by Lisa Jackson
With a thud, Vernon fell, his head cracking against the merlon. Then, light-headed, he gazed at his murderer helplessly, recognized him but was unable to scream as his lifeblood seeped onto the cold, flat stones of the wall walk.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Lady Morwenna! Please open the door. ’Tis I, Isa!”
Morwenna groaned and opened her eyes. The dog beside her gave up a soft growl.
“Coming!” Morwenna called, reaching for her tunic as the dog roused and barked. A headache pounded in her skull and her eyes felt as if they had sand in them. “Don’t start,” she admonished him as she padded to the door, then flung it open. “Why are you forever beating against my door in the middle of the night?” she demanded, still cranky as she’d slept little since her visit to Carrick’s room.
At the thought of her visit, she felt color rise up her neck, for as she’d lifted the coverlet, she’d seen . . .
“Something is horribly amiss,” Isa insisted, and her old eyes were round with worry, her face as pale as a ghost, her lips bloodless.
“What? What is wrong?” Morwenna was instantly awake though her head still throbbed from lack of sleep.
Isa slipped into the room and shut the door as the dog growled low before settling onto the bed again. The room was cold, the fire having died in the few hours since Morwenna had flung herself onto the bed in anger and despair.
Isa’s voice, as she spoke, was a low whisper, as if she was afraid that the very walls had ears. “There is death, m’lady. Death here.” She jabbed a finger at the floor. “Within the walls of Calon.”
Morwenna’s skin crawled. “Death? Nay, Isa.”
“Yes!” Isa hissed. “Tonight.”
“Whose?”
“I know not.”
“What do you mean?” Morwenna’s eyes thinned suspiciously. And yet she could not shake the sense of dread that Isa’s words had brought. Carrick! Someone has killed him. “Tell me,” she demanded.
“I was . . . I was asking for protection from the Great Mother—”
“Casting a spell?”
“Nay! Only praying.”
“Not practicing any of your magic? You know how Father Daniel feels about—”
Isa’s fingers surrounded Morwenna’s wrist in a clawlike grip. “Hear me out, child,” she ordered, as if she were again the nursemaid and Morwenna her young charge. “I saw death tonight. Here. In this keep. By someone’s hand. Mark my words, Morwenna, there has been a murder in this castle.”
“Yet you cannot say who was killed or why or even who did the deed,” Morwenna pointed out, not wanting to believe her. “Am I right?”
“Trust me,” Isa begged, the desperation in her voice so real it chased away any of Morwenna’s remaining doubts. Dread seeped deep into her soul.
“I do.” How many times had Isa proved herself in the past? Too many to count. She tossed her hair out of her eyes. “Is it Carrick?” she demanded.
“Nay . . . I think not,” she said, and Morwenna felt a second’s relief before panic assailed her.
“Bryanna? Oh, God . . .”
“Your sister yet sleeps,” Isa said. “What I saw happened in the towers. . . . I saw the moon above a turret and then the face of death as clearly as if Arawn stood in front of me.”
Arawn, Morwenna knew from years of Isa’s teaching, was the god of revenge and death and the overseer of Annwn, the underworld.
But Isa wasn’t finished. “As his image disappeared, I saw the White Lady upon the battlements. . . . Oh, Morwenna, there is death sure in this keep tonight.”
“Then let us find it,” Morwenna said. She fished a long mantle from a peg and tossed the cloak over her head. Before the mantle had settled over her body she yanked on her boots and followed Isa into the dimly lit hallway, where a breath of cool wind caused the candles in the sconces to flicker eerily. From the edge of her eye she thought she saw a shadow move swiftly around the corner, as if someone had been lingering near her door and now was creeping swiftly and stealthily away. Her skin crawled for a moment, and then she told herself she was imagining things, but her dog froze in his footsteps. Nose to the air, hackles standing stiff and threatening, Mort glared at the darkened corner and growled deep in his throat.
“Just a minute,” she ordered the older woman. Fear thrumming through her, Morwenna took off after the shadow with Mort fast on her heels, barking loudly, black lips pulled back as he snarled. She rounded the corner and found the corridor empty, not a soul in sight. And yet the rushlights quivered, as if someone had recently passed. Or was it from the breath of wind she felt chasing down the corridors?
Mort slid to a stop beside her and gave off a quick, nervous bark.
“Lady Morwenna,” Isa called. “This way.”
Morwenna stared down the shadowy hallway, and as she had so often in the past few days, she felt unseen eyes watching her, someone hiding and eavesdropping and watching. Goose bumps rose on her flesh. “Is anyone there?” she demanded.
But there was no sound.
“Fie and fiddlesticks,” she muttered under her breath.
“Hurry!” Isa called.
Morwenna glanced at Mort. The speckled dog whined, his nose twitching, ears flat, head down, but he didn’t run down the hallway.
“A fine guard dog you are,” she admonished, turning and hurrying to catch up with Isa.
“What were you doing?”
“I thought I saw someone in the hallway.”
Isa’s eyes rounded further, and then she flicked a hand as if swatting away a bothersome insect. “There was no one in the corridor when I came.”
“You think I’m imagining things?”
“I know not,” Isa admitted as she hastened down the curved staircase.
Neither do I. Morwenna didn’t like the admission, even to herself. She’d always had a mind of her own, been often called stubborn or mule headed as a child, and now she was torn, not believing what her own senses suggested, for ’twas nonsense. Folly. No one could be watching her. At least no earthly being. As she stole one last look over her shoulder, she felt a coldness invade her soul.
After checking with Sir James and seeing Carrick lying upon his bed, and then tapping softly on Bryanna’s door before cracking it open and spying her sister sleeping, Morwenna followed Isa down the stairs to the great hall.
The vast room was empty and dark, the sconces dead, the embers from the banked fire glowing a soft, bloodlike red. The castle dogs, once asleep, lifted their heads to let out disgusted woofs before yawning and returning to their curled positions near the grate.
At the door, Isa whispered, “Please, m’lady, hurry!” and then ordered the guard to stand aside.
“But—” the skinny man started to object.
“ ’Tis all right, Sir Cowan,” Morwenna assured him. “Isa needs to show me something.”
“ ’Tis the dead of night,” he protested.
“Aye. Worry not. I go to see the captain of the guard.”
“Mayhap I should go with ye.”
“No. Stay here. Allow no one, save ourselves, inside!” Morwenna ordered.
Isa pushed her way outside to the inner bailey and the icy moonless night. Sleet slanted from the dark heavens and there was a chill in the air, a chill more frigid than the icy drops slashing from the starless sky.
“We’ll find Sir Alexander,” Isa said, still pale as death, her legs sweeping quickly over the frozen earth toward the gates of the inner bailey.
Hurrying past the well where a bucket suspended from a thick rope creaked and swayed, they half ran down an icy path that skirted the peasants’ darkened huts and led to the gatehouse where most of the garrison was housed.
A sentry high in the watchtower saw the movement and shouted down at the intrusion. “Who goes there?”
Morwenna turned her face toward the voice, and icy drops rained upon her cheeks. “ ’Tis I, Lady Morwenna. I’m with Isa, Sir Forrest. Awaken Sir Alexander and let us into the gatehouse.”
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“Lady Morwenna?” the man repeated, obviously unsure that he’d heard correctly.
“Aye! Now hasten, Forrest! ’Tis freezing out here!” she commanded, wiping her face with her sleeve before wrapping her mantle around her and eyeing the east, hoping to spy the first few glimmers of dawn in the winter sky. But the night was dark as obsidian, seemingly impervious to any shards of morning light.
“Right away, m’lady!” Sir Forrest called down to her.
“Finally,” she muttered under her breath as his footsteps clattered down the stairs in the gatehouse and other muffled voices could be heard through the thick stone walls. Within seconds the door to the gatehouse was shoved open and Sir Forrest, a gangly man whose head always seemed a bit too large for his body, appeared. He escorted them inside. “I’ve alerted Sir Alexander. He should be—”
“I’m awake though ’tis the middle of the night,” a gruff male voice announced as the captain of the guard, tightening a belt over his tunic, made his way down the stone steps. His hair stuck out in unruly clumps and his surly gaze landed on Morwenna. “What’s wrong, m’lady?” he asked, his eyebrows beetling into one thick line over his nose. “It must be something serious.”
“Aye,” Morwenna said as she stood in the main hall, where a fire burned bright. Several men were warming their backs at the grate, three others were playing dice at a scarred table, and from the nearby chambers that angled off the main hall came the cacophony of men snoring. Soldiers, jailors, guards, and the constable’s servants, all wrapped in their cloaks, were sleeping on the rushes strewn across the floor.
Never before had Morwenna been in the gatehouse at night, and though she was lady of the manor, the ruler over these men, she felt uneasy and nervous, as if she’d trespassed into a forbidden area, a place few women ever entered.
To add to her discomfort, Alexander was watching her with his dark, penetrating eyes. Waiting. For an explanation. She rubbed her arms to ward off a chill and wondered if perhaps she’d been rash to believe Isa’s fears. “There has been a murder within the keep,” she finally stated.
“What? A murder?” He stared sharply at her, all traces of sleep dissipating from his eyes. Deep in his beard, his lips became blade thin. “Who was killed? Where? When?” Alexander reached for his sword and scabbard mounted on the wall near the fire. “Why was I not told?”
“We haven’t found the victim yet.”
“What? You haven’t found . . .” He left his weapon on the wall and held up his big hands as if in surrender. “M’lady,” he said, again pinning her with his steady gaze, “I don’t understand. How would you know if someone has been killed if there is no body? Did someone confess? Nay?” he guessed, seeing the gentle shake of her head. “Then did someone witness this murder? Who?”
Morwenna cleared her throat and felt increasingly silly. “Isa has had a vision.”
“Pardon?” he said.
“Of death,” Isa interjected, her ice blue eyes sober and determined. “I’ve seen a brutal killing in my mind’s eye.”
“A vision?” Alexander repeated, one thick eyebrow elevating. He glanced at Sir Forrest, and silent communication passed between the two men. They thought this a joke. “In your mind’s eye.”
“Do not mock me,” the old woman warned, her visage as savage as that of an eagle. “It happened on the wall walk.” She pointed toward the east. “I sense your disbelief, Sir Alexander, and I know that I’ve amused you. But trust me, this is no joke. Someone was murdered tonight in this very keep.”
“But you know not who?”
“Not yet. Let us go there now . . . to the east tower,” Isa insisted.
“The east tower.”
“Must you repeat everything I say? Yes, the east tower!” she spat, exasperation evident in her voice at the thickheadedness of the captain of the guard. “Please, come along. We must hurry!”
Alexander’s gaze traveled toward Morwenna. “Is this what you wish, m’lady?”
“Aye, Sir Alexander.” She swallowed back her doubts. “I trust Isa.”
“Then so shall I.” In an instant he pulled down his weapon and strapped the scabbard to the belt at his waist, and then he motioned to Sir Forrest. Without another word, he led the way up the stairs to a doorway leading to the wall walk, the wide alleyway high above the bailey that encircled the keep. Here the wind blew fiercely, screaming through the crenels and swirling around the towers. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted over the sound of boots scraping against stone, whispered conversation, and the dread thudding in Morwenna’s heart.
What if Isa was wrong?
Then she would be relieved, for there would be no death in the keep. So she would be embarrassed for believing the old nursemaid. So what? ’Twas not a sin, nor even a sign of being addled. And yet she knew that if Isa’s vision proved to be untrue, Morwenna, for believing in the old nursemaid’s dream, would be the subject of wagging tongues and doubting minds, the butt of more than one joke. Serving girls would cover their smiles as she passed, pages would lower their voices but laugh behind her back, and the older men and women would share knowing glances that said they’d always believed a woman was not fit to run a castle such as Calon.
And yet if the opposite proved true and Isa was correct, then one of the people within Calon was now dead. Killed by a murderer’s hand.
While Morwenna had promised to protect all those who served her.
’Twould be far worse.
Embarrassment she could suffer.
An innocent being killed she could not.
They walked swiftly along the wall walk, and Alexander asked, “Where’s Sir Vernon?”
Morwenna’s heart nearly stopped.
“He was assigned to the east wall.” Sir Forrest was squinting into the night, across the battlements. “I saw him earlier and he was at his post.”
“Oh, Great Mother, please, no . . .” Isa said and began to chant. Morwenna, cold from the inside out, felt a new sense of dread as she conjured up Sir Vernon’s fleshy face and glittering eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. Surely there was some mistake.
“He’s known to take a nip or two,” Sir Forrest was saying as they worked their way eastward. “Mayhap he fell asleep while . . . What’s that?” The guard’s voice had grown strangely worried.
“What?” Alexander stared straight ahead, his gaze seeming to sharpen on the east tower. “God’s teeth!” Swearing under his breath, Alexander began running, his boots ringing against the stones.
Morwenna’s heart froze as she saw the dark, crumpled shape of a man lying on the wall walk. “No!” she cried, racing forward fast on Alexander’s heels. Not Sir Vernon. Not the heavy man with the deep laugh whom she’d tricked. Not the knight whose punishment was this very duty. Throat dry, she ran faster, her heart echoing with dread.
But she recognized Sir Vernon’s face, now pale with death, a thick pool of dark blood congealing beneath his cheek pressed hard against the stones. His eyes stared sightlessly ahead and his sword lay impotently by his side.
“What in God’s name is this?” Alexander said as he bent beside the big man, felt for a pulse.
“Is he—?”
Alexander shook his head and slowly closed the slain soldier’s eyes as Sir Forrest and Isa reached them. Isa was panting, praying, her skin as bloodless as Vernon’s. She fingered a stone hanging from a leather strap at her throat and leaned heavily against the battlements. “As I saw,” she said without an ounce of satisfaction.
Alexander straightened. “If you saw this, then who did it?” he demanded, his voice shaking with rage.
“I know not.”
“And yet you envisioned the death?” His dark eyes flashed in the night.
“I saw him fall, I saw the face of Arawn and later the White Lady.”
“Images of death,” Morwenna explained.
Alexander turned his fury on Forrest. “Sound the alarm! Wake all the sentries! Have all the gates checked so that no one escapes and place double
guards at every entrance to the keep. Have the garrison check every nook and cranny of this castle for a murderer.”
“And how will we recognize him?” Forrest asked. “Who is the cur?”
“Yes, how will we know him?” Alexander advanced upon Isa, who, trembling, was propped against a merlon. Isa’s pale eyes were glassy, her fingers rubbing the stone frantically, as if the mere act of kneading the smooth rock would remove the vision and turn back time.
Morwenna said, “She knows not; she said as much earlier.”
“But she could try to conjure up the vision again, could she not?”
“I don’t know.” Morwenna shook her head. “Sir Forrest, send someone for the physician . . . and the priest.” She stared down at the corpse of Sir Vernon and blinked rapidly against tears. “He was not married?”
“Nay,” Alexander said.
“Good. At least he has not left behind a widow or child,” she said, but it was little comfort on this night that was as black and cold as Satan’s shroud.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I told you, Carrick of Wybren is cursed,” Isa whispered as they stood in a chamber of the gatehouse. She was rubbing her hands over her upper arms and her gaze darted about the room, searching every dark corner for a murderer.
As the sconces flickered, Father Daniel, grim as ever, was administering last rites over Sir Vernon’s body.
Outside, the castle began to stir to life. Roosters crowed, men shouted, sheep bleated. Cowbells clanged but the wind, so fierce in the night, had died. Dawn was stretching over the eastern hills and shafts of pale light sifted through the small windows. Most of the soldiers had been sent to search the keep; the few that remained stood in stony silence. Sleep, dice, women as well as food and drink had been forgotten at the sight of Sir Vernon’s unmoving, blood-smeared corpse.
Father Daniel whispered prayers over the slain man while the physician stood to one side, patiently waiting for the religious rite to be over with so that he could examine the corpse. Both men’s expressions were grim as they faced death from opposite sides, one from the spiritual, the other concerned with the physical body.