by Sandra Lee
She had failed. Gavarnie would die.
Nicolette’s face swam before her, little doe’s eyes filled with inconsolable loss. Then Alory, his sweet features blighted by grief. Finally Ronces, fearful and accusatory. He would embrace his father’s death as if he were to blame, as if there were something he could have done.
Never once had she told them how wonderful they were, she thought groggily. What strength they possessed. Gavarnie was so very fortunate to have such children.
How could she have thought to leave them?
Nay. She was confused. ’Twas they who wanted her gone. Dragon-hag . . . Grendelskin . . . I would offer marriage, but you would doubtless mock me for it.
Wild images stole through her thoughts.
She and Gavarnie at the altar. The priest raised his cowl to reveal a goat’s head. She should have told Gavarnie of her wicked nature. He could not know she was the devil’s spawn.
But she wasn’t in church after all. Instead, she was in Mimskin’s cottage, though it more resembled a cavernous tomb. Gundrada was roasting a pig on a spit. Only, the pig turned out to be Nigel, or was it Lord de Warrenne . . .
Then there was noise. Great tearing sheets of sound. Wetness splattered her face and she cracked her eyes open. What—
She forced herself to sit, blinking. Rain. So heavy it crashed against the forest canopy until she thought the reverberations might split her head in two.
Nigel and Gundrada! Her eyes widened. Where were they?
She scrambled to rise, grimacing at the pain that shot through her feet. A blessed numbness carried throughout the rest of her body. She squinted at her surroundings. The forest had grown darker, but not so dim that she couldn’t see a fallen tree directly in front of her. The huge trunk angled upward to rest upon the branches of another tree.
Witless get of an idiot! No one had hit her. She’d run full speed into the dead wood and knocked herself senseless.
Her relief was short-lived, though. Was it dusk, or were the clouds so thick that they concealed the day? How much time had passed? For all she knew, Gavarnie could be dead by now.
A feeling of dread billowed in her chest, snatching the air from her lungs. Not only had she obviously lost her pursuers, she’d lost herself. However would she find her way back to the road?
Cease! She clutched her head. Standing about sniveling like a babe would do no good. So long as she lived, Gavarnie had a chance. Whatever it took, she would find her way to Skyenvic. She had the sight. And by all that was holy, she would make it serve her needs.
THE RAIN HAD SLACKED to a slow drizzle as Gavarnie stood beside the bed in his chamber. No lamps were lit and as twilight descended, the room darkened. ’Twas what he awaited. The cover of night.
Behind him, Roland climbed atop a stool and tied Gavarnie’s hair back with a leather strip. He would not so much as chance a stray wisp obscuring his vision.
Sperville paced the floor before him, shaking his head. “You cannot go,” he repeated for the hundredth time. “’Tis naught but a trap.”
Weary and sick to his soul, Gavarnie demanded, “What would you have me do? Await the return of my sons’ body parts?”
“Send someone else,” the chamberlain pleaded. “Once we discover where Gundrada and Nigel hold the boys, then we can plan.”
Gavarnie eyed Spindleshanks. The rush of rage at the missive he’d received a short while past had dwindled. Now only fear, raw and frostbitten, remained.
Your witch woman has told you all by now. Nigel and I will send our demands for the return of your sons once we reach France. Bide quietly until then, or your children will be returned to you in pieces.
It was signed “Gundrada.”
Gavarnie scowled. Where was Golde? What did Gundrada mean when she said his witch-woman had told him all?
Sperville pulled him from his grim musings. “At least wear your armor.”
“And alert all to my presence?” Gavarnie shook his head. “The sound of ringing mail is more than I will risk. If I stand any chance, ’tis to arrive by stealth.”
Roland eased off the stool and Gavarnie nodded at the youth in the dim light. “Go and feed yourself, then rest. I will have need of you later.”
Roland bowed and quickly took himself off, closing the door behind him.
“Let me accompany you,” Sperville persisted.
Gavarnie crossed his arms and shook his head. “I would that you remain. There is much that will need your attention if I do not return.”
Sperville grimaced, his teeth gray in the failing light. “Do not speak thus, lest you curse yourself.”
“I am already cursed.” Gavarnie strode to the narrow window beside the bed and surveyed the lowering sky.
Was Golde’s absence a result of her revulsion for him? Had she again flown to Atherbrook? He could not blame her. Yet he could not believe Golde would leave if she had information concerning his children.
Unless her hatred of him was so great that . . .
He rubbed at his neck. Would that he could take back his offer to pay for her maidenhead. Would that he had not forced himself upon her. But she would never consider marriage to him. Taking her had been the only way he could think to bind her to him.
He stared at the murky twilight. Prithee, God—and any other Being that might watch over Golde—let her be safe.
He should not have left with Sir Hugh. Everything— Ronces and Alory, Golde—had happened in his absence. But he had not been able to resist proving Sir Hugh wrong. At Golde’s instigation, the man had become determined to travel to New Market to find his son.
He searched the glomung sky. Truth tell, he’d insisted on accompanying Sir Hugh to the village to discredit Golde, to prove to Sir Hugh that she’d lied, to throw her false abilities in her face. Then she would feel . . .
He stiffened. Feel what? Dependent upon him?
He clenched his jaw, disgusted with himself. Aye. If he proved her a fake, ruined her reputation as a seeress on the mainland, she would be unable to fend for herself. She would need a man. Him.
And it had all been for naught. Were Sir Hugh younger, he and the village boy could pass for twins.
How had Golde known? Had the boy’s mother been one of her culls? Or did Golde truly possess the gift of sight?
Have done, he commanded his thoughts. He must prepare himself for the task at hand. ’Twas well and good that the evening was overcast. ’Twould be dark sooner. He had no intention of sitting idle while his children were whisked off to France.
Suddenly the door crashed inward. Gavarnie spun, clutching the hilt of his sword, his body vibrating. There stood Henri, flanked by Bogo and Lund. And sweet Mother of God, they had Golde.
“Mi’lord,” Henri’s voice quavered, “you must listen to mistress.”
Gavarnie’s brows drew together. Golde’s forehead appeared bruised before the flickering rushlight Henri held. He strode forward, his lips thinning. Was that a puddle of water at her bare feet?
Faith, she was soaked! And filthy, as if someone had dragged her through mud. Then it came to him. His liegemen must have beaten her.
“Lowly worms,” he growled. “You will pay for your abuse.”
He jerked his blade from its sheath. They would lose their feet first, then their—
Golde held up a hand. “Cease.” Her voice sounded thick and hoarse. “Your men have done naught to me.” He reached out and jerked her against his chest. Mean-tempered, sour-tongued little she-goat. He held her tight. Even if it meant chaining her arms and legs and locking her in his chamber, he would never let her go again. She would learn to love him or he would thrash her senseless.
“If you would leave go,” she grumbled against his chest, “there is much I need say to you.”
He glanced up to see the trio of liegemen watching him. Faith, one would think they’d never seen a man hold a woman. He cleared his throat. “That will be all.”
The men bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door be
hind them.
Blackness engulfed the chamber at their departure. “We waste valuable time.” Golde attempted to pull from his grasp.
Refusing to release her, he called to the chamberlain. “Sperville, a light.”
Flint was struck and a candle flared. He realized Golde was shaking. Not trembling, but fair convulsing. He held her away and brushed tendrils of wet hair from her face. Her flesh was clammy and she smelled of rain. “Sperville, a blanket, and fire some coals.”
Golde brushed his hand from her face. Her gaze darted over his features, anxious. “Henri told me of Alory and Ronces’ disappearance. I fear I am to blame.”
Gavarnie clutched her shoulders, studying her eyes. Now that he’d placed his faith in her, she would admit that she’d deceived him?
“What are you saying?” he whispered, scarce able to draw breath.
He would not believe it. Could not. He loved her.
TWENTY-EIGHT
GOLDE ROLLED UP a sleeve while hurrying from the wardrobe where she’d helped herself to one of Gavarnie’s black tunics. “Sperville, we must be quick.”
The chamberlain gave her a patient look. “You will abide here, mistress, just as his lordship has commanded.”
Golde headed toward the door, rolling the other sleeve. “Shoes, Sperville. I need shoes.”
“I cannot allow you to leave.” The chamberlain stepped in front of her, arms crossed over his chest.
Golde spun about and raced back for the wardrobe. “My girdle. I’ll not be tripping over this hem all night.” She snatched her corded belt from the pile of rain-soaked clothing and began tying it about her hips. Faith, but Gavarnie’s tunic swallowed her, and she was no small girl. She sailed from the wardrobe and again headed for the door.
Sperville grabbed her arm. “Have your ears failed? I tell you—”
“Your wits have flown if you think I’ll lounge about while Gavarnie and his sons are butchered.”
Spindleshanks winced and his grip tightened. “I cannot let you go. Sir Gavarnie would have my head if aught befell you.”
Golde leveled a deadly stare at him. “Release me, or you will not live long enough for Gavarnie to kill you.”
The chamberlain shook his head. “Be reasonable. You cannot wield a blade. You cannot fight. You would be naught but an added burden for Gavarnie to worry over.”
Golde raised her free hand and pretended to scratch the back of her head with irritation. Men could be so foolish, she thought, grasping the hilt of a small dagger she’d hidden in her bound hair. In one swift move, she pulled the blade free and pressed it to the chamberlain’s throat. “I have not all night. Die now, or live to deal with your lord’s idle threats later.”
Spindleshanks couldn’t cease blinking. “What . . . Where? How did you . . .”
“Leave go or I will slit you ear to ear.”
Sperville recovered quickly and his eyes narrowed. “Very well. I will release you on one condition.”
“You are in no position to—”
“I will accompany you.”
Relief flooded Golde. What would she have done had the chamberlain refused to let her go? She could never have killed him. She lowered the blade and nodded. “As you will. But I yet need shoes.”
GAVARNIE'S HEART WARRED with his belly for possession of his chest. It had taken an hour to reach on foot what would have been a quarter-hour ride on horseback. But there was no help for it. Mounted, he would present an easy target. As it was, he hugged the lane’s edge, prepared to dive for the forest’s cover should he be detected.
Considering all that Golde had overheard, ’twas possible Gundrada’s missive had been straightforward. That she wanted no more than to ensure his silence until she and Nigel were safely away.
Still, he could not shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap. Like as not, Gundrada was counting on him to come for his sons. Then, once he presented himself, she would kill him.
He crept forward around a tree trunk, feeling for brush and skirting it. Would that he had wings. His head could do naught but create vivid images of Ronces and Alory in the throes of death.
He grimaced. It did no good to think of such.
He paused to listen. The rain had stopped, leaving a cool mist in its wake. The whir of crickets and croaking frogs were the only stirrings.
He continued on. His head yet spun with the knowledge that he’d not killed Isabelle. What if he’d never discovered the truth? And who would have believed that de Warrenne would warn him of danger? Yet that was what the Baron of Adurford had done, if what Golde had overheard were true.
Golde. ’Twas only by the grace of God that she had been witness to Nigel and Gundrada’s meeting. And God had delivered her safely unto him. Was it too much to ask that Ronces and Alory be returned unharmed?
He halted and cocked his head. It sounded like . . .
Voices. Gooseflesh rippled over his body. Whispery snatches of conversation from the road. They wove about his ears like spider’s webs. His muscles tensed and he crouched lower. What were they say—
“Must you walk on my heels?” Golde hissed.
“’Twas not done a’purpose,” Sperville snapped in return.
Gavarnie rose, scowling. Of all the dimwitted . . .
Even as his jaw opened to chastise the simpletons, a man ordered, “Hold, baron.”
Gavarnie froze. The voice was nowhere near him. Rather, it came from the same vicinity as Golde and Sperville.
“Take his sword, Rolf,” the man commanded with ill-concealed contempt. “Lady Gundrada will be most pleased.”
“Wha—wha—” the chamberlain spluttered.
“Mi’lord.” Golde’s tone was underscored with double meaning. “Do not protest. Give them your blade.”
Gavarnie narrowed his eyes. He had been right. ’Twas a trap. Clearly, the assailants thought Sperville was he. And Golde was doing her best to confirm the mistake, the little fool. ’Twould cost Sperville his life.
“This way, baron,” the man ordered. “One false move and we’ll gut you where you stand.”
“Do as they say, your lordship,” Golde begged.
“Shut your mouth, wench, or lose your tongue.” Gavarnie slid his sword from its sheath. There were only two men. ’Twould not be difficult to slip up behind them and slit their throats. Yet . . .
He eased forward, following the slogging sound of footsteps in the muddy lane. The men were taking Golde and Sperville to Gundrada. Ultimately they would lead him to his children.
It was easy to track the foursome. Keeping to the tree line, Gavarnie prowled along behind them. If ever his blindness could have been considered a blessing, ’twas now. His balance was as secure as if ’twere full daylight. Though no one spoke a word, he could distinguish the men’s heavier breathing from Golde’s, could smell the acrid odor of sweat from the men-at-arms. And all the while, he used his sword to avoid ruts, his steps sure and silent.
After some bit of time, one of the liegemen let loose a warbling whistle. Obviously a signal, though even a deaf man wouldn’t be fooled into believing it was a bird. The group continued more slowly now, the whistling more frequent, until at last there came a muffled response.
“Maegus,” a liegeman grumbled. “Give us a light, fool.”
“A moment, sir.”
At the sound of flint being struck, Gavarnie leapt forward. By the time the tinder caught, one liegeman had been dispatched. The second could only blink once at the light before Gavarnie’s blade found his throat.
Sperville had the wherewithal to clamp a hand over the lamp-bearer’s mouth—a lowly servant judging from his coarse, hole-filled tunic.
Gavarnie placed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Then he shook a fist at Sperville and scowled at Golde. She took a deep breath, her eyes filled with . . . if not adoration, then certainly gratitude, and tearful at that.
He couldn’t resist. Pulling her against him, he pressed a hard kiss on her mouth. Her nose wrinkled wh
en he set her away, and his gaze followed hers.
Faith, he was covered with gore from the dead liegemen. That he had not noticed it, or its odor, was grimly exhilarating. He had not been reminded of Isabelle. Had not been rendered witless with guilt, or immobilized by fear.
He raised his gaze to Golde, unable to keep a savage grin at bay. Or mayhap ’twas a sneer, a contemptuous farewell to the horror that had bound him for so long. It mattered not. He was whole again.
Golde laid a hand on his chest and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Take your ease, mi’lord. Ronces and Alory are safe.”
Relief near buckled his knees. “They are returned to Skyenvic?”
Golde placed a finger to his lips. “Lower your voice. They are not at Skyenvic.”
“Then where—”
“Trust me. They are well and unharmed. But I know not for how long.”
He studied her eyes. Even the black one appeared most sincere. ’Twas difficult to doubt her. Yet before he could comfort himself with solid reassurance, she forestalled any further questions by covering his mouth with her fingers. Her eyes shifted in the lamp-bearer’s direction, a silent reminder.
Jerking his head at the servant, he gestured with his sword for the peasant to lead on. Sperville retrieved his blade and stood at the ready.
By the Blessed Virgin, his sons would be rescued. Then those responsible for their abduction would die.
NEVER HAD GOLDE felt such discomfort in the wood. This night she felt suffocated by the gnarled trees, clammy from the cool mist. Like she’d been buried.
She stared at Gavarnie’s broad shoulders as she and Sperville walked behind him along a narrow footpath. The servant who led them had not uttered a sound, was doubtless incapable of speech. And she could not blame him.
Gavarnie appeared ferocious. Indeed, the unholy, slavering look of triumph that had claimed his features moments ago had frightened even her. ’Twould not surprise her in the least were he to raise his face to the heavens and howl.