by C. C. Wiley
“Look here, it’ll do you no good to bite my head off. ’Tis not my fault. He felt it imperative we bring her here. He would not take no for an answer. Not even from Lady Camilla. Now if you were inclined to ask me, I would tell you that it would be a lucky man to have the privilege to call her your mother.” Holding his weathered hand up to silence his onetime pupil, he continued. “Not that you’re asking, of course.”
While Darrick watched the caravan slowly make its way up the rocky hillside, he relived the accusations tossed around regarding his parents, absorbing the flashes of pain and tears when his father decided to send his mother away to the convent.
Soon they would reach the outer curtain wall, or at least, what was left of it. He could not stop them if he wanted to. He swore under his breath. Clearmorrow’s moat was dry and in disrepair. More the pity, he did not even have a portcullis to lower or a drawbridge to raise. After all, she deserved the same reception he had received from his own family.
Krell sighed deeply and placed his wrinkled hand on Darrick’s shoulder. “The little one, Rhys, rides ahead of the rest. Shall I delay him for a time?”
“I wish to speak to him,” Darrick said. “Krell, you say the men are uncomfortable in his presence. In what way do they find him distasteful?”
“Well, you know how soldiers are, my boy. Superstitious, the whole lot of them.”
“Yes, but a good soldier learns to listen to the quiet voice of danger. What causes their unease?”
“Nothing I can really put my finger on.” He held his palm out to stop Darrick’s interruption, “and ’tis not his size. Though he can make his body shift, growing taller, if he chooses. Do not scoff! I see that look in your eye, Sir Darrick. I’ve seen him shift with my own two eyes. I warn you. Be careful of that one. He puts on airs of being a man of the cloth, but a few of the men asked him for a prayer, and he near bit their heads off. Says he’s on a pilgrimage and cannot break his vow. Though, I don’t know what that has to do with praying over a couple of fools.” Krell stabbed his gnarled finger into the air. “Mark my words. If he’s a man of the cloth, I will eat my helmet, leather straps, and all.”
That creeping feeling of dread now pulsated and tugged at the hair on the back of Darrick’s neck. He had to wonder about the soundness of the old warhorse’s mind. Feelings were one thing but shape shifting was a matter best left for the clergy. His drifting thoughts were called to attention when he heard Krell’s crackled voice go on about his unwanted companions.
“He was hopping mad when you did not show up with the old woman. Said she had cast a spell on you and we would need Lady Camilla to protect the baby from the old hag. So we journeyed to the convent and retrieved your mother.”
“Truth be known,” he whispered, “she, too, does not care to be with him. Although, she’d never speak ill of the church to anyone.” Beaming with pride, Krell added, “She confided her concerns to me. Said he was evil his-self and refused to travel in the same wagon.”
“What does Lady Camilla hold against him?”
“I wouldn’t know. She has been very tight-lipped; except for the crying, that is. Perhaps you should ask her yourself.”
Darrick wondered how well his sergeant-of-arms really knew his mother. Wearily he passed his hands over his face and watched the procession draw closer. “And the men?”
“They feel he overstepped his authority in taking Lady Camilla from the convent but you know how it is with the religious minded. The church is full of their God almighty power.”
“Have a care, Krell. There would be some that would call that blasphemy.”
“Ha!” he huffed. “He might be on a mission, but ’tis not for the church. He is in search of something. His beady eyes follow every step you take. A man cannot even go to do his private business behind a bush without him knowing what you have been doing. Keep your eyes open and never turn your back on him.”
“Is that the weasel that rides this way?”
“Aye, yonder he comes. See him clearly for what he is. Ask yourself, Sir Darrick, how did he know to have us travel here, to this tumbled down pile of ruins?”
Darrick felt the tension intensify as the man rode the horse up to them. As the threatening force drew near, he wondered how Sabine and Elizabeth could have been willing to trust Rhys. On the other hand, Sabine remained unwilling to share all her secrets. How could he trust her too?
Drawing a deep breath, he decided to bide his time. Greed and evil would eventually show its ugly head. You just had to be patient. Trouble was he didn’t know how much time Nathan could afford.
Darrick followed the path that wound up the hill. At least Sabine’s father had placed the castle in a position to see all who approached. Straining to see past the glare of the sun, he was relieved to see that the caravan did not fly their banners. The flag bearers flanked the gilded wagon along with his other knights.
“Why wagons? Krell, you know ’tis dangerous enough with thieves lying in wait. You may have a heavily armed band of men but you bring unwanted notice with the garishly painted carts and wagons.”
Holding his hands out helplessly, Krell shrugged. “’Tis the little one again. Said DePierce would think they were wandering minstrels.”
Before Darrick could respond, Rhys trotted up beside them and climbed off the horse. The man appeared taller than the first time Darrick had seen him. It felt an eternity had passed since he last viewed Rhys’s battered body lying helpless on the pallet. The man had looked like death was only a breath away.
He most certainly recovered quickly, Darrick mused. No bruises or cuts marked his visage.
He could not say that of himself or Sabine.
The unexplained desire to pummel the creature rose like bile in his throat. Reining in his anger and frustration, he patiently waited for Rhys to explain his actions.
“Young knight,” the scrawny man hailed. “We meet again. And the old hag?” he asked, searching nervously, “Is she safe?”
“Alas, the old hag is no more.”
“What say you?” he sputtered. “Surely, she yet lives!”
“She lives…but she is not an old hermit, as you well know.”
“Ah…and…the babe? It too, fares well?”
Darrick pulled the dagger from his boot and began to play with the sharply honed edge of steel. Speaking softly, he forced the irritating clergy to lean in closer to hear what he had to say. “How did you know about the baby?”
Rhys kept his eyes focused on the light playing upon the steel of the blade Darrick twirled in his hand. Nervously, the clergy tugged on the cowl of his robe, giving his neck more room. “Eh? What’s that you say…Oh, well…” he stammered, “I am sure you realize your men talk. Like women, you know. Gossips. The whole lot of them. Devil’s helpers. That’s what they are.” Shaking his ragged head, he clucked. “Must keep a firmer hand to them.”
“Perhaps this evening you would do me the honor of delivering a sermon on the evils of gossiping.”
“No…no…’twould not be necessary.”
Rhys reminded Darrick of the huge crows that hopped about the tree limbs overhead with their shifting black beady eyes, ready to dive on the next crumb of food. The black crow was squawking at him again.
“More discipline is needed over your knights and men-at-arms. That Sergeant Krell is not very agreeable. Not at all. Worst of the lot. I had to explain my plan repeatedly. Not very bright.” He tapped his forehead. “Perhaps he needs a bloodletting to release the bad humors from his body. Not sure we can find a barber close by but I have had some training in the art of releasing the tormenting humors.” Rhys’s crow-like head bobbed and nodded in agreement to no one in particular. “’Tis certain that is what he needs.”
Darrick folded his arms across his broad chest causing his flexed muscles to ripple. He knew Krell had heard Rhys’s tale and would be enraged at the story h
e was telling. Catching the look on the sergeant’s visage out of the corner of his eye, his lips twitched. “I…ah…thank you for your concern regarding my men. I will be sure to look into everything you say. As for Krell…well, he will have to endure his personal torment for now.”
Standing off to the side, his longtime friend’s face was turning a blotchy red. The old man’s bushy white eyebrows quivered as they drew together. His weathered hand stole to the broad sword he carried on a wide, battled scarred, leather belt at his waist.
He did not need anyone to inform him that Krell was close to running the man through. Purposefully ignoring Krell, he tilted his head reverently towards Rhys. Forcing his jaws to relax into a bland smile, his voice ran smooth as warmed honey. “Please continue and explain your strategy for the defeat of DePierce.”
“Here?” he squeaked.
Darrick shrugged, forcing his body to relax. “Is there a reason why we should not?”
Rhys peered nervously around his shoulder, quick to change the subject. “You say the wench is safe? She still lives?”
“Is there a reason that she should not?” Darrick fixed him with a stare that pinned him where he stood. “Tell me, Rhys, why does DePierce want Sabine so badly? Why is he relentless in his hunt?”
Refusing to answer, Rhys’s eyes glittered in the sun when he looked up at the towering man. “She brought you here.”
“Get back to the questions.”
“What’s wrong, young knight?” his voiced rasped out. “Do you have so little trust in me? Did I not lead you to the island and to your sister?”
“Not soon enough,” he ground out. “My sister’s life was lost!”
He itched to shake Rhys until his teeth fell from his head. If he knew exactly what was going on, he would have already hung him from what was left of the crumbling tower. For now, he would have to pretend he believed him and needed his plans. Krell was right in his warnings. The little clergyman was not about spiritual pilgrimages.
“But you knew that already,” Darrick continued. “Why did you lead me there? What is it you really desire?”
“Only the blessings of God, my son.” A serene smile that did not reach his beady eyes stole across his visage. “Your father always trusted my knowledge and wisdom,” he said. “You should know you can trust me after I helped you find Lady Sabine. Now that you know what she hides, I cannot imagine why you would still ask what DePierce wants with her. Not after you have seen what secrets she carries. She has shown you by now. What she stole. Took a great chance. Not very bright. Do you not agree?”
Caught off guard, Darrick worked to shutter his surprise.
Rhys’s nose twitched. “Lord DePierce was an outraged man after she escaped from his tower. As you are aware, stealing is against God’s commandments. But,” he shrugged, “when one needs to take something away from evil, one must do what he must.” Feigning surprise, he smirked. “By the look on your face I see that she does not trust you enough to share her little secret. I cannot help but wonder what else she is hiding.”
Darrick spun on his heel, his cloak whirling silently about him. Only those who had served with him for many years and knew him well understood the knight’s dark mood.
“Krell,” he barked. “Have Lady Camilla join me at the well. I believe she has a grandson to tend. Watch the clergyman. I must take care of a few loose ends.”
“I am a devout man of the cross,” Rhys whined. “What of my plan for DePierce? Am I to be punished for the whore’s foolishness?”
Darrick swung past Rhys and the men resting by the water well. “Krell.”
“Sir?”
“Keep him quiet. I am certain you will know what to do if he should try to disappear.”
Krell flashed him a devilish grin as he grabbed the clergyman by the scruff of the neck. “I’ll see to it personally.”
Darrick smiled thinly despite himself, and continued, “Make camp by the tower. ’Tis not completely out of the weather but you have a good position to watch all who attempt to enter. We will discuss our strategy for Balforth when I return.” With a curt nod of his head, he turned to go into the tunnel.
* * * *
Lady Camilla stood at the well, waiting. His mother. Did she still smell of roses mixed with other sweet flowers?
Staring at her, he saw the signs of aging scattered on the woman he once loved as his mother. Her lowered hood revealed her previously raven mane, now shot with silver and plaited in a neat braid. The years etched her smooth face with tiny wrinkles. Her cheekbones, rosy from the wind, stood out from her pale face. Nevertheless, Darrick noticed her watery eyes had not changed. They still sparkled with unshed tears.
She smiled weakly, her lips trembling from the effort. She stretched her hand out, “Please, Darrick, ignore your hatred for me and take me to my grandson.”
Darrick felt he was living a nightmare. When he was a youngster, he had prayed every night that she would reach out and hold him as she once did. But how could he trust her again? His own mother had helped arrange for the marriage between Hugh and Elizabeth. Grabbing the frail wrist she held out to him, he dragged her close. “How did you know there was a boy child born to your only daughter?”
“That horrid little man, Rhys, told me.” With her wrist held in his tight grasp, Camilla’s voice shook. “He and your men came to the convent. He said Elizabeth was dead. That you were missing but he knew where to find you because he was led by God. He said I was needed. I did not want to travel with him but he said, ’twas at your request that I come.”
“I did not request your presence here, nor would I ever. If you are searching for redemption you are looking to the wrong person.” Unable to give her the honor of calling her mother, he promised, “Camilla, we will talk later regarding the marriage of my sister to that cretin you and Father chose for her. There is much to answer for. I will leave you with this question. Was the prize so dear that you were willing to forfeit the life of your only daughter?”
Feeling her frail bird-like bones grind against each other, disgusted with his lack of self-control, he flung her hand away. Turning abruptly, he went in search of the only woman he had dared to almost trust. He must speak with Sabine.
Darrick stopped, realizing his mother had not moved from the spot where he left her and he returned to her side. Visibly shaken, Camilla stood with her head bowed. She cradled her wrist in her hand. Sighing deeply, he took hold of her arm and directed her towards the opening. Leading Camilla down the stairway by the elbow, he scanned the dark corners, searching for Sabine.
Chapter 20
Sabine paced the tiny alcove while feeding the baby fresh goat’s milk. The cold mood of her knight penetrated the cave faster than the damp air from the mists over the channel. Her steps faltered.
The regal woman he led down the stairs wore a dress of plain wool. Fur adorned the neck. Her hooded velvet cloak rustled as it glided across the dusty stone floor.
“’Tis all right, Sabine. This is Lady Camilla of Lockwood.” Darrick’s voice shook with the anger that seethed just below the surface. “She has much to make amends for and I am led to believe that this is where she wishes to start. From now on, she’ll see to the care of my nephew.”
“He is correct dear,” the woman whispered. “And although he hates to admit it, I am Sir Darrick’s mother, as well.” Holding her arms out for the baby, she smiled. “Please, may I hold my grandson?”
Sabine cradled the baby closer to her chest and stood proudly erect. “But Chance has just returned.”
She held Darrick’s gaze, questioning him if it was truly safe to hand his nephew over to this unfamiliar woman. She could see he struggled to hold his anger in place. He teetered on the edge and she did not want to receive the brunt of his wrath. The unnerving thought that she had yet to tell him everything nibbled at the back of her mind. She prayed she had not waited too long
.
Her knees shaking, she fought the fear of handing Chance over to his grandmother. “I beg your pardon, Lady Camilla,” she squeaked. “I had not anticipated your arrival. Please forgive me.”
“Of course, dear.” Camilla nodded. “Why would you?”
Sabine delivered the baby into Lady Camilla’s arms. She smoothed the patch of fuzz away from his face, kissing his tiny fingers one-by-one.
“Come, Sabine,” Darrick growled, “do not take on so. ’Tis not like you’ll never see him again. We are only going to walk the tunnel for a bit.”
Grabbing her hand, he led her to a private alcove. His gaze slid over her face, trailing a shimmering path to her breasts. “Or do you have other plans that do not include me?”
Guilt played across her face. Her pink cheeks radiated from embarrassment. Ducking her head, she played with the folds of her dress, searching desperately for an explanation she could give her knight.
She had heard everything. Unwittingly, the men stood above one of the hidden airways her father had built. Not only did it provide fresh air to the tunnel, it also carried raised voices through the opening. She had planned to show Darrick the papers earlier but looking at them brought back painful memories that she did not want to face.
The hurt from Darrick’s lack of trust ran deep. The knowledge that he was quick to believe Rhys over her was almost more than she could tolerate. True, she should have shown him what she carried, but that was water under the bridge. She could not change what had taken place any more than she could have changed her mistake in trusting DePierce for help.
Sabine rubbed at the healing stitches on the side of her head. Standing with her back stiff and erect, she held her head proudly and waited for his announcement of hatred. She knew she had delayed far too long. Perhaps their fragile partnership was beyond repair but she had to try to reach the gentle nature that he carried hidden deep inside. The wary look in his eyes stung her heart. He would have trouble believing anything she had to say.