by Lisa Jackson
She nodded.
“Here. Look at the map.”
She took the doeskin and stood nestled against him as she studied the map she’d nearly memorized.
“On the eastern portion,” he said, and touched the doeskin where the drawing was of three mounds. The two on either side were rounded, the one in the middle was jagged.
She trained her eyes on the mountains again, examining the vista. “You could be right.”
“Could?” he said, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head. “What was it you wanted me to say?”
“That you knew where you were going. That I shouldn’t worry.” She turned to face him. So close. Only a hairsbreadth separating them, so near she could feel the heat of his body, see the barest outline of a bruise upon his cheek. “But you still don’t know where we’re going.”
“Of course I do, Bryanna,” he said with a wink as he threw her own words back at her. “Worry not.”
She felt the icy panic of the mountain crossing slip away in the glow of his confidence. “Where?” she asked. “Where are we going?”
“To Holywell.”
“And why are we going there?”
“Because, as Rosie told us, it’s to the east, and if you look at the map, you’ll see the dark spot with a cross upon it. We thought it might be a grave or a church, but I think we were wrong.”
“You think it’s a holy well?” she asked, as the wolf climbed into her line of vision. She slunk just beyond the first layer of trees rimming the spot of grass.
“Not only that, wife Brynn,” he said, nettling her. “I believe that somewhere in the town we’ll find another piece of this bloody map and another stone, the damned emerald for the east.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I don’t want to hear one more excuse! Not one!” Hallyd’s patience was as frayed as one of Vannora’s blankets as he stood in the great hall with this ragged group of men who were part of his army, such as it was. Still sweating from his daily sparring ritual, he looked from one man to the next, most of whom avoided his eyes. Because they were ashamed, or because his discolored eyes set people on edge? Son of a cur, why did he have to trust his fate to imbeciles, idiots, and incompetents?
And Vannora. You put your faith in a woman who molds your mind into believing she possesses great power. Maybe she does, or maybe everything she does is only an illusion, a creation of your weak, willing mind.
Who’s the idiot?
The imbecile?
The bloody damned fool?
He tossed his sword to a page with instructions to have it cleaned, then mopped his brow with the back of his hand. Bloody hell, the men were still staring at him like the morons they were.
One gloved fist clenched, and he would have liked nothing more than to slam it into Frydd’s reddish face, yet he knew it would serve no purpose. The men were tired, having ridden for weeks in search of her. And truth to tell, he knew his rage burned not because of his inadequate patrols but because she was with another man. He burned for Bryanna. Each night he itched to find her again.
This was not the way he had foreseen his release. But then, Vannora had misled him.
While one servant replaced candles and another swept the floor rushes away from the fire, he glared at his pathetic lot of warriors. “You found nothing? No sign of them?” he asked, pacing in front of the fire. The men stood in a semicircle around him, shifting from one foot to the other, their swords clinking at their sides, their uniforms dirty, their faces unshorn and haggard.
“Our company headed east,” Galton said. He was the tallest of the soldiers and the smartest, a man whose allegiance Hallyd doubted, but whose brains he did not. “We searched the mountains and hills. Though at times there was rumors of a man and woman who had been traveling through the countryside, she on a white jennet, he a black steed, the stories were few. A traveling musician in one town swore he’d seen their camp. A woman selling eggs in a village saw them stopping at the well. One innkeeper swore a couple had spent the night there.” Galton shrugged at that point, and Hallyd wanted to reach down the man’s throat and drag the words over his damned tongue.
The thought of Bryanna with the bastard Gavyn caused his blood to boil, and he nervously scratched the side of his face, irritating a spot that was already raw.
“Ain’t ye gonna tell ’im about the grave?” Afal asked.
“What grave?” Hallyd’s impatience manifested itself in a tic near his eye.
“The one we discovered east of here, long ago. We thought it might be where the witch was laid to rest,” Galton said, his eyes dark as a bat’s wing. “There were rumors that Kambria was buried in a pauper’s grave, though no one knew the exact location.”
“You found it?”
“We found a mound of freshly turned earth, two days after the man and woman upon the distinctive horses had passed through a nearby town.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Weeks.”
“And I was not told?” he roared, and mopped his brow once more with the back of his glove. Christ, he could use a cloth.
Galton had the audacity to take a step forward. “You ordered us not to return until we had found them . . . m’lord.”
Hallyd’s teeth gnashed together. He wanted to cuff the insolent pup with the back of his hand, for there was defiance in Galton’s stance, a challenge in the set of his jaw. They both understood that he was the smartest, strongest, and most daring of any of Hallyd’s soldiers.
“You will take me there,” he said. “Tonight. We’ll travel at sunset.”
“The men are tired.”
“They can rest now. There are still a few hours of daylight.” Hallyd eyed the soldiers, who dared not grumble but were clearly unhappy. Had they no vision? No desire? No damned understanding of how important this pursuit was? “Stay here and the cook will see that you are fed, your thirst well quenched.” He snapped his fingers at a page, and the boy took off at a dead run to the kitchen.
Let them rest, simpleton soldiers. They had no idea of the scope of their task—the immense magnitude of the victory Chwarel would know once they recovered the dagger.
It would soon be in his hands. He could feel it.
The rise of power.
So this is Chwarel, Lord Deverill thought as he gazed up at the huge keep made of dark stone. Astride a great dappled steed that was far inferior to Rhi, the Lord of Agendor was followed by a small army, as well as Hallyd’s greedy little spy.
On horses of differing sizes and color, they clustered together on a hillock that rose above the road leading to the massive castle. Deverill narrowed his eyes upon the wide wall walks and barbicans. From the highest watchtower the black and silver standard snapped in a stiff breeze as steely clouds, cut by shards of sunlight, slid across the sky like the underbelly of a great serpent. The entire keep seemed gloomy and dreary, a fortress devoid of color.
Deverill watched as men and women—peasants, peddlers, soldiers, and tradesmen—walked into and out of the main gate, a wide mouth yawning open that showed just a hint of the edges of the portcullis like brittle metal teeth.
’Twas an ugly castle.
“This is where your lord resides?” he asked the spy. “Day and night?”
“Aye.”
“But he only leaves the great hall after the sun sets?”
Cael nodded. “Or if the day is dark with clouds.”
Deverill had learned much about Lord Hallyd, the night marauder, from this runt of a man. A spy who couldn’t keep his mouth shut and was forever searching for a way to get into Deverill’s good graces.
’Twas a sign that Lord Hallyd’s judgment was skewed. Even a blind man could see that Cael was untrustworthy, the kind of soul who would sell his services to the highest bidder.
“Nay, he stays inside if there is too much sunlight. As I told ye. ’Tis cursed he is.”
“Gut rot.” Deverill didn’t believe in curses or spells or anything that could not be seen. Oh,
he pretended to be a pious man, for it was expected. Being the baron, he had to at least appear to be a believer, but the truth of it was that he wasn’t convinced there was a God. Not the pagan gods of his ancestors, nor the Christian God who demanded such a price in blood for His Crusades.
That Hallyd had gone from priest to baron only reinforced his opinion. If the man were a true believer, a disciple of God and Christ, why would he lay down his vestments and don the armor of a warrior? Why sacrifice piety for physical reward?
“So let us visit your lord,” Deverill said, urging his horse forward. “You go on ahead and tell him I seek an audience with him.”
“That I will.” The spy kicked his mule of an animal and took off flying down the lush grass of the hillside, heading toward a creek’s swollen current.
Deverill and his company followed at a slower pace, allowing time for Cael to bring word of their arrival to Hallyd and his men.
By the time they reached the main gate, they were allowed to pass. Pages collected the reins of the horses and the captain of the guard promised care for the animals, as well as food and drink for Deverill and his men.
Inside the gloomy keep, the soldiers were offered roast pig, salted eels, and tarts of mince along with cheese, wine, and jellied eggs. Deverill was brought to the main table, where Hallyd, a big man in a black tunic, stood and greeted him.
As pages poured wine and the men ate, Hallyd discussed little other than running the keep, the trouble with servants, a bad crop of hay, and the weather. Only when their trenchers had been pushed aside and they were sipping wine did he say, “Cael told you what we discovered, about your horse and son.”
“You mean the murderer and thief,” Deverill corrected him. “I do not think of Gavyn as a son.” He made a broad you-understand-this motion with his hand. “He was the result of lifting one too many skirts. Though I do not doubt he is the product of my bedding his mother, I do not think of him as my son. A bastard he is and will always be.”
“You only want him brought to justice.” Hallyd drank from his cup and looked at Deverill with eyes that appeared oddly owlish, dark centers with the tiniest ring of color about the huge pupils.
Those eyes . . . like chambers in hell. Deverill had seen much in his life—anomalies and hideous injuries, a man run through with a lance, another beheaded during battle, a family lost to fire—but never had he looked at a man and sensed such a darkness as that which seeped from this man. It was as if Hallyd was devoid of a soul.
’Tis only his eyes, his mind insisted, but he knew Hallyd’s evil ran far deeper. For the first time in a long, long while, Lord Deverill of Agendor felt more than a drip of fear.
“My interest is not in your son . . . er, the murderer,” Hallyd said, leaning back in his chair. “He can live or die or be banished and I care not.”
“But the woman?”
“Ahh, yes, just as you and the man have a conflict to resolve—”
Deverill snorted. Conflict? ’Twas not a conflict. Gavyn had been a burr in his side from the moment Ravynne had borne him. Deverill enjoyed a conflict, looked forward to a battle. Gavyn, the killer and horse thief, was far, far worse than a simple conflict.
“—I have a score to settle with the woman. You know I am a man of great faith and spent many years in the service of God and His Holy Son. So it pains me that the woman is rumored to be a sorceress, and she has something of mine of great value. Just as the murderer has your horse, this woman has a dagger that belongs to me. My men and I were preparing to ride this evening, to a place where the thief and woman were spotted. Mayhap we can strike a deal to run them to the ground. If we ally together, combine our armies, split them into small companies that can canvass a greater area and flush them out”—he appeared to warm to his topic—“then, when we finally find them, we’ll divide the spoils.” His smile was pure evil. “You take the bastard to face justice, and I’ll deal with the witch. Together, we will divide and conquer,” he suggested in a tone that made Deverill’s blood run cold.
The Lord of Agendor hesitated.
Intuitively he knew that any connection to a soulless being like Hallyd was a mistake. And yet, the man was right, they could help each other. He offered his hand, and Hallyd shook it firmly while motioning to a page with the other.
“More wine,” Hallyd insisted. “We have much to celebrate with our new alliance.”
The page, a pockmarked boy with floppy brown hair, scurried from the great hall.
Releasing Deverill’s hand, Hallyd fixed those eerie eyes upon him and said solemnly, “Now, I’m going to tell you a tale about a witch, a dagger, and a curse. And then, my friend, we’ll ride.”
Holywell was bustling, the town crowded and flush with peddlers and farmers’ carts. Children ran through the streets chasing dogs. Geese honked, goats bleated, and cart wheels creaked.
The trek to this village had taken longer than Gavyn had anticipated, the travel slow and treacherous. It had been nearly a fortnight since they had stood on the mountain and decided to travel here, that day when he’d deciphered the symbols on Bryanna’s doeskin map. Though the distance itself had not been great, the terrain had been nearly impassable, the weather ranging from snow to sleet to sunshine promising spring.
Slowing their journey even more, Bryanna had wearied often and developed a ravenous appetite. Fortunately the forests had been rife with game. Now, as the horses made their way through the gates of Holywell into the town, the packhorse was carrying the skins of many animals that had given up their lives to Gavyn’s arrows. He had collected a nice bundle of fox, weasel, badger, rabbit, and mink skins, the lot of which he would barter for food, shelter, and wine.
“Come,” he said to Bryanna. He hitched his chin toward an inn with horn windows and thick shutters. “Let’s find you a room.”
He thought she might protest, but instead she offered the tiniest of smiles, the first he’d seen in nearly a day. Once inside a small establishment that smelled of wood smoke and roasted meat, he paid the innkeeper, a dry, spindly man, for the room, then carried their pitiful few pouches up the stairs.
His “wife” followed slowly behind him. As they had since the onset of their journey, they claimed they were a married couple, Cain and Brynn, and though he’d never considered himself the kind to settle down with one woman, a part of him wanted to be with Bryanna always.
A stupid thought, he told himself as he left her alone to rest while he saw that the horses were stabled, fed, watered, and groomed.
From there he found a tailor, whose face softened when Gavyn began pulling soft animal pelts from his satchel. After some discussion, Gavyn ended up with coins in his pocket and a new tunic of deep forest green for himself. He also purchased a warm woolen mantle trimmed in rabbit for Bryanna, along with another tunic that cost him more than he could afford to spare. Nonetheless, he was pleased with his purchases, especially the mantle, as the cowl could be drawn about her face and the fur would be soft against her skin.
He returned to the inn with his prizes, then, before climbing the stairs, ordered them bread and cheese, a platter of sliced, roasted boar, and a jug of wine. He’d started for the steps once again before another thought struck him. Turning back to the innkeeper, he requested that a bath be brought to their room.
But it was too late.
When he opened the door of the room, he found Bryanna already asleep, her small body curled under the blankets of the bed. She looked so peaceful, he hated to disturb her. He tiptoed around the room with his purchases, unable to resist stealing glances at her resting form. Red curls tumbled over the pillow, and her skin glowed pale as a summer moon in the shadowed room.
“By the gods, what are you staring at?” She opened one eye and he laughed aloud.
“Were you trying to trick me by feigning sleep?” he asked.
“I was just dozing, resting my eyes. I thought you would be gone a while. . . .” She sat up and yawned, stretching one arm over her head before she spied the
bundle in his arms. “What have you done?”
“I’ve been bartering. I bought myself a new tunic.” He held up his purchase.
“At last!” She grinned. “Now we can finally wash the one you’re wearing. ’Tis smelly.”
He rolled his eyes. “And one for you.” He held up the long gown and she gasped, a hand covering her mouth. “It’s beautiful, but how did you—”
“It seems a mink skin or two is worth much.” Holding up the mantle, he said, “This will keep you warm. Yours has been worn thin.”
Her eyes rounded and she threw back the covers before she realized she was wearing only her chemise. “Oh.” She blushed to the roots of her hair and hurriedly reached for her old mantle, tossed carelessly on the foot of the bed.
“Don’t,” he said, approaching her and slowly wrapping the new cloak over her shoulders. The soft folds fell nearly to the floor and he drew the laces tight enough that the fur tickled her chin.
“Thank you, but, really, you should not have spent your money on this.” Tears touched the corners of her eyes.
“I wanted to.”
“Gavyn—”
“Cain,” he reminded her. As she gazed up at him, he couldn’t resist. For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, he kissed her, drawing her near, feeling her supple, yielding lips. The breath of a sigh escaped her as her knees gave way and he caught her in his arms.
Closing his eyes, his arms wrapped around her small body, he felt lost in her. His mind swirled with erotic images of making love to her, of lying on this bed and feeling her writhing beneath him. He imagined her fingers sliding down his chest and reaching lower to his abdomen. . . .
A rap sounded at the door.
“Someone is here?” she asked, pulling away.
“The innkeeper,” he said, his head still reeling despite his empty arms. She reached for her tunic, but he shook his head. “You’re fine.”
He opened the door to the two boys lugging a wooden tub. Gavyn stepped back as they carried it in, then hurried back downstairs for buckets of warm water. As the boys filled the tub, a young girl who resembled the stern innkeeper lined it with towels and placed a cake of lavender soap nearby. As the boys lugged in the final buckets of steaming water, the innkeeper’s daughter delivered their wine and a tray of smoked meat and cheese, along with eggs, apple tarts, and dark bread.