Temptress

by Lisa Jackson

  Sheriff Payne and Sir Alexander were positioned nearby, while Forrest was posted at the door.

  “Listen, m’lady,” Isa insisted, her eyes wide with fear, her old lips flat against her teeth. “As long as Carrick of Wybren is within this keep, we are all doomed!”

  The priest lifted his bowed head and his hard eyes found Isa’s. “If anyone is doomed,” he said slowly, his lips thin and without color, his eyes flaring with a nearly manic fire, “it is those who pray to pagan gods and goddesses.”

  Isa’s gaze never faltered. She took a step toward the priest. “Since Sir Carrick has been brought into this keep, there has been naught but turmoil and death, Father.”

  “Perhaps if we all had greater faith, God would bless this castle.” The priest’s smile was fixed. Practiced. He slid a cool glance toward Morwenna. “My lady, ’twould be best if all spells and runes and prayers to the unholy cease.”

  “You think Sir Vernon was killed because of Isa’s prayers?”

  “The Holy Father would not be pleased.”

  “And you, Isa, you think Sir Vernon was killed because of a curse upon Carrick of Wybren?”

  “All of Wybren is cursed,” the old nursemaid said boldly, and the priest snorted his disgust.

  Sir Alexander stepped closer to the table upon which Sir Vernon lay. “No matter. The fact is Vernon is dead. A murderer somehow invaded this keep.”

  “Or resides here,” the sheriff said as he tugged at his beard. “Physician, can you tell us what kind of blade was used to slice the man’s throat?”

  Nygyll was already examining the body. He tilted up Sir Vernon’s chin, exposing the ugly gash beneath his beard. “Let’s see. . . . You there, Sir Forrest, go and see what’s taking so long. I’ve already asked the steward to have someone bring me hot water and fresh cloths from the great hall.”

  Morwenna’s stomach turned. She’d seen dead men before and had helped those who were wounded, but Sir Vernon’s death was different. Personal. Not only was she indirectly responsible for sending him to his post upon the wall walk, but it was her duty to care for and protect all those within the keep. And she’d failed. Aye, Vernon had been a soldier and a sentry, a man who had sworn his allegiance to her and to Calon, a man who had vowed to protect her and who knew the dangers of his position, yet Morwenna experienced a gnawing guilt that somehow she’d brought this death and destruction with her when she’d come to Calon. Had it not been for her, would not Sir Vernon be alive this day?

  She looked up and caught Dwynn staring at her. The addled man had somehow wakened and found his way here. Which was no surprise. It seemed he was always about, no matter what time of day or night, especially if trouble was brewing.

  The door to the gatehouse opened and Gladdys, carrying a basket of towels, hurried into the room. She was followed by George, the page, lugging a heavy cauldron of steaming water.

  “Put the basket there,” Nygyll ordered, pointing to a bench, “and set the pot on the hearth so it stays warm,” he said with an edge of impatience to his voice. “You there, Dwynn, help the lad!”

  Dwynn reached for the cauldron’s handle and some of the hot water slopped onto the floor, a stream running into the fireplace to hiss against the hot coals.

  “God’s teeth, what’s the matter with you?” Nygyll muttered, glowering at the half-wit as he reached for a towel and dipped it into the steaming water.

  Dwynn, silent as usual, pointed an accusing finger at the page, but Nygyll had turned away and was cleaning the crusted dark blood from the wound at Vernon’s neck.

  “ ’Tis not a straight cut,” the sheriff said, bending closer.

  “Humph,” Nygyll grunted.

  “What the devil is that all about?” Alexander asked as the wound became more apparent.

  “Shave him,” Payne suggested.

  Morwenna watched as Nygyll found a sharp blade and carefully scraped away the dark beard that grew down the dead sentry’s neck. Slowly the ugly gash was revealed, and as Payne had said, the wound was far from a neat, clean slash. The hideous cut sliced downward from Vernon’s left ear, then up slightly near the point of his chin, down again on the other side of his jaw to finally slash upward and end near his right ear.

  “Jesus,” Alexander whispered.

  The sheriff stared gravely.

  “ ’Tis a W,” Isa said, and some of the soldiers in the room glanced at her for many could not read. “For Wybren.”

  “Or witch,” Father Daniel said quickly, his lips flattening over his teeth as his eyes narrowed on Isa.

  “By the gods, it’s something,” Payne finally whispered, and Morwenna felt a shiver race down her spine as she, too, stared at the uneven gash.

  “A warning?” she asked.

  “Or someone trying to place the blame on Carrick of Wybren.” Alexander looked at Morwenna, unasked questions in his eyes.

  “Carrick has not awakened,” Nygyll said as he dried his hands on a clean towel. “I have attended to him, and he’s had no response.” He glanced up, his eyes focusing on Morwenna for an instant before looking at Sir Alexander. “Even if the patient had managed to wake up and have full use of his limbs, which I doubt, he could not have gotten past the guard. He’s trapped in his chamber. He could not have done this,” he said, motioning to Sir Vernon. “Take this,” he ordered Gladdys, the doe-eyed serving maid, as he slapped the dirty towel into her open hands. She flinched, then obediently placed the blood-soaked cloth into a pile with the other soiled rags.

  “He obviously died from his throat being slit,” the sheriff said.

  The physician turned back to the corpse and folded Vernon’s bloodstained hands over his chest. Nygyll’s gaze settled on the sheriff and he nodded. “I found no other marks upon the corpse aside from a bruise where he cracked his head against the battlements or the floor of the wall walk, so, yes, his throat was slit and he bled to death.” He glanced at the dead man. “Aside from what killed him, I would note that he’s fat and, I suspect, infested with lice or fleas or worse. Not exactly a prime example of Calon’s army.”

  Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. “What’s going on here? Where’s my sister?” Bryanna’s voice floated into the chamber half a step in front of her. “Oh!” she cried as Morwenna turned toward the doorway. “What happened?”

  “Sir Vernon was killed a few hours ago,” Morwenna said.

  “Killed? How?” Bryanna gasped, her wide eyes rounding as they discovered the bloody corpse. “Oh, God!” One hand flew to her throat. “No!”

  “Get her out of here before she gets sick,” Nygyll said.

  Morwenna had seen enough. “Come,” she said to Bryanna and shepherded her into the hallway, then outside to the crisp morning where the tanner was scraping a deer hide and the armorer was cleaning chain mail in casks of sand. Morwenna barely noticed the activity, her thoughts centered on the slain guard. Who had done this to him? Why? Vernon, though a soldier, seemed a gentle soul at heart.

  “Wha-what happened?” Bryanna asked as she and Isa hurried to catch up with Morwenna. “Who . . . who . . . would harm, I mean kill, Sir Vernon?”

  “We know not. Yet.” As they made their way past the dyer who was boiling fabric in a vat filled with green liquid, Morwenna explained about Isa’s vision and the ensuing events.

  They reached the great hall just as she finished.

  “You are saying there is a killer in our midst,” Bryanna whispered as they slipped into the warmth of the keep.

  “So it appears.”

  “What are you going to do?” Bryanna asked.

  “The guards are searching the castle. The sheriff and some of the soldiers are questioning people in the town and surrounding villages.”

  “But he may have escaped,” Bryanna said as they climbed the stairs to the solar. “Should you not send a messenger to Penbrooke?”

  “No.” Despite the murder, she wasn’t about to ask for help from her brother Kelan. At least not yet. “ ’Tis not Kelan’s
problem.”

  “He’d want to know about it.”

  Morwenna nodded, thinking of her brother as she removed her gloves and mantle. Tall, proud, determined, Kelan would not only want to know what was happening here but would no doubt send an army led by himself or their brother, Tadd.

  Morwenna tossed her mantle over a stool and frowned when she considered the younger of the two. Tadd was as handsome as Kelan, but as irresponsible as Kelan was reliable. She wanted neither one of her domineering brothers telling her how to handle the situation. “And if you were lady of the keep, Bryanna,” she asked, folding her arms under her breasts, “would you so quickly run to either of our brothers?”

  Bryanna snorted as she plopped onto a bench near the fire and sat studying its flames. “Nay,” she admitted, shaking her head, her long curls showing red in the firelight.

  “Kelan might help,” Isa advised.

  “I think not.” Morwenna walked to the window. From the elevated position, she could look down upon the inner bailey, where the morning was starting just as if it were another day and there had not been a brutal murder within the keep.

  The farrier was already pounding out horseshoes at his fire, a boy working a bellows to keep the embers hot while the big-muscled man was straining to curve and then flatten the red-hot iron as it was molded into horseshoes.

  Not far off, a freckled girl of about five was busily gathering eggs, while her gangly redheaded sister was flinging seeds into the air, strewing them for a flock of cackling chickens that flapped and pecked angrily at one another around her feet. Near the center of the bailey two straw-haired boys, the miller’s sons, were hauling pails of water from one of the wells, slopping far more water than Cook would have liked, while three huntsmen on horses were being detained by guards beneath the portcullis leading to the outer bailey.

  And all the while Sir Vernon lay dead. Killed by an assassin’s hand. Morwenna rubbed her shoulders, and as if reading her thoughts, Bryanna sighed loudly.

  A quiet knock sounded on the door.

  “Who is it?” Morwenna called over her shoulder.

  “Alexander, m’lady.”

  “Come in.”

  He entered and his expression was as grim as it had been in the gatehouse. “If I may have a word,” he said, glancing at the two other women.

  “Certainly,” Morwenna agreed, eager for any news. She could not just sit about. “I’ll be right back,” she said to her sister and Isa. Quickly Morwenna followed Alexander into the hallway, where rushlights burned and flickered. She closed the door behind her. “What is it?”

  “A messenger arrived at the gatehouse just minutes ago. We detained him, of course, but he swears he’s from Heath Castle and it appears he is. All was in order. He brought this.” Alexander handed her a letter, rolled tightly.

  Her heart nose-dived as she recognized the unbroken seal from the house of Heath. Lord Ryden’s seal. She contemplated not opening the damned letter. The last thing she needed right now was to deal with the man to whom she was betrothed. But Sir Alexander was waiting, and deciding she could not put off the inevitable, she broke through the wax and unrolled the letter. It was short and to the point. Lord Ryden had heard from a traveling merchant that there was trouble at Calon, that Carrick of Wybren had been found half-dead at her castle gates.

  Dear God. Did this mean that the news could have traveled to Wybren as well?

  Of course it has. . . . You are foolish to think otherwise!

  Her shoulders slumped. What had she been doing? Trying to protect Carrick?

  Or keeping him held nearly a prisoner until he woke up so you could demand answers, not only of his attack but of why he left you for his brother’s wife?

  She closed her mind to that line of thought. She had to face what was happening now, whether she wanted to or not. She would have to contact Graydynn immediately. As for her intended . . . what was she to do with him?

  Lord Ryden not only offered her his help with returning the traitor to justice at Wybren, but also promised to visit her as soon as was possible. If all went as he planned, he’d arrive at Calon in three days’ time.

  Morwenna stared at the letter and then crushed it in her hand. She felt no joy at the prospect of seeing him again. If anything, she felt anger with herself for accepting his proposal and a silent fury that she still harbored feelings for Carrick though she was loath to admit it to anyone . . . even herself. What was wrong with her? Why did she still care about the man who had betrayed her, and what on earth had possessed her to promise herself to Ryden of Heath? She must have been mad!

  And it had been a grave mistake.

  She’d known it nearly as soon as the words of “I will” had passed her lips.

  And Ryden has another reason for coming, does he not? Did he not vow to avenge his sister’s death?

  Panic nearly strangled her. Surely Ryden wouldn’t take matters into his own hands, not here in Calon, where she was ruler. Or would he?

  So lost in her thoughts was she that she’d nearly forgotten that Sir Alexander was still standing only inches away from her, his dark eyes filled with unspoken questions. Questions she had to answer.

  “Lord Ryden will be visiting,” she announced, forcing a lilt she didn’t feel into her voice and tamping down her rising sense of dread. “In three days’ time.”

  A muscle worked beneath the thick beard of Alexander’s jaw.

  “I’ll tell Alfrydd, so that he can prepare.”

  “Thank you,” she said, though her heart was even heavier than before. What would she say to the man? She didn’t love him, never had and never would, but now, because of her rash decision, they had an agreement and love had never been a part of it. Often, marriage was not about love.

  And if he wanted to inflict his own swift justice on Carrick, she would forbid it. Here, her word was law.

  She notched her chin up a bit. Forced a smile. “It will be good to see Lord Ryden again.”

  Alexander silently accused her of the lie.

  “Was there something else?” she asked and felt her cheeks warm under his steady gaze.

  The captain of the guard cleared his throat. Finally he looked away. “Yes, m’lady. You said that you would decide today if you were going to send a messenger to Lord Graydynn,” he reminded her. “To tell him about the capture . . . er, the discovery of Carrick.”

  Morwenna nodded. Despite the horrid events of the early morning hours, she’d not forgotten about Graydynn, a man she’d met more than once, a cold, hard-edged ruler whose expression was always of irritation or boredom. “Aye. I’ve given it much thought,” she admitted, clasping her hands behind her back as they reached the great hall, where trestle tables were being arranged for the morning meal. “I’ll see the scribe this afternoon and compose a letter, though I’m not certain yet when or if I’ll send it.”

  “But, m’lady, what good will it do here, at Calon? You could send the letter by messenger. Sir Geoffrey would be a good choice to carry it. He was a page at Wybren and knows Lord Graydynn. Or perhaps Father Daniel, as he is Lord Graydynn’s brother.”

  Morwenna was vexed. “If the baron does not know that Carrick was found outside my castle gates, I’m not ready to reveal that Carrick is here.”

  “Why?” he asked, and the damning question seemed to ricochet around the corridor, bouncing off the whitewashed walls and repeating itself over and over in Morwenna’s brain. Why? Why? Why?

  She had no answer. “ ’Tis my decision,” she said tightly. “I’ll do what I think best.”

  “Against the advice of those sworn to protect you?”

  “Yes, Sir Alexander, if I deem it necessary. I’ll consider all you’ve said, but in the end, ’twill be my determination and mine alone.”

  “M’lady—”

  “That is all, Sir Alexander.” She lifted her chin a bit and glared up at him. He hesitated slightly, gave a stiff nod, and turned on his heel.

  As he left, she let out her breath and saw th
at the letter in her hand had been crumpled until it was no longer legible. Which was just as well.

  Until she learned the truth, she wasn’t ready to turn the patient over to Graydynn of Wybren. Not yet. Not until she was certain the wounded, silent man was Carrick.

  She only hoped she had enough time before the word of his attack crossed the entire realm.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The patient lay still. He was weak, his stomach crying out for food, his lips dry and cracked from lack of water. Though he remembered having broth forced down his throat and water poured over his lips, he felt parched.

  He’d woken this morning and opened his eyes to find that he could see much more clearly. He could move without as much mind-searing pain. He could move his hand to touch his face, and he’d felt the swelling, but the agony that had been a part of his body had diminished.

  Earlier, he’d nearly let on that he was conscious when he’d heard the guards talking, catching muted bits of conversation that he’d pieced together. The guards talked of a murder that had taken place in the keep and that the Lady Morwenna was sending a messenger to Lord Graydynn of Wybren to announce that she was holding Graydynn’s cousin Carrick as hostage or prisoner.

  He tried to remember Graydynn. . . . Surely he should have some feelings about the lord—his cousin? But he could conjure up no image of the man and was left with only a disquieting fear that if Graydynn found out about him, it would be his death sentence. What little he could remember of the Baron of Wybren was that he had been a surly, jealous man . . . or had that been Graydynn’s father . . . what was his name? He concentrated but ended up with only a headache for his trouble.

  The images in his head were hard to catch, just fleeting thoughts that ran away the second he tried to capture them.

  He remembered Wybren Castle. Or some parts of it. Could still smell the fire . . . witnessed the flames climbing up the walls. Or were those thoughts just imaginings, dreams he’d concocted from all the conversation he’d heard while lying here unable to move?

  He’d been forced to listen to gossip about a great fire at Wybren, a fire started by Carrick, the man everyone assumed him to be. Carrick the traitor. Carrick the murderer of seven innocent souls. Carrick the hideous. Was it possible? Had he really so callously killed his family?