Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  His mouth dropped in surprise. His expression hardened with suspicion. “What?”

  “You arranged her abduction.”

  Shocked murmurs rippled through the guards.

  “Do not be foolish!” Torr said. “What a shame that your shock has made you distrust everyone who cares for you.”

  She forged on, fighting the dread and fear begging her to be silent. “One of the maidservants at Caldstowe saw you hand Angeline to two cloaked riders. Brant spoke with the young woman.”

  “Brant?” Torr sneered. “You believe him? A condemned criminal? How he deluded you.”

  Brant swore. Staring at Torr, his hands flexing on the sword, he seemed to be struggling to control his fury.

  “The witness did not doubt what she saw,” Faye said.

  Torr’s eyes narrowed. “What is her name?”

  “I . . .” She swallowed hard. If she betrayed Blythe, Torr might send his men after her. If the girl went missing, or died, there would be no one to speak against him.

  “Why will you not tell me? Do you not know?” When Faye didn’t reply, he giggled as though she’d told a delightful jest. “Milady, he spoke false to you. He deliberately corrupted your trust and loyalty to me, until you believed his every word.”

  “I had no reason to lie to her about Angeline,” Brant said. “You, however—”

  “Do not distort the truth!” Torr roared. “You are a murderer. A man who killed his own brother. You will suffer for your crimes.” He reached for his sword. The cold, bright metal hissed out of the scabbard.

  Oh, God! She couldn’t bear to see Brant cut down. From Torr’s merciless expression, he intended Brant a painful death.

  “What of Angeline?” Faye cried. “She could be in grave danger.”

  “True. Surrender, Meslarches. Spare us from wasting moments that could be spent on more pressing matters.”

  Brant snorted. “Surrender? I think not. I am waiting for you to answer Faye’s question.”

  A scowl creased Torr’s brow. “Meslarches—”

  “Tell me where to find Angeline,” Faye said. “Then I will tell you where to find the journal.”

  Torr froze. “Journal?”

  Faye’s fingers curled tighter on the sputtering torch. How clever of him to pretend ignorance. “The private journal of Brant’s brother, Royce. You kept it hidden under the floorboards in your solar.”

  Torr inhaled sharply. His sword arm trembled.

  “The tome contains details of a lost Celtic treasure—”

  “Shut up!” Turning to his men, he snapped, “Leave the torches. Wait outside.” With frantic fingers, he groped for his leather flask. He guzzled the drink, liquid running from the corners of his mouth.

  The guards looked at each other. “Milord?”

  Torr stowed the flask. “When I need you, I will summon you. Leave us.”

  “But—”

  He lashed out with his weapon, narrowly missing one of the guards. His expression wild, he swung again. “Get . . . out!”

  The men hurried from the cavern. Their muttered voices echoed in the passageway. Before the last guard retreated, Torr grabbed his arm and spoke in his ear. With a nod, the guard headed out of the cavern.

  Torr stood motionless until the noises faded. Then his head swiveled and he glared at Faye. “I did not think you to be a stupid woman. You are very foolish to goad me, after all I have done for you.”

  Fear buzzed in her veins, but she refused to break his gaze. “You left me no other choice, if I wish to find Angeline.”

  Torr spat out of the side of his mouth. “The journal, Faye.”

  She bit back an indignant cry. His careless tone, his nonexistent concern for his little girl, was unforgivable. How could a child’s life be worth less than a book of musings on a treasure that might never be found?

  Refusing to yield to his challenging stare, she said, “First, Angeline.”

  His brows rose. He laughed, a shrill noise that mocked her demand as ludicrous. “Why?”

  Smoke from the burning torch stung Faye’s eyes. She would never forget her last moments with Elayne, her friend’s lovely, golden hair matted with sweat, her eyes bleak and blood shot, her skin too pale, each wheezing breath dragging her closer to death. “When Elayne lay dying,” Faye said, “I promised her I would watch over Angeline. I never break a promise.”

  “Look where that vow has brought you.”

  His mocking words hurt, rubbing like vinegar into her raw, emotional wounds. Her whole body ached with the anguish. But if he thought she would cede ground in this battle, he had misjudged her. “Indeed,” she said quietly, “and look where it has brought you.”

  Astonishment flared in Torr’s eyes.

  “How quick you are to make demands, but still, you have not answered my question: Where is Angeline?”

  Admiration gleamed in Torr’s gaze before he chuckled. The throaty sound transformed to a booming laugh that echoed up to the cavern’s shadowed ceiling. “What a bold woman you are. No longer the meek, grieving widow who came to Caldstowe with not a penny to her name. Not even a babe.”

  He sneered the word “babe.” Faye swallowed painfully. Her palm pressed to her stomach as a silent, agonized scream broke inside her.

  “You bastard,” Brant growled.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, Faye glared at Torr. “How dare you remind me of my child? This wretched abduction is not about me.”

  “Is it not?” Torr muttered, so quietly she almost didn’t hear.

  Faye frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Before she could demand an explanation from him, footfalls carried again from the passage to the cavern. A triumphant grin spread across Torr’s features as a guard—the man to whom Torr had whispered moments ago—emerged. Against his chain-mail-armored chest, he cradled an object wrapped in a blanket.

  Faye’s gaze darted to the skeletal remains of the Celtic man, even as misgiving jolted through her. Whoever—or whatever—lay wrapped in the blanket was much smaller than the dead man.

  No larger than a . . . child.

  Oh, God.

  Her knees wobbled. Shaking her head, she fought the deluge of dreadful possibilities crowding her mind.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!

  The words became an inner chant, a desperate prayer, as Torr motioned to the rocks near his feet. “There.”

  The guard’s wary expression deepened. “Surely not, milord. ’Tis damp and—”

  “Do it!” Torr screamed. His face reddened with the vehemence of his command. The guard’s face whitened as he knelt to set the blanket down. “Leave,” Torr snapped.

  The guard bowed and turned on his heel. Before he’d taken two steps, Torr lunged, striking with his sword. The blade slashed across the guard’s thigh unprotected by chain mail. Blood spurted.

  Faye shrieked.

  The man screamed. “Milord! Mercy! Why—?”

  “Shut up.”

  The guard staggered and fell to his knees, groping for his weapon. Raising his blade, Torr struck out again. The man’s head landed on the rocks with a grisly thud, then rolled down into the inky pool. With the eerie clink of chain mail links, the guard’s body collapsed.

  Breathing through his teeth, Torr wiped perspiration from his brow. He swung to face Faye and Brant.

  “Why did you kill him?” Brant demanded.

  “He questioned my command. He will not do so again.” His lips curved into a malicious smile. “If you are wise, you will do exactly as I say.”

  Fear clawed up inside Faye, as terrifying as a flesh-eating demon. Torr had just committed murder, but he showed not the slightest remorse. Unlike Brant, who lived in torment because he’d killed his brother.

  Her gaze returned to the blanket by his feet. What else was Torr capable of?

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brant’s hand move. A signal. Val scampered across the rocks. Nose down, he cautiously
approached the wrapped bundle and sniffed it.

  Wiping his forehead again, Torr laughed. The shrill cackle sounded almost inhuman.

  “We are listening, Torr,” Brant said, each word deliberate and calm, as though he reasoned with a temperamental child. “What is in the blanket?”

  The fabric stirred. A moan. A tiny, pathetic sound.

  Faye’s breaths shortened until she was panting. She scrambled over the slippery rocks. “Angeline?”

  “Never!” Horror echoed in Brant’s voice.

  Torr grinned.

  Scooting forward, Val sniffed the blanket again and snagged it with his teeth. He tugged, revealing a mass of flaxen curls and a rounded shoulder encased in dirty, yellow wool.

  Another tug revealed the drawn face of a little girl. She lay on her side, eyes closed, her lashes still against ghostly pale skin.

  “Angeline,” Faye cried.

  Slipping, sliding, she scrambled across the stone steps. Sobs wrenched up inside her, originating in her grief for her own babe. How she yearned to hug Angeline, to kiss her silky hair, to promise that whatever had befallen her, she would soon be safe.

  Reaching level ground, Faye jammed the torch into a rock crevice and hurried toward Angeline. “You are safe, my lamb,” she called to the little girl. “I promise.”

  As though becoming aware of her approach, the little girl stirred. Her eyes opened. However, her blue-eyed gaze didn’t seem to focus. She moaned again.

  Faye stumbled to a halt. “W-what is wrong with her?”

  “Drugged,” Brant muttered.

  “Who would be so evil . . .” She choked on the vile words. “Who would drug a child?”

  Torr shrugged. “Angeline would not stop crying. All day, all night. I told my two hired men to drug her, but even then, she would not cease.” He wrinkled his nose. “My guards and I met them on the road while pursuing you. The men were returning her to Caldstowe. I received their message about bringing her back, Faye, when you and I were drinking wine in my solar.”

  Faye fisted her shaking hands. What she would give to slap that arrogant smile from his lips!

  “When the two men demanded their payment, I vowed I did not know them and accused them of kidnapping.” He chortled. “After their killings, my men praised me for my brave rescue of Angeline.”

  Faye curled her hands so tightly, her nails bit into her palms. “If she was miserable, why did you not bring her home to Caldstowe? Why did you continue with your loathsome abduction ploy?”

  Torr gave a secretive smile and examined his sword in the flickering light. He wiped the bloody blade on the dead guard’s leg.

  “Answer me! What if you poisoned her? What if you destroyed her mind?” With a strangled sob, she rushed forward. A few more steps, and she could drop to her knees, embrace Angeline, murmur comforting words—

  Brant lunged sideways. He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Faye.”

  Fighting his hold, she cried, “Let me pass!”

  “’Tis a trap.”

  Standing beside Angeline, Val nuzzled her arm, as though to coax her to sit up.

  Faye shrieked and struggled. “Let me go to her!”

  “She is of little value to Torr. He has made that very clear.” Brant’s keen gaze bored into hers, demanding she heed him. Still, she fought, digging her fingernails into his hand.

  “Faye, listen to me! Torr wants you. Something he believes only you can give him.”

  As Brant’s words filtered through her haze of anguish, she froze. “Me?”

  She glanced at Torr. One indolent hand on his hip, he watched their altercation. His smile oozed smug triumph.

  “Think, Faye,” Brant said. “All that has happened, every moment to this point, has revolved around one event. One . . . object.”

  “The journal.”

  He frowned. “Not exactly.”

  Then it struck her with the full force of a blow. “The gold cup.”

  ***

  Faye’s hoarse words sent a chill shivering through Brant—one as icy as an ancient spirit whispering across his neck.

  Tipping his head back, Torr laughed. The sound dripped with condescension. “Very good, Faye. I thought you too naïve to ever guess.”

  Her face tautened with indignation. She looked angry enough to leap at Torr and scratch his eyes out, an impulse Brant thoroughly understood. However, attacking Torr would shift focus from the vital questions that deserved answers. Squeezing her arm, he murmured, “Easy. He owes us both an explanation.”

  She glared at him, but her head moved in a stiff nod.

  As Torr’s maniacal chortling escalated, Brant released her and secured his grip on his sword. He gritted his teeth, fighting his own war-honed instincts to lunge while Torr stood distracted and gloating.

  The craving tempted like a heady wine. A stunned shudder rippled through Brant, for murdering Royce had been utter hell. Killing Torr, however, might just be a pleasure.

  An appalling thought, to relish taking a life. Yet, it seemed the only way to save Faye and Angeline, innocent lives that didn’t deserve to be caught up in such hellish madness.

  Torr wiped his eyes, his laughter ebbing to chuckles. However, his posture still bespoke a king assuming victory over a pathetic foe.

  “Torr,” Brant said, with enough force to silence Torr’s chuckling. “Tell me—”

  Faye thrust up her hand. Casting Brant a quelling glance, she said to Torr, “How did you know about the gold chalice?”

  Fury crackled in her voice. The same rage had glinted in her eyes when she’d glanced at Brant. A sudden, unwelcome thought jarred Brant. Did she believe he had told Torr? “I swear to you, I never told him about the cup.”

  Confusion dimmed the accusation in her eyes. “Nor did I.”

  Torr smirked. “Elayne told me.”

  “Elayne!” Faye’s hand flew to her throat, as though she would choke on the revelation. “She would never tell.”

  The glee faded from Torr’s expression. “Ah, but she did. Eventually.” His lips curled back from his teeth. “She taunted me with the find. Smiled, in that wretched way of hers, while she lay in our bed. Told me I would never possess the chalice. That ’twas worth a fortune, and the riches belonged to Angeline.”

  “Elayne promised,” Faye whispered. “She and I swore not to tell anyone.”

  An ugly sneer twisted Torr’s mouth. “You believe you are the only one she betrayed?”

  Torr’s venomous tone resonated in the part of Brant’s heart forever scarred by Elayne. How ironic that, on the matter of her manipulative nature, he and Torr agreed.

  Yet, from what little he knew of her and Torr’s marriage, they had seemed well matched, their union blessed with a healthy daughter. What had Elayne done that Torr considered a betrayal? Brant sensed ’twas far more than denying Torr the gold cup.

  “’Tis unfair to speak ill of Elayne when she cannot be here to defend her actions,” Faye said coldly.

  “Pah! Do not think to revere her like a saint.”

  “You took advantage of her infirmity. What did you do to her? Drug her?”

  Faye shook as though on the verge of collapse. Brant yearned to close the distance between them, to slip his arm around her. Danger thickened, however, so close to sparking bloody violence, he dared not take his hands from his sword.

  Torr smiled, an expression of disdain. “Did you know, Faye, you were the one person she believed she could trust with her life?”

  Faye moaned.

  “I told her that if she gave you the slightest warning I knew about the cup . . .” He slashed the air with his sword. “Not only you, but Angeline.”

  “You are mad!”

  “She drove me to it. I did what was necessary, for she refused to tell me where Angeline had found the chalice, or where you had hidden it for safekeeping. God’s teeth, but she was stubborn. Only the drug made her talk.”

  Brant’s gut clench
ed with revulsion. Now he understood why the missive he’d received from Elayne had sounded urgent. Had she begged him to come to Caldstowe to help save her from Torr?

  “Her illness made her weak. I could not have her die before she confessed all to me.” Torr shrugged. “I added the drug to the herbal infusions you administered, Faye.”