Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

  “Ye’d best not let the old man hear ye say that.”

  “Or One-Eye.”

  They laughed, and she heard one thump the other’s shoulder companionably. A moment’s more chatter, and the first man was alone again, muttering to himself about the weather and the country and why he had to listen to talk of damned Welsh women when the only one worth having that he’d seen since coming was long since gone, and wasn’t that the devil’s promise.

  Caitlin grinned at the left-handed compliment, then drew her dagger from its sheath and cupped one hand around her mouth. She coughed lightly. Though he was out of sight, she could sense the man turn sharply, could see him frown, could feel him question the soundness of his hearing. She coughed again, and waved a hushing hand at the stirring below her.

  He was coming. Though he was trying to be silent she was able to pick out the swish of his cloak, the rub of his trousers, the irregular slap of his musket’s stock against his arm. Her lips suddenly went dry, and she licked them. Her legs began to cramp, and she ignored the dull pain as she kept her gaze upward, waiting.

  The light from the house spread out in a series of golden bars across the lawn, those from the upper stories slanting gently downward and casting shadows all the way to the wall. She had no problem sorting out his shadow. His capped head almost immediately afterward came into view directly above her. He was staring perplexedly at the water. Then, just as he was about to turn around, he changed his mind and leaned forward, peering through the darkness at a spot just in front of Caitlin. When she judged he wouldn’t bend any farther, she moved—her right hand whipping up and grabbing the front of his shirt, pulling sharply outward and down. Her left hand followed the right instantly, driving the dagger into his throat. With a cry and a gurgling noise, he fell past her like a giant night creature whose wings had failed. When he tumbled, his musket tumbled with him, and the only sign that he’d fallen into the water was a brief and sudden explosion of white in the writhing black maelstrom.

  Swiftly, then, she pulled herself up and over the wall, the others right behind her. The second guard was walking aimlessly in the opposite direction, and they kept to the wall as they ran, breaking for the house only when they were opposite the south tower. Caitlin took the lead, waving the four men on when she reached the door to the staff quarters and fell against the tower wall. Jonson, crouched beneath the single window, inched his way up and peered in, dropped down again and held up one finger. Caitlin pointed to her breast. Jonson, after a moment, nodded. She breathed deeply, stepped away from the tower and took hold of the door.

  A dog barked in the stables.

  The door opened and she raced in, running across the floor and throwing herself on Mary and knocking her to the floor before the chambermaid could utter a single cry. But her eyes, when she recognized Caitlin, widened, and she paled; she groaned beneath Caitlin’s palm and would have fainted had not Caitlin slapped her with the daggered hand.

  “Flint,” she whispered in the woman’s ear. “Flint!”

  Mary struggled to break free, and Caitlin shifted until she was sitting on her stomach, the dagger’s point pressed into her throat.

  “Flint, damn you,” she repeated.

  “Mistress!” Jonson warned suddenly in a whisper, pointing at the door to the tower’s lower hall. “Someone be comin’.”

  “Bradford?” Caitlin asked. Mary shook her head. “Gwen?”

  Mary whimpered, and the dagger jabbed her skin once.

  Jonson and Danny, with clubs in their hands raised and at the ready, stood on either side of the door. Now she could hear the footsteps, a man’s by the sound of them and not stopping at any of the rooms along the way. She held her breath, glaring at Mary to keep her silent, then turned to face whoever entered.

  The door opened, and Nate Birwyn came through. He was four paces into the common room before he realized something was wrong. By that time, Jonson had closed the door behind him, and Danny had drawn his own knife from his belt. The others stepped into the light, but Nate saw only Caitlin straddling Mary on the floor.

  His good eye bulged. “My God!”

  Caitlin slapped Mary once to warn her, then rose, letting Jonson take her place, push Mary into a chair, and stand threateningly over her. “Mr. Birwyn,” she said, “how nice of you to welcome me home.”

  Birwyn tensed, but a quick appraisal of the force ranged against him made him see the futility of attempting to escape. He shrugged acquiescence and perched on a comer of the long table.

  “Didn’t expect you,” he said.

  Time, she thought; I can’t waste time. “Where’s Flint?”

  “How’d you manage it, m’lady?” Birywn asked innocently. “Didn’t think you had the army.”

  “The bay,” Danny told him, moving nearer to show him the glint of his blade.

  “Ah.” Birwyn nodded. “James, y’see, didn’t think you’d try anythin’ in a storm like out there.”

  “Flint!” she demanded.

  “You heard the mistress,” Danny growled. “Where’s Mr. Flint?”

  Birwyn shrugged maddeningly, and Caitlin lost her patience. She walked up to him and showed him her blade, still marked with the blood of the guard. His eye narrowed, and his mouth grew taut. She suspected he was thinking it hadn’t been she who’d done the killing, and though she had not allowed herself to think about her action, it seemed to her, too, that someone else had held the dagger and plunged it into the guard’s throat. Someone else had used his weight and surprise to cast the soldier down into the sea.

  “Flint—for the last time!” she said harshly, and held the point of the dagger close to his eye.

  “Well,” he said without flinching, “there’s a story in that, y’know.”

  Griffin paced the length of the barracks yard and back again, glancing in the door to see if his men still watched their charges. He was worried. Something should have happened by now, and he blamed himself for allowing Caitlin to take such complete charge without offering some advice of his own, or at least suggesting a system of warning and victory signals. As it was, he’d sent Peter to search the grounds around the house, to see what he could learn. And he realized that soon enough his prisoners were going to realize that a concerted rush on the outlaws would overwhelm them handily.

  He walked, and stared toward Seacliff as if the sheer force of his will would allow him to penetrate the darkness and determine Caitlin’s whereabouts. And as he stared, he became aware of a light dancing at the comer of his vision. With his weapon at the ready he spun around just as a wall of flame roared up the front of the barracks across the green. He whirled to snap an order to his men, but he knew it was too late. A guard materialized out of the darkness to his left, saw the fire raging, saw Griffin standing in the full light, and vanished again.

  Courage, he told himself as he hurried inside; have courage, lad, or we’re done for.

  The mercenaries were milling about in their cramped comer, and Griffin, with a stern glance at his men, faced them as he studied the sleek blade his right hand held high.

  “Gentlemen,” he said calmly, “it appears the wind is up. You’re in no mortal danger, of course, if you stay here. I doubt the fire will jump in your laps. But,” he added, slightly louder, using his left hand to wave his men from the building, “I do suspect you will lose something of your lives if you try to leave very soon.” He smiled. “And please, do remember what I told you before. The man who fills your purses will fill them no more.” He moved backward to the door, reached out and took hold of its edge, the heat of the fire nearly scorching his back.

  Two of the mercenaries broke into a run, and stopped as if hitting an invisible wall when Griffin showed them the gleam of his dagger.

  “Hasty,” he scolded. “Very hasty. You’re not thinking, gentlemen, not thinking at all. Of course, I could be wrong, couldn’t I? You could be feeling a profound loyalty to Mr. Flint, and in that case you’ll want to fight for him—to the death, mind—simply becau
se you love him. If that’s the case, then good hunting.”

  He jumped out and slammed the door, throwing the bolt down and stepping aside while his men propped benches against it, using large stones to brace its base. Then he picked three men to stay behind, to watch the window and the door—and to release those inside should the sparks that now filled the air make a torch of the building.

  A muttered word of encouragement, and he turned on his heels and ran, heedless of the mercenaries’ pleading shouts.

  “Story!” Caitlin exclaimed, seething with disgust and impatience. But Nate spread his arms wide to indicate that he had no other choice, that what she wanted to know would not be forthcoming unless she heard him out. She shifted her gaze to the point of her blade and saw in it the distorted reflection of her face. She concentrated on it for several long moments while she wrestled with her temper. When it was done—she had no idea where she’d found the strength to do it—she looked up again and nodded.

  Birwyn combed his fingers through his hair and was about to begin his tale when Danny uttered a terrified, startled oath. Caitlin snapped her gaze to the window and gasped when she saw a hideously deformed visage staring in at her. It was but the space of a few seconds before she recognized Griffin’s man, Peter, his face contorted by the raindrops clinging to the panes. Instantly taking advantage of the interruption, Birwyn threw himself off the table, at once shoving Caitlin backward and flinging out his arm to catch Danny in a vicious blow to the chest. Danny grunted, staggered, as Birwyn snatched his dagger away and sprinted for the door. When Jonson moved to pursue him, Mary rammed her knee between his legs and brought him crashing to the floor.

  Caitlin recovered just as the tower door slammed, shouting an instruction before she took up the chase.

  Her men followed as she sprinted down the short hall into the main house, in time to see Birwyn reach the end of the corridor and disappear to the right. Before she was halfway there, she heard the front door thunder to a close. She slowed, and by the time she’d reached the center hall, she was walking, her men nervously trailing behind her.

  “Flint,” she ordered then. “We’ll take care of Birwyn later. I want this house searched. Every room. Every closet. I want to know where James Flint is!”

  The men scattered, except for the two she had instructed to drag chairs from the dining room as braces against the north tower door, in case mercenaries tried to come through those apartments. Then she raced up the steps to the gallery and began her own search. Room by room. Kicking open doors and leaping over the threshold with her dagger held in front of her. She could hear footsteps below her, shouts, directions, but no cries of discovery.

  She saved her own room for last, and was glad she had.

  The reception room was a shambles, furniture tipped over and tapestries yanked down from the walls. The vanity, too, had been savaged. But the bedchamber stopped her and brought an anguished moan to her lips.

  All the windows had been broken, the draperies shredded and strewn on the floor. The wardrobe was pitted, splintered and tipped over, its back having snapped in half. Mirrors were shattered, chairs gouged and turned to matchwood, and her bed—from canopy to mattress—looked as if an enraged, monstrous lion had clawed it to shreds until nothing was left but the frame, and the posts broken in two. In the center of this chaos lay the grappling hook and rope she’d used for her escape, and it took her no time at all to conclude that Flint, at some time returning here to seek a clue to her whereabouts, had found the device and in an eruption of temper used it to wreak the destruction she now stumbled through.

  Her arms hung limply at her sides as she walked to the fireplace. Her knees gave way and she dropped to the hearth when she saw the bust of her father lying in pieces against the firewall. The dagger dropped from her hand. One by one she pulled the shards of stone from the ashes and laid them in a mound at her knees. She wept, not with sorrow but with impotent rage, a furious red flush crossing her cheeks until, with a strangled scream, she leaped to her feet and raced for the stairs.

  And stopped, suddenly, to listen.

  There was fighting downstairs. She could hear the clash of swords, the crack of blows landing on bone, the crackle of musket-fire, and the crashing of chairs against the paneling and stone. Warily, she trotted to the gallery and looked down, her eyes large and her mouth agape.

  The double front doors were flung open, one of them hanging precariously from a single hinge. Outside she could see wavering images struggling beneath torches held high, and though it lasted but a moment, she was positive she saw Orin Daniels rush by with a club in his hand, his shirt torn from the shoulder.

  In the hall, too, men were fighting, though the conflict was contained and considerably more vicious. It was easy to tell the outlaws by their green vestments, and the mercenaries by their catchall uniforms and bedraggled civilian clothing. And as she watched, stunned into immobility, Griffin sprang from the side corridor at the foot of the staircase, laughing wildly, his hair loose and his left hand brandishing a staff six feet long.

  He waded into the battle almost casually, thumping skulls, grabbing the back of a shirt and flinging a man aside as if he were weightless. He dropped the staff at one point when a band of Flint’s men rushed in from the outside. Picking up the nearest mercenary by his collar and belt Griffin tossed him into the charging men, scattering and rendering them helpless.

  Caitlin’s blood raced, and she called out to him without thinking.

  He turned, and the smile that flashed on his lips made her forget for a moment the dismay she’d felt in her rooms.

  Then she cried out a warning, and Griffin spun around in a crouch just as a club whistled over his head. The man froze in astonishment, just long enough for Griffin to land a blow in his stomach, another to his jaw, and turn to deliver the same combination to a man charging him with an outstretched dagger.

  Davy Daniels stood framed in the doorway, his left arm bleeding. He took one enemy from behind with his staff, then stopped another who was attempting to flee into the dining room.

  Caitlin leaned over the gallery railing and looked toward the back and saw more of the same. It was evident, however, that the few mercenaries who had chosen to hold Seacliff for Flint were losing, and losing badly. Within the space of a few minutes she saw only villagers run out of the corridors, the rooms, through the front doors.

  And then she saw Gwen. And Nate Birwyn.

  They came out of the corridor at the foot of the staircase, Gwen trembling violently, her head held back by Birwyn’s hand clamped under her chin, her back arched to strain away from the dagger he held snugly against her spine. When Griffin saw them, he instinctively raised his staff, but Birwyn shook his head, a great evil smile creasing his lips. One by one the others stopped their fighting, and in less than a minute there were only the sounds of the injured groaning, and a few scattered shouts from the men still fighting on the front lawn.

  “Ye’ll let me and the gel pass,” Birwyn said as if he were discussing the weather.

  Davy and Orin stood in the doorway, their friends ranged on either side, unmoving.

  Griffin was alone in the center of the hall, unconscious men lying in clumps all around him. He shook his head, slowly, and Gwen whimpered.

  “All right, then,” Birwyn said unconcernedly. “There are other ways, man.”

  He moved to the stairs and begin backing up them, pulling Gwen with him. Griffin dropped his staff and reached into his belt to pull out a pistol. It was cocked, but though he moved along the hall, following the two up the steps with the banister between them, Caitlin could see from the frustration in his eyes that he could not get a clear shot at Birwyn without striking Gwen as well. Caitlin moved.

  Without a definite idea of what she could do, she inched along the railing to the top step.

  Griffin’s gaze flicked to her and away. “Birwyn!” he said loudly. “Birwyn, this is madness.”

  Birwyn only tightened his grip on Gwen’s jaw an
d laughed softly at her cry. “We’ll see, Welshman. We’ll see. I been in worse straits afore.”

  “Have you, now?”

  Caitlin took one step down, then another. Her left hand was on the banister, her right hand extended for balance… and to signal the men to be silent.

  “Indeed, Welshman. Indeed.”

  When Birwyn started to turn around to see how far he had to go, Griffin called his name again, sharply, and Caitlin held her breath.

  “Flint,” Griff said. “Where the hell is Flint?”

  “I do believe that little fire out there gave him pause, Welshman. I do believe it did. To tell the truth, I ain’t seen him in quite a while.”

  “He’s a coward,” Griffin sneered, still moving along the hall.

  “Who’s to say?” Birwyn told him. “He lives to fight another day, don’t he?”

  Suddenly, Griffin shouted again, this time flinging the pistol into the air. Birwyn froze and half turned. Caitlin jumped down a step and reached over the banister, caught the pistol, and dropped to a crouch, her finger fumbling for the trigger. The delay was disastrous. Birwyn’s arm stabbed forward and Gwen screamed, threw up her hands and slumped to the steps, a dark red stain spreading rapidly across her waist. Birwyn ignored her. Instead, he took a step up, grinning at Caitlin.

  “M’lady,” he said, “that’s a dangerous thing ye have there.” Caitlin gritted her teeth. “I’ll use it, believe me.”

  “But I’m without arms now,” he said, opening his hands to show her the knife was gone. “You wouldn’t shoot a man without arms, would you?”

  She blocked out his voice as best she could, but she did not retreat. Instead, she rose slowly and stretched out her arms, gripping the pistol tightly and praying none of the powder had fallen from the pan in its flight.

  Birwyn took another step, grinning.

  “Would ye like t’see somethin’, m’lady?” he asked innocently.

  She blinked. He was only eight steps down. One more and he would be close enough to lunge.

  Then, in a movement too swift for her to follow, he snatched off his patch and showed her the black hole where his eye had once been. At the same time he leaned into a running stance, hoping the sight would immobilize her just enough.