by Lisa Jackson
From his position, with her body blocking his view of the patient, the Redeemer hadn’t caught a glimpse of the naked man, but from her reaction, he assumed she saw something that shocked her . . . something out of place.
Was the man so powerfully endowed—like a rutting stallion? Or just the opposite, his member tiny and flaccid?
Or missing?
Whatever the case, Morwenna had been repulsed and enraged.
Though it appeared as if the man on the bed hadn’t moved a muscle, instantly Morwenna had sputtered and spat invectives as she’d backed away from the patient she’d heretofore been so insistent upon protecting.
Perhaps things were changing for the better.
The Redeemer waited for a few minutes and then slipped quietly down the familiar passageways to his favorite spot where he could view her chamber. Nose pressed to the smooth stones, he silently watched as she stripped off her long white tunic, flung herself onto her bed, and pounded her fist upon the bedclothes, startling her sleeping dog and sending him barking crossly.
“Hush, Mort!” she commanded irritably.
Ah, she was a wild one. The Redeemer watched her release her fury and he considered what it would be like to mount her, to place his teeth on the back of her neck, to enter her and ride her hard, pushing against her, listening to her pant, twining his hands into the thick rope of her black hair or reaching around her and grasping her breasts in his hands, gripping them so hard she would cry out with a blissful agony.
It was difficult waiting for it.
Envisioning the future.
Planning for that inevitable night and remaining patient.
He ran the tip of his tongue around his suddenly dry lips and stared down at her, her temper now reined in, her legs drawn up and one arm flung around her knees, her other hand rubbing the scruff of the old dog’s neck as he quieted. Black hair fell in unruly waves down her arms and back. She was without a doubt the most seductively beautiful woman the Redeemer had ever set eyes upon.
He lowered his hand to the uncomfortable bulge pressing against the laces of his breeches. Slowly he undid the leather strings and let his fingers reach inside.
He stiffened.
Anticipating.
His fingers surrounded his cock and he thought about the future and the delights it would hold.
Would it not be sweet, sweet justice to savagely claim her as his own?
In the small alcove that was her room, Isa used her dagger and carved a rune for protection into the single white candle. Then she tied a black string around the candle’s base before positioning it in a ring of seven smooth stones she’d anointed with oil and placed in a large platter.
Ignoring the feeling that unseen eyes were watching her, she carefully scattered herbs over the stones. Her heart was beating wildly, her nerves strung tight. If Father Daniel discovered that she was practicing her magic within the keep, he would be furious, banish her, thrust her old bones into the deadly winter alone, but she had to risk his wrath.
Too much was at stake to worry for her own safety.
She felt the malevolence within the cold walls of Calon, sensed a dark, living evil that seemed to ooze throughout the castle.
How many nights had Isa woken from a vivid dream of such dark foreboding that she’d barely been able to breathe? Each time she’d witnessed a faceless phantom, his features hidden in a dark cowl, his identity murky as he brought death and destruction to those she loved.
Nay, she could not trust Father Daniel to protect this keep from the curse that was Carrick of Wybren. Daniel was a weak man whose piety seemed a sham, a facade behind which he hid. As for Carrick of Wybren, he was cut from the same fabric as his father: a man who could not leave a maiden untouched. Had there not been rumors abounding about Dafydd of Wybren’s wenching ways for years? A few had lived, others had been born dead, others had been rumored to have been born defective, only to linger and die early on, the result of a curse Lady Myrnna had asked an old sorceress to invoke.
Isa cringed at the memory. Lady Myrnna had come in the night, pleading with her to do something, anything to stop her husband’s whoring. Though she’d pretended Dafydd’s rutting with others hadn’t bothered her, she’d been shamed to her soul and had threatened to take her own life. Isa’s sister, Enid, had refused to help Myrnna, and so Myrnna had traveled to Penbrooke and begged Isa for the favor.
Now it seemed that age-old curse had come back to haunt her in the form of Carrick of Wybren, for Isa was certain the near-dead man was he.
From the moment the wounded man had been carried through the gates of Calon, Isa had sensed the evil within the keep increase. Pulse with life. Grow restless. And the ever-changing, sinister malevolence had become more bold and dangerous. She felt its hot breath against her back.
But she had to be strong.
To fight.
As she was this night.
Using a piece of straw she’d taken from a broomstick, she touched the dry blade to a rushlight and watched as the thin little strip ignited. Carefully she lit the candle. A single bright flame flickered in the small room, casting eerie shadows upon the wall and reflecting in the bowl of water sitting near the taper.
“Great Mother, be with us,” Isa whispered, her old heart beating frantically. “Bless this keep and hold it safe.”
The wick sizzled. Beeswax began to melt down the sides of the single candle in thin streams. As she prayed, the warm wax reached the taper’s base, streaming over the black thread, heating the crushed herbs, and scenting the still, cloying air with laurel, Saint-John’s-wort, and rue.
Isa closed her eyes and softly chanted. “Morrigu, Great Mother, hear my plea. Keep us safe. Banish the evil from within these walls. Morrigu, Great Mother, hear my plea. . . .” Over and over she whispered the words, reaching upward to touch the worn stone with a hole upon it dangling from her braided leather necklace. Ever faster she chanted, as the minutes passed by. She rocked slightly to the rhythm of her own words, felt the spirits within the castle moving. She concentrated solely on ridding the castle of all evil. “Morrigu, Great Mother, hear my plea. Keep us safe. Banish—”
She felt it then.
The shift.
A repositioning of the stars and moon.
Her old heart clutched as she opened her eyes, her words failing her as she saw the candle, burned half down. Beyond the melted taper was the bowl of water, where the still surface and her own reflection began to swirl with shadowy images that moved faster and faster, as if a whirlpool were within the shallow basin. The reflection of her face became distorted and twisted, her mouth opening wide as if in a silent, horrible scream.
Isa’s fingers rubbed furiously at the stone dangling from her neck, but the horrifying vision didn’t disappear. Nor did it congeal into something she could understand. Her face splintered and she saw only pieces of the changing images, shards of pictures that drove fear straight to her soul:
A small dagger slicing downward.
The wicked blade flashing silver in the moonless night.
Blood. Oozing over the sides of the bowl.
And the crest of Wybren floating in the thick, red water beneath her own startled expression.
And then the god of death looking over her shoulder, his hard face so close that she turned quickly, knocking over the candle, causing the water within the bowl to slop.
Her heart knocked so loudly she was certain Arawn of the underworld was in the room with her.
But there was nothing.
Just darkness.
And the promise of death.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Forgive me, Heavenly Father, for I have sinned.” Father Daniel bowed low, his head nearly touching the stone floor of the apse, the rushes brushing his face. Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate, but the fire in his blood ran hot even now. Though he’d tried to fight temptation and had prayed for relief, wanton images flickered through his mind, robbing him of sleep, making his words catch in his t
hroat as he tried to speak. Even his prayers were interrupted by sinful thoughts.
Of women.
Morwenna and Bryanna. The tall older sister with her dark hair, regal stance, and imperious stare was as seductive as the younger one with her bright eyes, riot of reddish curls, and low, sensual laugh.
He imagined himself bedding them, singly and together, and the erotic images that seared his brain wouldn’t leave him alone. ’Twas as if he were in a hell of his own making. Aye, that was it; Satan had somehow slipped into his mind. He closed his eyes and his body shook with a need so violent it frightened him.
God will punish you, Daniel. He knows your thoughts, and if you do not atone, if you are unable to force these unholy images from your mind, God will destroy you and all that you hold dear. The plans and dreams you have for your life will be decimated. Know that the Holy Father will punish you.
Mayhap He already has, Daniel thought desperately, his hands curling into fists, clenching over the straw and herbs of the rushes.
“Please, Father, forgive me and help me. I have had lust in my heart,” he admitted, his head bowed before the crucifix. But even now his restless mind wandered to the women, such beautiful, tempting creatures. “And . . . and my body betrays me. My thoughts are impure. I see the lady and her sister and I . . . I . . . fall victim to being mortal. I fight the urges, but, Father, please help me.” Tears burned at the back of his eyes, for he knew that prayer alone would not atone for his sins.
He needed to be punished.
“Help me banish all lust from my mind and my body,” he prayed, his voice catching, tears drizzling from the corners of his eyes. Oh, he was weak. Pathetically so.
In despair, he made the sign of the cross. He had started to rise when he heard something, the scrape of a boot, nearby. As if someone had been in the chapel with him.
His heart clutched as he thought of his desperate prayers. They were for God’s ears only.
Awash with embarrassment, he glanced over his shoulder and found the door to the outside ajar, perhaps pushed open by the wind—the latch was forever broken. Mayhap it was nothing. But the hairs on the backs of his arms lifted and he thought he heard, over the rush of wind, the sound of retreating footsteps. He pulled himself to his feet. Had someone been listening at the doorway? Had whoever it was heard his guilt-riddled confession?
Without wasting a second, he made his way to the door and stepped outside. The night was raw and bitter, the wind fierce enough to cut through his cloak, the slanting rain so cold it was nearly ice.
Tossing up his hood, he bent against the wind and followed the main path leading through the garden. No one was visible, but the gate was open, banging in the wind as if someone had been in too much of a hurry to secure the latch. Who? Had someone been spying upon him?
He flew over the flagstones and into the inner bailey, where, because of the weather, few men were gathered, only a few guards at their posts and Dwynn, who, hat pulled down nearly over his eyes, was carrying a basket filled with firewood toward the great hall.
“You there,” Father Daniel called, his boots sliding on the mud as he caught up with the younger man. Dwynn halted, rainwater dripping from his hat’s brim. “Did you see anyone enter the chapel a few minutes ago?”
“Nay, Father.” The half-wit shook his head quickly but hitched his heavy basket with surprising ease and started for the great hall again.
“No one?”
“Just the guards.”
“Here, let me help you,” the priest offered, more to have a chance at conversation with the man than to ease his burden. Rain was peppering the ground, splashing in puddles, blowing sideways. “You’re certain no one hurried outside—from the garden there?” Daniel pointed toward the open gate.
“Who was it?” Dywnn asked.
“What? Oh, I don’t know, but I believe someone was in the chapel and ran outside. This way.” Daniel peered through the driving rain and thought he saw a shadow, a figure, disappear along the path leading to the stable, but as he blinked the rain from his eyes, the image vanished.
“Then he left if he’s not still there,” Dwynn reasoned.
“What?”
“Whoever was in the chapel. Didn’t you say there was someone there?” Dwynn asked, his eyebrows slamming together as if he was trying to concentrate. The poor half-wit was absolutely maddening. “Alfrydd, he wants the wood,” Dwynn continued.
“ ’Tis a sin to lie, Dwynn. You know that.” The priest was firm.
“Aye, Father.” Dwynn’s steps didn’t so much as falter.
“And God, He hears everything. Not just prayers.”
No response.
’Twas impossible. Either the man didn’t understand or wouldn’t reply. They were near the back entrance of the great hall now. “God would not like it if you lied, Dwynn. He would punish you.”
Dwynn shouldered open the kitchen door and nodded as he passed through. “He punishes all, Father. Every one of us.”
That He does, Daniel thought morosely as he glanced upward to the windows on the third floor where Lady Morwenna and Lady Bryanna had their private chambers. Sleeting rain fell upon his upturned face and yet it did nothing to dampen the rage burning in his soul.
Sir Vernon wrapped his mantle more tightly around his torso. ’Twas a night not fit for man nor beast, and yet he stood outside, huddled against the sleet that had started to spit from the dark sky. Slowly, head bent, he walked from one corner of the curtain wall to the next tower. He stamped his feet loudly as they seemed frozen within his boots. Though he’d told himself he would never sip from his small jug again while on duty, tonight he ignored his promise to himself. It was just too damned buggery cold not to have a nip of mead to warm his belly.
“Hell’s bells,” he growled as he took a long tug and felt the warmth burn its way down his throat. He let out a belch and, satisfied for a while, slipped the jug back into its hiding spot deep in a cranny he’d found in one of the walls of the east tower.
From his vantage point, Vernon looked down upon the inner bailey, where only a few fires glowed in the huts huddled along the base of the walls. All was quiet. Serene, had it not been for the blasted sleet. His gaze swept past the inner gate to the outer bailey, a much larger piece of land still surrounded by these thick walls. All there seemed as it should, no dark shadows stealing across the yellowed winter grass. No gang of thugs collected near the well nor in the orchard. Listening, he heard only a few grunts from the pigs pushing each other aside as they settled in for the night and the creak and swish of the windmill as its sails turned in the same breeze that rattled the bare branches of the trees in the orchard.
All was well on this moonless winter night. He thought about another sip from his jug, but then decided to wait. It was hours yet until morn and he should save his precious mead. He blew on his gloved hands and turned toward the south tower.
Something moved in the watch turret.
“Blimey.” What the devil was that? Another guard? Who was posted there this evening? Geoffrey? Or Hywell? Or . . . Vernon squinted and started walking quickly along the east wall. Sleet peppered his face, and a bit of apprehension crawled up his back, but his eyes were trained on the dark figure that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
Whoever it was had his back to Vernon and was staring through the crenels. “You there,” Vernon yelled, reaching for the hilt of his sword as he closed the distance between them. “What’re ye doin’ up here?”
The dark figure turned, still hidden in the shadowy battlements, his face concealed deep in his cowl. “Brother Thomas?” he guessed, for the man was wearing the guise of a monk. Vernon hurried forward, glad for the company, any company, though it was believed the hermit of the keep, Thomas, was mad. “Ye’re a far piece from yer room,” Vernon admonished gently as he neared the other man. “Needin’ some fresh air, are ye?” He didn’t blame the solitary monk. Who could stay in a single room, praying and lying prostate, seeing no one save the ser
ving boys who brought up porridge and water and took away the buckets of excrement? God in heaven, what a life.
Vernon let go of his weapon. The old man was no threat and probably only looking for a little respite from his cramped quarters. “Er, Thomas,” he called, still several feet away, “I don’t know what yer vows are, but if ye’d like a nip or two, I’ve got me a jug in the tower back there. . . .” He hooked a thumb toward the east tower. “It could warm yer belly if not yer soul on a cold night like this one.”
Still the man did not speak and for a second Vernon thought he might have had his tongue cut from him long before. Perhaps as some kind of idiotic sacrifice. Vernon shivered at the thought and kept walking, and as the distance between them lessened, he dismissed his idea of self-mutilation. More likely Thomas had taken a vow of silence and would not break it. Not even for a drop of ale. Aye, that was it! Vernon was near the tower now and said, “Brother, I hope ye didna take offense at my offer. It’s just so bloody cold tonight.”
The man stepped forward, offering his hand.
Vernon smiled, glad for whatever company the monk could provide. “Aye, it’s a night not fit fer Lucifer himself,” he said, bridging the small distance between them.
A bit of a grin flashed white in the darkness.
The monk raised his arm quickly.
In the dim light Vernon recognized the weapon.
Small.
Curved.
Deadly.
“What the bloody hell!” Vernon scrabbled for his sword.
With surprising agility, the monk spun Vernon around.
The larger man twisted, but his boots slid on the icy wall walk.
In an instant, his attacker was upon him.
Fingers surrounding the hilt of his weapon, Vernon tried to unsheath his weapon and whirl around. But it was too late. He felt his head pulled back by the hair.
The dagger plunged downward.
Vernon’s scream died in his throat as the wicked little blade sawed into his thick throat in a jerky, uneven movement.