Warrior's Lady

by Amanda Ashley

  Rorke entered the dungeon early the following morning. Flanked by four armed men, he burst into Jarrett’s cell. “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother.” As he spoke, Rorke tapped a heavy riding crop against his left thigh. “She’s gone.”

  “I have not seen her since our arrival,” Jarrett replied.

  “But you know where she is, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, Rorke struck Jarrett across the face with the heavy crop. “Has she gone to Heth?”

  Jarrett pressed the back of his hand to the gash in his cheek. “I would not tell you if I knew.”

  “But you do know,” Rorke said. He struck Jarrett again, deepening the gash. Blood splattered in the wake of the crop. “And you will tell me. Taark, bring the woman here.”

  “No!” Jarrett took a step forward, only to come to an abrupt halt as four swords swung in his direction.

  “Has she gone to Heth?”

  Jarrett clenched his jaw, his mind searching frantically for some way to tell Rorke what he wanted to know without betraying Mettric’s trust. He flinched as Rorke struck him again, the crop landing with a sharp crack against the side of his neck.

  “I have not seen my mother,” Jarrett said again, “but if she has left Aldane, then she would go to Heth.”

  Rorke stared at Jarrett through narrowed eyes. Was he speaking the truth? They would soon know.

  Jarrett’s head lifted at the sound of Leyla’s footsteps in the corridor. A moment later, Taark pushed her into the cell.

  “Jarrett!” She started toward him, her face paling at the sight of the blood dripping from his cheek, only to be brought up short as Rorke grabbed her by the arm.

  “Sherriza has left the castle,” he said curtly. “Where has she gone?”

  Leyla’s eyes widened in horror as Rorke raised his arm and she saw the blood dripping from the end of the crop. Jarrett’s blood. “I do not know.”

  “Do not lie to me.”

  “Rorke, in the name of heaven, leave her alone!”

  “Then tell me what I wish to know.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  Rorke’s gaze moved from Jarrett’s face to Leyla’s and back again. And then, without warning, he struck Jarrett hard across the face, splitting his lower lip and peeling a bit of skin from his jaw.

  Leyla screamed, her stomach churning as Jarrett’s blood was spattered across the front of her dress.

  “Perhaps you will tell me what I wish to know,” Rorke said, his hand tightening on Leyla’s arm, “before I destroy his pretty face.”

  “She went to Heth,” Leyla said, the words spilling from her in a rush. “She’s gone to seek the King’s help.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Late last night.”

  “Who helped her?”

  “I do not know.”

  “I think you do, and I will flay the flesh from his face unless you tell me.”

  “I do not know, truly. No!” She grabbed Rorke’s arm as he made to strike Jarrett again.

  With an oath, Rorke shook her off and she reeled backward, slamming into the stone wall. She stood there for a moment, her expression stunned, her eyes blank, and then, her arms folded across her stomach, she slid to the floor.

  “Leyla!” Ignoring the swords that threatened him, Jarrett ran to her side. He lifted her into his arms, his hand smoothing the hair from her face. “Leyla.”

  She groaned as she opened her eyes. “The baby…”

  Jarrett lifted his gaze to Rorke’s face. “Let me take her to her room.”

  “Not until you tell me all you know.”

  “I’ve nothing to tell. By Hadra, Rorke, I’ve been locked up. Do you think my mother’s been visiting me at night? Do you think I’ve been coming and going at will?” He cast a frantic look at Leyla, who was groaning softly. “For the love of heaven, Rorke, let me take her out of here. Even if my mother has left for Heth, even if she manages to convince Tyrell of my innocence, she cannot get there and back for at least a fortnight. You have nothing to fear before then.”

  Rorke stared at Jarrett for a long moment, his mind working furiously. He had hoped to remain at Aldane until Tyrell died. It would have been an easy thing then, to return to Heth, dispose of his wife and take the throne. But Sherriza’s escape made that impossible. He had to assume that the King would listen to what she said, that he might even believe her.

  Rorke tapped his finger on the hilt of his sword as he considered his choices. Castle Aldane was virtually invincible. He could stay and make a fight of it or he could march his men to Heth. If he timed it right, he could arrive in Heth while the King’s forces were en route to Aldane. With most of the King’s men gone, he could easily overthrow the castle, dispatch Tyrell and Darrla and assume the throne.

  “Take the woman to her chamber.” Rorke’s cold black eyes settled on Jarrett as he spoke to one of the guards. “Find a girl to sit with her until the babe is born.”

  Jarrett’s throat grew tight as he watched two of the men carry Leyla from the cell. “Rorke, you gave me your word.”

  “And you gave me yours.”

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Perhaps.” Rorke turned on his heel and went to the door, followed by the remaining two guards. “No one is to enter this cell again, Porrter. The prisoner is to be denied food and water. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Milord.”

  “Summon Taark to the West Hall.”

  “Rorke!” Jarrett’s angry voice filled the cell. “Rorke!”

  He lunged forward, rushing toward the doorway, but the chain brought him up short, and then Porrter shut the door, plunging him into darkness and despair.

  He lost track of the time as he paced the cell, the chain around his ankle clanking with each step. How long did it take for babies to be born? He cursed Rorke with all the fury in his soul, damning the man for his treachery, silently berating his mother for her foolhardy plan to help him. By leaving Aldane, she had only made things worse.

  Driven to near madness with worry for Leyla, he lashed out at the walls that imprisoned him, driving his fists against the cold stone until his knuckles were swollen and bloody.

  And then, because he had nowhere else to turn, he dropped to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and prayed to the All Father for a miracle.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Leyla writhed on the bed, gasping as her body sought to expel the child. She tried to ignore the pain, tried to remind herself that it was Jarrett’s babe, but the cause of the pain was no longer important and she clung to the sheet the kitchen maid had tied to the foot of the bed, weeping softly.

  She was vaguely aware that Rorke came into the room on occasion, impatiently questioning the girl, asking if something couldn’t be done to make the child come more quickly.

  And then, when she thought the baby would never be born, the girl urged her to push hard. Feeling as if she were being torn apart, Leyla did as she was told. Moments later, the girl placed the baby in her arms.

  “’Tis a boy, Milady,” the girl said.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Perfect. See for yourself. He has all his fingers and toes in the right place.”

  With great care, Leyla examined her son, all her pain forgotten as she marveled at the beauty of the infant in her arms. He had a mop of black hair, dark-blue eyes, and a dimple in his chin. She felt a sweet pain in her breasts when he began to nurse, a dull ache in her heart as she thought of Jarrett shut up in the dungeons below.

  She begged Rorke to let Jarrett come to her, but he refused, advising her to get some sleep as they were leaving in the morning.

  “Leaving?”

  “For Heth. Sherriza has put the throne within my grasp.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No reason why you should. Be ready in the morning.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Time had lost all meaning. He slept. H
e woke. He paced the dark cell, haunted by fears worse than any nightmare he’d ever known. Hunger gnawed at his belly, thirst plagued him constantly. He prayed until his knees ached and his voice was raw.

  Leyla. Please let her be all right. Please let the child be well. Leyla…Leyla…

  He sat up with a start, his head turning toward the door. Had he heard something, or was it only his imagination playing tricks on him again? How many times had he thought he’d heard someone in the corridor only to have it turn out to be nothing?

  Fear rose in his throat, making his heart pound like thunder as he saw a flicker of light. Had Rorke come to finish him off at last?

  He stood up, his back to the wall, his gaze fixed on the light.

  “My Lord?”

  He tensed at the sound of a key in the lock, and then the door swung open and Mettric stood there.

  “My Lord?”

  For a moment, Jarrett could only stare at him. He swallowed hard, then licked his lips. “Leyla?”

  “She is well, my Lord.” Kneeling, Mettric unlocked the shackle on Jarrett’s ankle.

  “Where is she?” Jarrett demanded. “What of the child?”

  “Rorke has left for Heth. He has taken them with him.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Early yesterday morning. I would have come to you sooner, but Rorke left several of his men behind to keep an eye on the castle. It took time to subdue them all.”

  Jarrett swayed on his feet. Leyla was alive and well. A silent prayer of thanks rose in his heart as he followed Mettric out of the dungeon.

  “I have food and wine waiting, my Lord,” Mettric said. His eyes betrayed his concern as he urged Jarrett to sit down. “I will warm water for your bath while you eat.”

  “There’s no time for that. Saddle my horse.”

  “Nay, my Lord. You will be no use to your woman and child unless you eat and get some rest. We will catch Rorke, my Lord, have no fear.”

  Jarrett nodded. The man was right. He needed food and rest, and a bath after months in the dungeon would be a kindness to any who came near him.

  Twenty minutes later he was submerged in a tub of hot water. He scrubbed away the filth on his body, washed his hair twice and slipped into the robe Mettric had left him.

  He glanced around the room, recognizing it as the one Leyla had occupied. Sitting on the bed, he lifted a handful of the spread and pressed his face against it. Her scent filled his nostrils, and he stretched out on the bed, his face buried in her pillow. Thinking to rest for just a few moments, he closed his eyes. Leyla and the child were well. Belatedly he realized that he had neglected to ask if he had a son or a daughter…

  The air had turned cold when he woke. A glance out the window told him the sun was setting. He’d been asleep for six hours.

  Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he dressed in the clothes Mettric had left for him. Rorke’s clothes, he thought bitterly.

  Mettric was waiting for him downstairs. “A ship awaits us, Milord. My grandson has gone ahead to procure horses.” He handed Jarrett a sword and a longboar knife.

  “You’ve done well, Mettric.” Jarrett buckled the sword at his waist, then slid the knife into his boot. “I won’t forget it.”

  Mettric nodded, embarrassed by Jarrett’s praise. “We waste time, Milord.”

  “Aye,” Jarrett agreed. “Let us go.”

  Jarrett stood in the bow of the ship, his heart keeping time with the pull of the oars. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  When they reached the shore, Mettric’s grandson awaited them.

  They rode hard all that night, not resting until dawn, and then only for a few hours.

  Three hours later, they were riding again. It was midday when they came to a fork in the road. Jarrett reined his horse to a halt, his expression thoughtful. The road to the left was shorter—no doubt it would be the route taken by Tyrell’s men. Would Rorke choose to meet the King’s men in battle, or would he choose the long way around in order to avoid a confrontation?

  “Mettric, take the long road in case the King’s men come that way. If you see them, tell them to return to Heth immediately.”

  “Aye, Milord. Good speed.”

  “And to you also.”

  Jarrett pushed his horse hard until dusk, then allowed the horse an hour to graze and rest before swinging into the saddle again.

  An hour after sunset, he came upon the King’s men. Identifying himself, he asked to be taken to the commander.

  “Commander Haarkness,” the sentry said, entering the commander’s tent. “This man claims to be Jarrett of Gweneth.”

  “And so he is.”

  Haarkness was a man well into middle age. Tall and broad-shouldered, he possessed the air of authority that came only with long years of experience. His hair and eyes were brown, his beard grizzled.

  “I am surprised to see you here, my Lord,” Haarkness mused. “We were told you were being held prisoner in Aldane.”

  “I was, but I’ve no time to explain now. I need your help. Rorke is riding for Heth. He plans to dispose of the King and assume the throne.”

  Haarkness waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Nonsense.”

  “You must believe me,” Jarrett said urgently. “The King’s life is in danger. There is no time to waste.”

  “Rorke is the King’s brother-in-law. What reason would he have to usurp the throne? It will be his by right of marriage. And soon, from what I hear of the King’s health.”

  “He will not be content to be the queen’s consort,” Jarrett retorted impatiently. “He wants the throne for himself.”

  Haarkness shook his head doubtfully.

  Jarrett swore under his breath. “What orders were you given?” Jarrett asked.

  “I was directed to remove Rorke from Castle Aldane, forcibly if need be, and return you both to Heth as quickly as possible. There was no mention of a threat to his majesty.”

  Jarrett took a wary step backward, his sword still drawn. “Perhaps the King isn’t sure whom he can trust.”

  Haarkness drew himself up to his full height. “I have served his Majesty for twenty years,” he replied indignantly.

  “But there may be traitors elsewhere who would ride ahead to warn Rorke of danger.”

  Haarkness nodded. “I believe you, my Lord Jarrett. Brunnel, tell the men to prepare to ride for Heth.”

  “I’m going to ride ahead,” Jarrett said. “I want to be there should Rorke arrive before you.”

  Moments later he was riding out of the encampment, headed south, toward Heth.

  It was near dusk the following day when he reached the palace. No sooner had be crossed the moat than a half dozen armed men surrounded him, quickly relieving him of his weapons.

  “I must see Tyrell,” Jarrett said, wincing as his arms were jerked behind his back and lashed together.

  “And he wishes to see you,” one of the men replied ominously.

  Flanked by four men, Jarrett was ushered into the Great Hall to await the King’s pleasure.

  He glanced around the hall, recalling the last time he’d been there, the night Tor and Leyla had helped him escape from Rorke. A mural recounting the victories of the ruling monarchy of Heth adorned all four walls. Narrow stained glass windows overlooked the courtyard. Two intricately carved thrones made of white oak stood on a raised dais at the far end of the room. Long trestle tables were situated on each side of the room. A hundred candles burned in sconces along the walls. The stone floor was covered with a mat of tightly woven reeds, and over this, at varying intervals, were laid brightly colored carpets.

  Jarrett stood there for perhaps twenty minutes before the King entered the hall, followed by several of his retainers.

  Watching Tyrell take his seat on the throne, Jarrett knew the rumors of the man’s ill health were well-founded. Tyrell’s skin was the color of old parchment, his cheeks were hollow, his brown eyes, once shrewd and bright, were sunk deep in their sockets. Though the room was wa
rm, he wore a heavy, fur-lined purple cloak trimmed in sable around his frail shoulders, and thick fur-lined boots covered his feet.

  Darrla entered the hall behind the King and sat down on the throne beside him. She studied Jarrett, her face impassive, as she waited for her brother to speak.

  A shove from behind sent Jarrett to his knees. He knew he should bow his head, that he should humble himself before Tyrell, beg for his forgiveness and understanding, but he couldn’t do it. He had always been loyal to the crown, and to Fenduzia. He had nothing to hide, no reason to grovel. Head high, he met the King’s probing gaze.

  Tyrell stared at Jarrett for several minutes. When he spoke, his voice was a harsh rasp that told of constant pain.

  “I would have the truth from your own lips,” the King declared.

  “I am no traitor, sire. That is the truth.”

  “What of the spies found in Greyebridge Chapel?”

  “There were no spies, only a handful of frightened women and children who had escaped the battlefield and taken refuge in my church.”

  The King leaned forward, his eyes as hard and bright as moonstone.

  “Rorke has a confession, signed by an Aldanite woman, saying that you incited the rebels, that it was your intent to usurp the throne.”

  “I know of no such confession, but I know Rorke. He would not hesitate to blackmail the woman.”

  Tyrell sat back in his chair. “Your lies fall easily from your tongue. Perhaps I should have it cut out.”

  “Your majesty, I have never betrayed you. It is Rorke you have to fear, not I. He wants the throne, and he means to have it.” Jarrett’s gaze met Darrla’s for the first time. “He intends to rule alone, madam, through your son, Jerrain.”

  Darrla shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Ask my mother.”

  Darrla’s shoulders sagged, as though a great weight had been placed upon them. “We have. Your words confirm everything she has said. Is it true you were confined to the Pavilion? That Rorke had the Games reinstated?”

  “Aye, madam. I was there for eight months.” He shuddered with revulsion as he recalled the endless days and nights spent in a small dark cell.