about him. She may have had several strange things happen to her, but it wouldn’t do to assume he had as well. Besides, the strange things could not be proved to have happened. She could have imagined every one. Drawing another deep, steadying breath, she went on, “Whatever all this is, Taynton, the landlord at the inn, is involved, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He was the one wearing the ridiculous antlers,” Conan replied.