Lisa Jackson_Medieval Trilogy 01

by Impostress

  She felt suddenly sick. Disgusted. Mortified beyond belief. This was far too great a dishonor to allow to happen. By the gods, she wouldn’t allow it, wouldn’t suffer the injustice and humiliation. Wynnifrydd’s fists bunched in the skirt of her fine white dress. Whatever the reason, be she dead or alive, Elyn of Lawenydd wouldn’t get away with it.

  Feeling the winter cold seep through her cloak, Kiera listened to the priest as he intoned a final prayer over the coffin of Lady Lenore. Just the day before, she had spent time with the woman and made a vow she couldn’t possibly keep. Now Kelan’s mother rested in a grave next to that of her husband. The funeral had been rushed at Kelan’s insistence. He couldn’t bear the thought of his mother’s lifeless body lying within the keep’s walls.

  Lady Lenore of Penbrooke’s band of mourners was large, everyone in the keep standing around the freshly turned earth. Peasants, knights, tradesmen, servants, friends, and family had gathered on the slight rise outside the bailey as dark, ominous clouds scudded over the sky. They whispered their own soft prayers and held the hands of their loved ones as the chapel bells pealed plaintively.

  Kiera made the sign of the cross and, with her head still bowed, stole a glance at the Lord of Penbrooke. Dressed in black, his tunic decorated with stripes of leather and silver, he stared into the grave. His face was set in stone as he quietly grieved, his gray eyes darker than ususal, his hair as black as his boots as it ruffled in the brisk breeze. A timid sun dared peek from behind the roiling of clouds, and frost covered the bent, trodden grass of the cemetery.

  Kelan had been distant from her since his mother’s death, caught up in his private thoughts as, through his grief, he saw that the castle ran smoothly. His siblings, too, were quiet and had kept their distance from Kiera. Which was expected, but it gave Kiera too much time alone with her own morbid thoughts, her own guilt. She’d passed more hours than she cared to think of in prayer, hoping for divine intervention from her dilemma and, beyond that, the courage to face the man who thought he was her husband. She’d tried to broach the topic of their marriage since Lenore’s passing, but late last night in bed, it seemed all Kelan wanted to do was lose himself in desperate, passionate lovemaking.

  As the crowd dispersed and two workers began to shovel dirt over the casket, Kelan let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Find peace, Mother,” he whispered so low that Kiera barely heard the words. And then it was done. Lenore of Penbrooke was finally at rest.

  The mourners filed through the gates of the castle into the outer bailey, where most of the horses were penned. Standing taller than the rest, his head turned toward the mourners, Obsidian let out a quiet neigh.

  Kelan glanced in the stallion’s direction. “Shh, Ares,” he said, though he sounded distracted, his thoughts far away.

  “He’s a fine steed,” Kiera said, hitching her chin toward the destrier.

  Kelan nodded as if jarred from his dark thoughts. “Aye. One of the best I own.”

  “How long have you had him?”

  “Only a few years.” He managed a thin smile. “I won him in a game of dice.”

  Desperately Kiera wanted to believe him. “From whom?”

  His eyes slitted with an evil glint. “From one of your old suitors, wife. Did he not tell you?”

  “Who? Tell me what?”

  “Brock of Oak Crest.”

  “Brock?” she repeated, stunned. Brock had owned Obsidian? How? Had he bought him? Found him in the woods that night … ? And suddenly she understood.

  “ ’Twas a few years back when I … when I was out of favor with my father.” Kelan shoved a wayward lock of black hair from his forehead as the first drizzle of sleet hit the ground. “I was drinking at an inn not far from Castle Fenn and Brock arrived upon Ares. He’d been in some kind of battle and was healing from a nasty wound, but he began drinking and clamoring to wager, so I agreed.”

  “And what did you wager?”

  “My horse, of course. At the end of the evening, I had two and Brock had none.”

  Kiera’s mind was spinning. Had Elyn ridden into the woods that night not, as she’d said, for fear of Kiera’s safety, but because she was going to meet Brock? Was the man who attacked her, who had nearly raped or killed her, Brock of Oak Crest? Had Elyn shot her own lover, then left him in the forest to die? Why? Oh, God, why? Jagged memories, bits and pieces, cut through her brain. It had been so dark that night, too dark to see the face of her attacker clearly, but somehow Elyn had been near enough to wound the man with her arrow. Kiera’s stomach clenched painfully. Was Brock not trying to rape a woman he’d come upon in the forest? Or did he think she was Elyn and … and what? Was he angry with his lover? Planning to make her pay for some slight against him? Her knees began to quiver. Why had Elyn shot the man she loved?

  Because she saw him attacking you, and either out of jealousy or fear for your safety, she saved your life, or at the very least your virginity. “Did Brock tell you where he’d got the horse?” she asked, forcing her voice not to quaver and hoping to hide her warring emotions.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  Brock hadn’t been trying to rape her as much as teach his lover a lesson, and Elyn had been jealous and angry and decided to shoot him and save Kiera … that’s how it was. How it had to have been. Walking quickly as the storm began in earnest, they passed through the smaller gate to the inner bailey. Kiera, lost in her own revelations, barely noticed all the activity though the peasants and servants were already back at work, hammers banging, bellows blowing, wheels creaking from carts that were moving through the keep again.

  Kelan’s voice lowered. “Mayhap I didn’t want to know where the horse came from. It mattered not and I knew the stallion to be a prize. Those were dark days, Elyn. Days when I was banished from Penbrooke and cared for no one but myself. If the horse had been stolen, it was not of my concern,” he admitted, with a self-deprecating twist of his lips. That he rued those murky days was evident in the shadows in his eyes. “In truth, I thought Brock had probably taken Ares from his own father.” He glanced her way and managed a thin, humorless smile. “There is much we don’t know of each other. Now come.” He glanced at the darkening sky. “The storm worsens.”

  She withered inside but kept up with his faster pace as icy pellets rained from the sky. She thought of the night she was attacked and the horse was lost, how Elyn had lied and deceived her, and how she, in turn, was deceiving Kelan. Her legs were leaden and her heart was heavy as they hurried up the steps to the great hall. Finally, to start untangling the intricate and painful web of lies, she said, “The steed is my father’s horse.”

  Kelan stopped at the door and his countenance tightened as if he didn’t believe her. “Ares is from Lawenydd?”

  “Aye.” She nodded as a servant opened the door and they stepped inside to the warmth of the keep. “But his name is Obsidian. I recognized him from the scars upon him when I saw him in the stable yesterday. I called to him and whistled and he responded, just as had my horse. You see,” she said, unwrapping the scarf that had been tied around her neck and forcing the damning words past her lips, “three years past, I went against my father’s wishes. I took Obsidian from the stable behind my father’s back and went riding in the woods. He shied and threw me and then he was gone.”

  “Gone?” They walked into the great hall, where servants were already setting up tables for the next meal.

  “Disappeared. My … my sister helped me back to the keep.”

  “She rode with you?” he asked, and she thought about the answer, deciding to hedge.

  “Yes, she was in the forest with me.”

  “Kiera?” he asked, and she nearly jumped at the sound of her name. It had been days since she’d heard it. Rarely from Kelan’s lips. “Did she steal a horse as well?”

  “Yes, Kiera was there,” she said carefully, her heart pounding with dread as she began to reveal parts of the truth. “I didn’t think of it as stealing the horse, more like borrowing him. We … my
sister and I … were together. But losing the horse was my fault.” She didn’t tell him about the rest, about the attack. Perhaps she would later, but not now, not until she’d finally revealed her own secret, that she was not his wife.

  “The next day we found no sign of Obsidian. ’Twas as if he’d disappeared into the night. I feared that something wretched had happened to him, that he’d had a horrible, tragic accident, mayhap that he’d somehow run upon the ridge only to stumble and fall over the cliffs by the sea.” Shuddering at the mental image that had haunted her, she added, “But his carcass was never found. I never knew what had happened to him. Until I saw him in the stable yard.”

  “And you’re certain this is the same horse?” he asked, obviously skeptical.

  “Aye.” She nodded and explained in detail about the scars and Obsidian’s traits, but again she didn’t mention the fact that someone had attacked her, nor did she admit to her identity. That would all come in time. As soon as she knew what had become of Elyn.

  And what if you never know? What if she is like the horse, and has disappeared without a trace? What will you do then? Sooner or later you will have to tell him the truth.

  And she would. When the time was right. She could not live this lie forever.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Had she misread them?

  Or had the stones lied?

  Hildy cupped the cold pebbles in her hands and tossed them across the worn planks of her table. They tumbled and bounced, stopping before sliding onto the dirt floor, shining in the fading firelight. Outside, thunder cracked and storm clouds roiled, but here within her hut, she studied the rocks, and for the first time in her life, she doubted what fortunes she read. She’d seen in the pebbles’ placement that one of the baron’s daughters was to die, though she didn’t know which, and now … now the stones said that there might be another as well … two children killed or maimed from Castle Lawenydd.

  Her old heart was dark with fear, her blood cold as the sleet falling outside.

  Could she tell the baron?

  Could she not?

  From habit, she deftly sketched the sign of the cross over her chest.

  If only Joseph would return, or she would hear from Kiera or Elyn. “Please be with them,” she whispered in a quick prayer as she scooped up the stones and placed them into her tattered bag. ’Twas her walk in life, to balance her beliefs of the old, pagan rituals with that of the Church. Sometimes it seemed as if she was destined to fall from favor with both the Mother Goddess and the Holy Father. Mayhap her own torn faith was the cause of this hellish curse that the stones foretold.

  There was trouble brewing, worse than ever, she feared. A plaintive wail came from beneath the table and Hildy bent down to find her cat cowering in the shadows.

  “Come along, Sir James,” Hildy said, coaxing the frightened beast from his hiding spot. “ ’Tis naught but a storm.” But a shutter banged loudly as if to disagree. The cat slunk farther from her, his eyes wide, his pupils dilated with fear and the darkness. Hildy managed to grab him by the scruff of his neck and pull him close enough to pick him up. He let out another terrified cry, his claws sinking through the rough wool of her tunic. “Ach … calm down, will ya, now? ’Tis not as if you’ve been seeing the future and how dire it is. Why don’t you kill me a fat rat or a mouse, eh, instead of hiding beneath the table?” The cat crawled up her arm to settle onto her shoulders. “Hey, now, look what I’ve got for ya. See here, I took it out of Cook’s scraps and she was going to use it for fish-head stew.” From her pocket she retrieved the head of a small eel and dangled it in front of the cat. He batted at it and pulled it close. “Spoil you, I do,” she groused under her breath. She was still disturbed by the images she’d seen in the stones. “Come along, now.”

  As she placed the cat and morsel by the fire, an alarm bell clanged, pealing loudly throughout the castle walls. Hildy’s old spine turned to ice as she hurried to the door. What now? She thought of the omen in the stones and prayed it was not bad news of the baron’s daughters, for she loved Elyn, Kiera, and Penelope as if they were her own.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” the sentry’s voice boomed over the storm.

  “ ’Tis I, Joseph,” another voice answered.

  Orson’s son! Mayhap with news of Lady Elyn! Hildy’s worried heart nearly leaped from her rib cage. Hurriedly wiping her hands on her skirt, Hildy half ran outside, her footsteps carrying her to the main gate, where the portcullis clanked upward. Soldiers with knives, swords, and maces at ready ran from the barracks. Through the frigid drizzle two horses with riders appeared.

  Hildy squinted hard and pulled her scarf over her head. Aye, it was Joseph on a small, skittish mare who pranced with mincing steps and tossed her dark head, fighting the bit. Despite the icy rain pelting from the sky, the bay was covered in lather. Hildy hurried along a muddy path, caring not that her skirt was trailing in the mud and puddles, hungry for news of Elyn. But it wasn’t the lady who was with Joseph. Nay. She narrowed her eyes at the second horse, a larger, sand-colored animal with darker mane and tail. The rider atop this steed sat awkwardly, listing badly to one side. Only when she got closer did Hildy see the reason. The man appeared to be a prisoner with his hands tied in front of him and a gag cinched over his mouth. He had to balance upon the horse using only his leg muscles while his fingers clutched the saddle pommel. The reins to this mount were held in Joseph’s free hand. The captive seemed about to topple over, and though it was dark, Hildy recognized him. All her fears gelled in that instant.

  Sir Brock of Oak Crest was Joseph’s prisoner.

  No good could come of this. None whatsoever. This was sure to bode ill. A lowly stableboy capturing the only son of a baron. “What happened?” she asked, eyeing the bound man.

  Wincing, Joseph climbed off his mud-spattered mount. His face was dark, his expression harder than she’d ever seen it. “Lady Elyn is dead,” he said through clenched teeth. “I heard the bastard say as much, so I dragged him here. We’ve been riding for hours; we rode straight through the night.”

  “Nay!” she whispered, taking a step back as her legs began to fail her. She thought of the stones, the damning, cursed stones of fate and what they’d forewarned. “Nay, oh, nay.”

  “ ’Tis true.” Joseph spat on the hard ground. His jaw trembled a second and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  Hildy felt her insides turn to stone, and images of Elyn as a child flitted through her mind. Bold, reckless, with a keen sense of humor, she was oftentimes more son than daughter to Lord Llwyd. It had been Elyn whom he’d taken hunting, Elyn whom he’d taught to handle a falcon, Elyn who had been allowed to ride even the most spirited of destriers, Elyn who had been as good with a bow and arrow as any of the soldiers within the keep.

  Hildy’s throat grew thick and tears welled in her old eyes. She loved each of Llwyd’s daughters. She’d helped raise them, and had promised Lady Twyla that she would see to their safety and now … now the firstborn was dead? Though she’d feared as much, though the stones had foretold of a death, Hildy found it hard to believe. Impossible to accept. Nay … not Elyn. Not headstrong Elyn. Nor vibrant Kiera. Nor sweet Penelope. But had not the cursed stones bespoken of not one, but two of the baron’s children dying? Oh, Great Mother, it couldn’t be. Hildy’s throat was choked and she had to force out the painful words. “If Elyn be dead, then where—where is she? Where is her body?”

  Joseph’s jaw clenched. “I know not. Washed away in the river, he says.” Disgustedly the stableboy hitched his jaw in Brock’s direction.

  Hildy gazed up at the son of Oak Crest, his shoulders still stiff with false pride, his chin lifted angrily as the soldiers gathered around and the guard, carrying a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, hurried down from his tower in the gatehouse. He took one look at the prisoner and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Go back to your post, Peter!” Hildy ordered, forcing out the words as she was dying inside. Elyn. Not Elyn. She couldn’t thin
k that Elyn had drowned, had been pulled under an icy curtain of death. Nay, she wouldn’t believe it, not even though the stones had warned of disaster, of heartache. Suddenly, she felt older than her years.

  The guard was undeterred. “But Joseph’s brought a prisoner.”

  “ ’Tis personal,” Hildy snapped, then swept a hand at the soldiers. “All of you, go back to your posts!” Guilt burned bright in her breast. With the warning the stones had given her, could she not have somehow prevented it, or was this … this terrible death Elyn’s destiny?

  “Should not the baron be awakened?” Peter insisted.

  “I’ll speak with Lord Llwyd. You’ve done your duty. Now return to the tower and lower the gate!” Hildy ordered imperiously despite her grief. She had to take control, to save the baron from waking to this horrid news delivered by a thoughtless guard. Nay. The castle could not be awakened now. Not until she had time to think, to sort things through. Everyone at Lawenydd understood that she had the baron’s ear, that he turned to her for advice and sometimes comfort. Few dared argue with her. Peter, the guard, however, appeared to be one of the stubborn.

  “Should I not call the sheriff, or the captain of the guard?” he asked, though he sheathed his sword.

  “Nay! Why wake them? I will handle this, Peter. I told you to go back to your post. I will speak to the baron myself in the morn. If there is any trouble, I’ll take responsibility. Joseph here is my witness. You will not be blamed.” Motioning with one hand, she said, “Joseph, take the prisoner to the dungeon.”

  “Who is he?” Using his hand to protect his eyes from the sleet, the curious guard held his torch aloft to get a better view.

  “A common horse thief, is that not right, Joseph?” Hildy asked, her mind spinning with quick excuses. Silently she hoped the stableboy wouldn’t blurt out the truth. Not yet. “Did this man not steal Baron Llwyd’s mare?”