“No!” With an oath, she spun to see Caden holding a bunch of her skirt in his manacled hands. “What have you done?”
“Spared you from blood on your hands.”
“You fool!” With all her might Sorcha punched his face, taking out her hopelessness on him. The blow staggered him, but the one that struck her from behind exploded in a flash of light and pain worse than that reported from her fist. Thankfully, darkness consumed it all. Pain, anger, and utter despair.
Chapter Nineteen
Sorcha’s head hurt like thunder. She’d come to her senses back in the guardhouse with Gemma tending her. But Sorcha would drink nothing to soothe her aching head. She wanted it clear for tonight. While the wedding celebration approached its third day, she would escape. Caden as well, if he had an inkling of sense when the time came. But Sorcha would not be a victim.
“Hussa wants to preserve the peace bound by my wedding,” Eavlyn had told her earlier that afternoon.
But the Bernician ruler also had to placate his witans and those who distrusted Eavlyn’s peaceweaving. So no matter how much the priest and Princess Eavlyn prayed over her and assured her that the Lothians would see her spared, Sorcha preferred Gemma’s escape plan. Better to die trying to get away than wait submissively on chance to save her from placing her arm in the burning oil for a crime she did not commit.
For now, Sorcha kept her secret to herself, lest someone overhear her sharing it with the man in the cell next to her. It was all arranged. The tavern keeper Mann and serving girl would help. Utta would pose as kitchen help to bring the night guards some beer while the feasting and revelry continued in the hall. Beer laced with mandrake, just enough to make them sleep. Once they were in a dreamworld, the maid would set Caden and Sorcha free and give them what money Mann and Gemma had scrounged together for travel.
Meanwhile Gemma would perform at the tavern to avoid being associated with the escape or giving them away. Certainly two traveling alone would not draw as much attention as two with a dwarf and child in their company. Gemma and Ebyn would catch up with them in Lothian, beyond Hussa’s reach, if Princess Eavlyn’s peaceweaving held. If not—
Then God help them. If He listened to such as her.
The hours stretched interminably toward the midnight change of the guard. The priest and Lunid came to visit, to pray, and to commiserate. Sorcha joined them, wanting their faith that God was in control. Yet she couldn’t help but take more comfort in knowing escape was at hand, rather than resting on their prayers and promises to keep searching for the real culprit behind Cynric’s death and change the nature of the ordeal to one of combat. As for who murdered Elford’s lord, the answer was as plain as Hussa’s beard. It was Tunwulf and Rhianon. But there was no proof.
“We must take care not to upset the fragile peace between Bernicia and Lothian,” Father Martin had reiterated as he prepared to leave. “But so must the Bernicians.”
“Can your God spare me from the boiling oil … protect my arm so that it won’t burn?” Sorcha asked. She hoped against hope that He could.
But Lunid’s answer did not reassure her. “God’s ways are not ours.”
What did that mean?
Sorcha only knew what it didn’t mean. Escape. How foolish she’d been to even entertain the idea that the Christian God could do any more than the pagan ones.
Except for the incident with the boar. That still played across her mind.
Her mind seesawed from groping faith to heart-seizing doubt until the guard finally changed at midnight. Sorcha strained to listen for Utta’s approach above the excited beat of her heart. She paced back and forth till she wore a path in the rushes covering the earthen floor, stirring the scent of old urine in the dampness of the night. At the slightest hint of sound, she stopped and listened.
“Trouble sleeping?” came Caden’s husky voice from the other side of the wall. He’d snored on and off since supper had been brought in as though he had not a care in the world.
“Only a fool wouldn’t,” she shot back. “But then, it’s not your arm to be fried tomorrow, is it?”
“Martin will find a way out of this for you. He and Modred both press for a trial of combat by working on the bretwalda’s warrior pride. Hussa understands might more than spirits.”
“And you will fight?” Sorcha pushed down a second guess at her own plan. But while Caden had the look of an able warrior, her escape plan was more certain. “And you believe God will save us?”
“I’ve seen His miracles firsthand.”
But Sorcha recognized his hesitation for what it was. “And you believe?”
“I’m trying hard to, woman!” he snapped, impatient. “I know what faith can do. It broke the chains from Paul’s hands and feet, opened his cell door.”
Sorcha pressed against the bulkhead separating them. This language she understood. “Who’s Paul? What had he done?”
But before Caden could answer, Utta’s voice sounded from outside.
“Well now, what ’ave we here?” she cooed, although her tone resembled more that of a crow than a dove. Fortunately, with Utta’s buxom curves, men didn’t seem to mind. Sorcha could almost see her friend sidling up to one of the guards.
“Paul is an apostle,” Caden began.
“Shush!” Sorcha rolled her eyes. All the day and half the night had passed, and now the man wanted to talk.
“Two men left to duty while the rest revel the night away,” Utta continued with the same coquettishness that earned her a good night’s wage beyond Mann’s meager pay.
One of the guards said something, and the barmaid let loose a raucous laugh. “Maybe,” she replied, “after ye have a sip o’ the beer the ’ousethane’s wife sent ye lads.”
“What makes that old bull so kindly?” one of the men queried.
Mildrith oversaw the dispensing of her lord’s drink as if it were her own, but Utta couldn’t know that.
“In ’er cups, why else, luv?”
Quick-witted and saucy, Utta was. Sorcha hoped the silence meant that the men were drinking.
“Oh, bother,” the tavern maid exclaimed in alarm. “Someone’s comin’!”
Sorcha’s breath caught. No, not now.
“’urry ’n’ finish it up, lads, a’fore we’re all in trouble.”
After another pause, the clang of tin cups being gathered signaled they’d been emptied.
“Hide round the back,” one of the guards instructed. Punishment was severe for drinking on duty.
“Something’s amiss,” Caden observed under his breath from the other side of the wall. “Who’d visit at this—”
“Aye, now hold your tongue!” Sorcha leaned against the cool plaster. A midnight visitor was definitely not part of her plan. What if Utta were scared away? Worse yet, what if she were caught? Although Utta was resourceful. She might play tipsy, finagle her way out of it, but—
What if the guards fell asleep during this nocturnal visit?
Alarm pelted Sorcha from all sides.
“Open the door. We’re here to see the prisoners.”
Tunwulf! Sorcha groaned. Not him. Not now.
“Expecting company?” Caden whispered.
“Aye, but not him,” Sorcha complained aloud.
The outer door creaked open. “This way, milord and lady,” a guard instructed.
Lady? Had Rhianon recovered?
Light from a lantern entered the darkness of the narrow hall. The guard hung it on an iron hook for the visitors.
Caden gave a low laugh. “You look well for someone who lingers at death’s door, Rhianon.”
“I thank the goddesses my stomach rebelled at the poison, ridding me of it,” the woman answered. “Though I am still weakened.”
“What mischief are you about now?” Caden asked.
“Regret should spill from those lips, Caden, not mockery. I came to say good-bye, for fortune has turned against you.” Her voice dropped, suggestive. “After all, you were my husband.”
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nbsp; Sorcha pressed her ear to the small opening that allowed the guard to look through the door into the cell as the guard let Rhianon into Caden’s chamber. But when another light swung her way, Sorcha backed to the far wall. Whatever Tunwulf was here for, it did not bode well for her or her plan.
When her cell door swung open, Tunwulf filled its frame, the upholstered box that had contained his mother’s jewels and the incriminating evidence against Sorcha in his hands. Brandishing a sardonic grin, he held it up.
“I brought you your inheritance, milady.”
Anger fired Sorcha’s pulse. Oh, for a handy dagger! She’d yet to forgive Caden for ruining her aim. “’Tis a late hour to mock me, sir.”
“Something told me you might have trouble sleeping.”
“You changed your tunic,” she noted. “I hope I drew blood.”
Tunwulf chuckled. “I have always admired your fire, Sorcha. So I thought, as a token of our friendship—” he closed the short distance between them—“I’d let you spend your last hours with your inheritance.” He leaned in, adding in a low voice, “But I am here to make you one last offer to save your beautiful skin.”
Sorcha lifted a brow in disbelief as Tunwulf put down the chest at her feet. What was he up to?
“The jewels are yours …” he went on, picking up volume, his mockery returning for the sake of any listeners, “until death do you part.”
Sorcha struck him. At least she intended to. But before she could lay a hand on him, Tunwulf caught her wrist and pinned it to the plaster until the rough surface bit into her skin.
“Listen, little fool, and listen carefully,” he whispered, urgent. “Marry me, and I will see that you are freed. Even the Cymri.”
The stench of his breath mingled with beer forced her face away from his. “What is in this for you?” For there had to be an advantage, one Sorcha couldn’t see. Tunwulf offered nothing without motive.
“Besides this …” He groped with his free hand where no man had before … at least not since she’d been a child captive. “Father awarded you two estates as betrothal gifts.”
But she was no longer a frightened child. Seizing anger over the rise of nauseating panic, Sorcha wedged her hand after his. Finding his little finger, she bent it back with all her might.
“Vixen!” Tunwulf shoved her against the wall with his body, pinning both hands above her head with his.
“I’d sooner die than marry you!”
“You will … and horribly … unless you agree.”
“Why?”
“If my wife owns a portion of Elford, it’s only right that Hussa—”
“Award you the rest,” she finished.
A movement beyond Tunwulf’s shoulder caught Sorcha’s eye. Perfect. She dared not focus on the woman standing frozen in the doorway, lest she give Rhianon’s presence away.
Instead, Sorcha moistened her lips as though preparing them for a kiss. It riveted her assailant’s attention. Tunwulf forced himself against her all the more.
“You are not only the most desirable woman I’ve ever met, but you’re smart. You know I’ve always fancied you—”
Sorcha turned slightly, dodging his descending lips. “Your mistress murders your father and, you,” she emphasized as they grazed her ear, “poison your mistress—”
“Rhianon poisoned herself to take suspicion away from her.”
The witch! That never occurred to Sorcha in her wildest imaginings. “And yet you would repay her by making me your wife?”
Tunwulf shrugged. “I’ll keep her as mistress.” He half chuckled against Sorcha’s neck. “You shouldn’t object to that.”
“Nay, sir, but I,” Rhianon grated out, “do!” She flung herself across the cell as if her outrage had given her wings.
Tunwulf pulled Sorcha to the side with him so that the blade Rhianon thrust at his neck snagged just the sleeve of his tunic and skidded down the wall. Sorcha tripped over the jewel box, knocking it over, and scrambled away. Rhianon lunged after Tunwulf like a fury. There was no sign of the weakness she should have had as a result of the poisoning. Instead, she slashed and shrieked loud enough to bring the entire kingdom down upon them.
This time the warrior was ready. He caught her wrists and spun her around so that she was back to him. “Let go the knife, Rhianon,” he demanded, trying to shake the dining dagger from her grasp.
“I’ll kill you before I let someone else become Lady Elford!” Rhianon kicked back at him, her heel catching his kneecap.
Tunwulf erupted with a string of curses such as Sorcha had never heard as Rhianon broke her knife hand free and stabbed frantically at his thigh. Again he caught her wrist, but not before she’d drawn blood.
“You promised me. You promised me,” Rhianon seethed through clenched teeth.
“That you would be richly rewarded,” Tunwulf replied. For all his strength, it was all he could do to restrain her.
Sorcha backed along the wall, away from the unfurling nightmare, and reached for the harp Eavlyn had sent. It was her only hope. That and the effects of the mandrake on the guards, who’d yet to show their faces.
She swung the instrument, still in its bag, hard against the back of Tunwulf’s head. Time froze the pair in midstruggle … for so long that Sorcha drew the harp back again for a second blow. But before she could let go, both Tunwulf and Rhianon pitched forward onto the earthen floor. Realizing that she still had to deal with Rhianon, Sorcha shouldered the bag, keeping it ready.
At first, the fair-haired woman remained motionless, face to the floor. But when Sorcha reached for her, she rolled to her side with a moan.
“H … help me. He’ll kill us both.” She dabbed at where blood trickled from her nose and tried to get up.
Now Sorcha saw the dark circles and wan cheeks beneath the woman’s terrified gaze, marks of the poison’s effect. With the fuel of her rage knocked out of her, she’d weakened. At last, Rhianon held out her arm for help.
Sorcha hauled her to her feet. But what would she do with the wench now? Certainly not take her with her.
“You … you saved my life,” Rhianon said, breathless.
“Our lives.” Sorcha steeled herself against a rise of pity. Witch or nay, Tunwulf had sorely used her.
“No,” Rhianon stiffened. “Mine!” With a snarl, she drove the dagger that had been hidden in the fold of her cloak at Sorcha’s abdomen.
Instinct kicking in, Sorcha pivoted away from the coming blade and shifted the harp into place to receive the blow. The blade glanced off the hard wood frame beneath the thick leather, giving Sorcha time to put a distance between them. With a frustrated shriek, Rhianon tightened bloody fingers around the dagger’s hilt, though whether it was her blood or Tunwulf’s was hard to say.
Sorcha hefted the instrument as a shield between them. The witch was mad. Her nose bled freely down the front of her dress, and her full lips curled in an animal-like snarl.
As Rhianon and Sorcha circled each other, the frantic rattling of chains told Sorcha that Utta was freeing Caden, according to plan. All Sorcha had to do was hold Rhianon off—
Rhianon charged again, grabbing for the harp with one hand and swinging the knife with the other. But Sorcha dodged her, spinning full circle and bringing the harp soundly against the back of her opponent’s head.
It landed with a terrible crunch of flesh and bone. Rhianon bent over double but didn’t fall. It was as though she fought against unconsciousness, slashing blindly. One step … two—
Sorcha sprang out of her way.
Three steps the witch staggered before she went down.
“Sorcha!”
Utta rushed into the room, but Sorcha’s eyes were fixed on the wound pouring dark lifeblood from the back of Rhianon’s fair head onto the rush-covered floor.
Until Caden knelt beside his fallen wife and blocked the view. He rolled Rhianon over and, with a grunt of surprise, backed away, straightening.
“She fell on her knife.”
�
�I tried to help her and she …” Disbelief, outrage, and the blood rush of battle all razed Sorcha’s words. “She tried to kill me! Those two were made for each other.”
Caden cast a look of pity at the broken and bleeding remnant of his wife. “She got what she deserved.”
Utta tugged on Sorcha’s arm. “We haveta hurry. Night is wastin’, and you need a head start.”
Sorcha looked up to see that the wench had donned a horsehair wig black as pitch to disguise herself. “Aye,” Sorcha agreed. Their plan had worked so far, in spite of Tunwulf and his witch. The longer they delayed—
“What’s going on here?” Caden turned, his face furrowed, as though still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.
“The guards are drugged for only so long.” Utta tugged a purse from the depths of her bodice and handed it to Sorcha. “Now ’ere’s the money for you two to escape to Lothian.”
Caden grabbed Sorcha’s arm roughly as she tied the moneybag to her belt. “When were you planning to tell me about this great escape?”
“Would you have had me shout it to you through the wall for all to hear?” she snapped.
“But Martin and Modred worked on our behalf. Now look at this mess.”
Mess! As if she’d planned on a midnight visit from the two people responsible for all this, much less contemplated killing one of them. “You ungrateful dullard!” Sorcha raised her chin inches from his, as though daring him to cross her further. “Would that work be before or after my arm was fried in oil?”
Utta wedged herself between them. “See now. More’n yer lives are at risk,” she reminded them, “so ye’d best be goin’. I’m beggin’ ye.”
“Great—” Caden swallowed the epithet on the tip of his tongue. He seized Tunwulf by the feet. “I’ll put this one in irons. It’ll hold him for a while.”
“He deserves to die.” Sorcha kicked at Tunwulf’s ribs. “She took poison for him, and he had the nerve to ask me to marry him!” A high pitch penetrated her words. “And that after making me face a pot of burning oil.”
Now she’d begun to shake. Of all things, of all times, now was no time to lose her nerve. She needed to hold on to what men called battle frenzy. Just a little longer.
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