by Lisa Shea
Norman leant back against the side of the bridge, rolling his shoulders. “Five it is, then. So, Ymbert, what were you able to find out?”
Ymbert’s eyes showed a keen interest in learning more about the intriguing situation developing before him, but he nodded and turned to the business at hand. “Seems young women are going missing from a number of towns in the area. Always at bridges. Always in the late afternoon. The radius of these kidnappings seems to point to the base of operations being somewhere in the Spring Woods.”
Hugh shook his head. “That wood is a tangle of cave and hollow,” he murmured. “It would take us a year to thoroughly search it.
Ymbert spread his arms wide. “I talked with everyone I knew. I gathered a wealth of details on the girls, on the locations, on the dates and times – but nobody knows where they were taken to. I can keep at it, but it will take time.”
Sybil tapped a finger to her lip. “Maybe some friendly conversation at the local taverns will help. I’m sure I could get one of their band to talk.”
Ymbert shook his head. “Nobody has heard anything at all about the wolves’ heads involved. Not even the slightest whisper. Whoever this band is, they’re tight knit and tight-lipped. It doesn’t seem they even come out of the wood. The girls are simply never seen again.”
Norman nodded. “Sounds professionally run. So, ideas?”
Joan smiled. “They grab young women who are alone by the bridge in the late afternoon?”
Hugh rounded on her, his brow furrowing. “Oh, no you don’t. We weren’t going to separate again. I am staying by your side.”
Joan arched an eyebrow. “And just what is your alternative, then?”
He pressed his lips together, turning to Ymbert. “Surely, if you dug around for a few more days, you could find out some clue to narrow down where this base is.”
Ymbert glanced at Joan. “Muriel’s sister, Linota, has already been in their clutches for five days,” he pointed out. “We promised we would go in after her today. If we wait much longer, it could be too late.”
Hugh turned to Sybil. “All right, then, we use Sybil as the bait.”
She gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, there is chivalry for you. Have you forgotten that I do not handle a sword or knife well? You made it clear that your friend here is able to take care of herself in that department. If I assume our plan is to take the kidnapper hostage ourselves, and not simply let him drag Joan along with him back to his home base, then having a victim who knows combat seems the best path to success.”
Hugh growled in response.
Joan twined her fingers into his. “You know this is the right thing to do,” she murmured. “We have to bring this to an end. Too many people are being hurt.”
He blew out his breath and at last nodded. “I am near you every step of the way,” he insisted.
She brought his hand to her lips and pressed them steadily against his skin. “Every step.”
*
Joan stretched, looking idly at the pile of mushrooms that glistened in the last rays of sunset. She had found quite a variety of them, if she did say so herself. She wondered idly for the fortieth time if the bandits were really going to come by this location today, or if it was only an occasional spot for them to check. She knew that Linota and Beatrice had been taken on different days of the week, and that Robin’s death had been on a third day altogether. Still, there could be some pattern there that she hadn’t figured out yet. Or it could have been random chance. Surely the three had come and gone from the bridge on other days unmolested.
She glanced casually around her before going back to her digging. She had to hand it to the team – they were good. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them since noon, and she felt completely alone in the woods. She knew without a doubt, though, that Hugh was nearby. She could feel the heat of his focus, sense his attentive gaze on her every movement.
There was a sound in the distance, and she perked up. At last! Perhaps luck was on her side, after all. She settled back down to dig at the mushrooms, listening as the noises grew closer. A cart, drawn by a small horse, by the sound of it. The cart came up to the far side of the bridge, and the noise turned sharper as the hooves came down on the stones. The horse was reined in as he reached her side, and she looked up with a smile.
Her shoulders slumped. It was Father Picot, hunched over in the front of the cart, looking down in recognition. “Joan, my dear, what are you up to on this fine evening?”
She stood, shaking out her dress. She gathered up a handful of the mushrooms and moved up to join him. “Collecting some mushrooms.” She handed one over. “What do you think?”
He popped it into his mouth and nodded in approval. “You have a good eye, my lass. I should have you help with some of my herb gathering. Could always use a hand with that.”
She chuckled. “Let me know what you’re running low in, and I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
He turned to rummage in the cart. “Here, my lass, I have something for you, in thanks for that mushroom.” He stretched to reach a brown sack further back in the cart. “Oh, could you get that for me?”
She climbed up into the cart and pulled the sack closer. “Some supplies for Muriel?”
He shook his head, drawing out a small, thumb-sized tart. “Here, one of the grateful patients made me a whole batch of these today. Tastiest little things you ever tried. What do you think of that?” He handed it over to her.
She popped it into her mouth. It had a creamy texture and a fresh, raspberry flavor to it. “That is lovely,” she agreed, swallowing it down. She pulled her ale-skin off her hip and took a swallow. “Some for you?”
He shook his head, patting a skin at his own side. “I am all set, thanks.”
She smiled. “Well, then, I will let you get on your –”
A strange feeling swam through her, and then her stomach twisted as if she were tumbling down a long, undulating hill. She barely got her head over the side of the cart before the contents of her stomach violently spewed into the road below.
Father Picot’s eyes went wide in surprise. “My dear! Are you all right?”
Joan could not answer. She could barely breathe, so strongly had the illness seized her.
Father Picot shook his head in bewilderment. “I’ve had three of these without any ill effect,” he protested. “Perhaps you are allergic to something in them?” He shook the reins, stirring the steed into a trot. “There’s a house just up the hill. Hang in there.”
Joan closed her eyes, hanging over the side of the cart, weaving between coughing and sucking in breaths. She took a swig of the ale, only to have it come right back out again. Deep velvets stretched out against the sky, but the horse seemed to know the way without any prodding, taking the turns through the wood with sure steps.
At last it seemed that her stomach had truly emptied itself, and she was left with a gnawing ache matched by a throbbing headache. She slumped down in the cart, massaging her temples, closing her eyes against the rhythmic shaking.
The world faded away.
Chapter 9
Joan blinked her eyes open in confusion. There was a regular shaking of the rough wooden floor she lay on, and the ceiling above shimmered with soft twinkling. It took a few minutes for her situation to sink into her awareness. Judging by the positions of the constellations, it was a full hour since she had fallen ill.
Father Picot was working in concert with the wolves’ heads.
The certainty of it burned into Joan’s soul with shock. The man could have returned to town or gone forward to three different homes in far shorter time. She saw with crystal clarity how he would have lured in the other women, how he could have gotten close to Linota’s poor husband Robin without the man suspecting anything at all.
Her hand moved to her hip – and she swore under her breath. She had left her dagger on the riverbank by the mushrooms. She hadn’t thought to need it for her friendly chat with Father Picot. Which left her with …
She shook h
er head. Normally she would have stocked up on daggers and knives in various locations. But she was acting as bait, and had not wanted to seem a spiky porcupine to the would-be kidnapper.
She ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation, then smiled. She did still have that one weapon, one which men often overlooked. Her long, silky hair stretched nearly to her waist, and when braided it was as thick and sturdy as a well-constructed rope.
Perfect.
She spent a few moments weaving it into a long plait, then settled herself back down against the edge of the cart. Maybe she could get the old codger talking a bit, to find out just what was going on. She imagined once she actually tackled him that Hugh and the others would storm from the woods and the chance of quiet conversation would be long gone.
She gave a low moan, as if she were just waking up. Father Picot glanced back in surprise, and she saw the crafty calculation in his gaze which was quickly overlaid with a mask of worried concern.
“There you are, my lass. We’re almost there. Are you feeling a bit better?”
Joan feebly moved a hand to her stomach. “Not really,” she groaned. “What did you feed me?”
“You must have had a reaction to one of the ingredients,” he mused. “Not to worry. My friends will know exactly what to do with you.”
Joan fell back against the cart as if thoroughly exhausted. “We are long past the farmers’ homes,” she countered weakly. “I know you poisoned me, and I know you are working with the wolves’ heads. Just tell me what fate awaits me, now that I have fallen into your trap. Will you kill me?”
He looked as if he might deny the charge, but after a moment his eyes lit up with pleasure. His voice grew sharp. “The townsfolk are always treating me like a simpleton. As if my furrowed face and spotted hands mean my mind has turned to gruel.” He spat off the side of the wagon. “Catching you girls is like gathering up petunias on a summer’s day. Just there for the taking.”
Joan pitched her voice to hold resignation. “So you are going to kill me.”
He gave a barking laugh. “Kill ya? How much would you be worth dead? Nah, they pay me and the other collectors a pretty penny for our efforts.” His mouth grew into a twisted grin. “And I’m sure they send you off to nice, new homes, where your – ah – assets are well appreciated.”
Joan slumped further, her face drooping in despair. “Which of the locals would do such a thing to me? Maybe the blacksmith?”
Father Picot shook his head. “Locals? If they sold ya local, you’d be fetched back too easily. Nah, Burt gathers up a tassel of you and others like you. Tossed into a cart, loaded onto a ship.” He gave a low laugh. “Hope you don’t get seasick.”
He glanced up ahead. “Not too far, now. Just over that hill and –”
Joan didn’t wait for him to finish. She lunged forward, swinging the loop of her hair up and around his neck. She pulled him backwards, hard, and he flailed as he came, grabbing for the edges of the cart. He was stronger than she had thought, much stronger, and he nearly pulled himself back up before she gave a sharp twist that landed him face down against the floor of the cart. His gasps became heaves, and at last he slumped unconscious before her.
There was a bound of movement at her side, and Hugh was there, his dagger in his hand, his face creased with worry. “Are you all right?”
She unwrapped her hair from Father Picot’s neck, nodding as she looked down at him. “I’m sure whatever he fed me will be out of my system soon enough. I can’t imagine they would permanently want to ‘damage the goods’.”
Sybil gave a bright grin from the side of the cart. “See? Told ya she was fine. She seemed a woman who could take care of herself.”
Ymbert scrambled into the cart with them, digging a hand into the rumpled brown sack. He came out with a handful of the small tarts. “So, what’d’ya think are in them?” He broke one open, staring at its insides with interest.
Joan peered at the substance. “Maybe aloe. While the juice is good for fighting nausea, the outside skin has the opposite effect. Plus heaven knows what else, thrown in for good measure.”
Norman leant against the side of the cart, his eyes glancing forward for a moment. “So, did you learn anything about your destination?”
She nodded. “Just over the hill, apparently. Father Picot here is just one of several collectors who bring in the captured women. They get carted to the coast and then shipped out somewhere overseas, as prostitutes it would seem. Someone named Burt seems to be running everything.”
Ymbert wrinkled his forehead, putting the tarts back into the bag and wiping his hand off on one leg. “Burt? I did hear a name mentioned when I was over in Carthage. Umberto of Meccini. He is a visiting priest.”
Joan stilled. “I know that name. It was mentioned in several of our reports. He rented out women from his string of stews and aggressively expanded his territory. He liked to use women as madams to manage his houses of ill repute. Said they were better at keeping the workers under control.”
Sybil perked up. “He liked to work with women? Perfect!”
Joan swung to look at her. “The man is a monster.”
Sybil barked a harsh laugh. “As if I haven’t had to deal with that type many times over,” she assured Joan. “This is ideal; just leave everything to me. I will waltz in and explain that I have a regular supply of pure, young women available to me. That rather than ship the girls overseas, we could open business right here.”
Joan shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Father Picot said they avoided local operations, because -”
Sybil’s gaze darkened. “You had your fun. You played with the elderly priest. Now it’s my turn. This is what I do, and I’m superb at it.” She glanced up the road. “Or would you rather we send Hugh in to fight who knows how many guards, on the hope that we figure out where the girls are before they are slain to destroy any evidence?”
Joan looked to Ymbert. “We could send in –”
Sybil cut her off. “You are a visitor here,” she snapped. “We do things our way, and I say I am going in.” She climbed to the front of the cart. “You four wait on this side of the hill for me to return.” Her grin widened. “I am sure I will have everything we need to prove their guilt by that point.”
Ymbert hopped off the edge of the cart, landing lightly on his feet.
Hugh looked over to Norman. “Surely you aren’t agreeing with this?”
Norman rested a hand on the edge of the cart. “We don’t know the layout, and we don’t know how many men we face,” he pointed out. “Sybil is talented at getting men to trust in her. If this Umberto likes to work with women, all the better. She’ll chat him up and get what we need. Then we can sneak in, free the women, and be out before they know it.”
Joan pressed her lips together, saying nothing, and allowed Hugh to help her down from the cart. She had said her piece, and further arguments would only fix Sybil in her position. But there was no way in Hell she would leave Linota and the other women to depend on Sybil’s wheedling to rescue them.
The cart rolled down the road, turned a corner, and vanished from sight. The moment it did, Joan glanced at Hugh and nudged her head left. His eyes serious, he nodded in agreement. The two of them eased silently into the woods, making their way up the long slope.
There was no need for words between them. They navigated the terrain slowly, cautiously, attentive to even the slightest sound or sign of motion. Each foot-fall was carefully placed. They crested the hill and looked down into a small, enclosed hollow. The only entrance was the narrow path which Sybil and her cart were currently traversing.
Joan eased her way east along the ridge, getting a better view of the structures below in the strong moonlight. The main building was three stories high, with a flat roof and small arrow-slits for windows. A low rectangle lay alongside it – stables, judging by the large shapes she saw moving within. Beside that lay a sealed warehouse of some kind, its front door securely locked. All th
ree were backed up against a sheer cliff some fifty feet high. Trees overhung from the top edge, adding even more disguising cover for the buildings below.
Joan carefully made a note of where the various guards stood amongst the many flickering torches and lamps. Three came forward as the cart slowed, helping Sybil down from her seat and talking with her. The distance was too far to hear their low voices, but they seemed more welcoming than hostile.
Hugh’s voice was a murmur. “She could pull it off.”
Joan continued to assess their defenses. Two more guards stood in front of the larger building, there were three walking patrols, and another two moved about within the stables. She had no doubt there were a matching number inside the main structure, and some out watching the entry path as well. Far too many to easily take on.
Joan shook her head. She had read the reports on Umberto over the years, and she knew what the man was capable of. He and his right-hand-woman, Cecily, had been responsible for countless deaths and abductions. They were beyond ruthless. In one report, he had been moving in to take over a rival’s territory. Umberto had captured the wife of the rival and brought her to the top of a building. He held her at the very corner of the roof, threatening to drop her, until the panicked rival gave in and agreed to all the terms of surrender. Umberto had pushed the woman off anyway, to send a message.
One of the guards led the steed and cart into the stables, while the other two escorted Sybil to the door of the main building. She gave them a friendly wave, then sauntered inside.
Joan dropped to one knee, preparing for the wait. It could be two minutes or two hours before the woman came out again. She would be ready.
Hugh moved a hand to the back of his belt, and to her relief he handed over her crossbow. “Thought you might need this,” he offered in a low voice. A handful of bolts followed. “Just in case.”
She smiled at him, turning the crank and laying a bolt in its channel. “You are a wise man.” She drew the weapon up in her hands, sighting down it at the stables, then the main door, then the corners of the roof. The moon’s full light gave sharp relief to the scene. One thing finally falling in her favor. She spoke as she aimed toward one of the burlier guards. “Better to be prepared for anything, with Umberto involved.”