Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  Teeth chattering, she tied her horse to a low-hanging branch of an oak tree. Fervently she hoped that the steed wouldn’t chill. He was a spirited animal, but she’d ridden hard all night, and now his flesh quivered beneath his hide, and lather flecked his mud-dappled chest. “I’ll be back, McBannon,” she promised as she patted his sleek shoulder. “With Leah.”

  From her saddle pouch she pulled the old burnet tunic that Isolde had given her. The fabric was rough and scratchy as she slid it over the shorter tunic and breeches she’d worn. Next she donned a dirt brown cloak with a cowl. The cloak was in sad need of a needle and thread, but Sorcha was certain she looked like many of the peasant women who lived near the castle. With numb fingers she tied her hair away from her face and pulled the cowl over her head, but never once did she forget the knife tucked into her boot, its cool blade touching her calf.

  “Lord help me,” she whispered, grabbing her basket and picking her way through the skeletal brambles and dripping ferns. At the edge of the road she waited until two horsemen passed. Once the riders had rounded the bend and the road was empty, Sorcha hurried from her hiding spot and walked quickly in the direction of Erbyn. Sleet tore at her cowl, and her fingers felt like ice around the handle of her basket, but she plodded forward, knowing that Leah’s fate was in her hands.

  The old midwife’s words followed after her. ’Tis ye who are held captive by Lord Hagan himself, ’tis ye who will not return.

  Grimacing, Sorcha shoved aside her fear and gathered her courage. Her plan was simple. With the knowledge gained from the traitor, Robert, she knew how Erbyn’s inner bailey was guarded. She also had learned of the keep itself. Robert, once he’d decided to divulge the truth, had been very precise in his descriptions of the great hall. He’d told of a back staircase leading directly to the lord’s chambers—cold stone steps for the coward to use if he had to flee the castle, or a staircase used to bring up wenches and unwilling servant girls to the master’s bed.

  Sorcha gritted her teeth. No doubt Leah’s virginity had been stolen by Darton and his men. Bile rose in her throat, but she found comfort in the sharp steel of her knife in her boot. Though she’d never killed a man before this night, she planned to take the very life of Darton if she had to.

  “God be with me,” she prayed, and failing God’s guidance, she had, tucked deep in her basket, beneath the linen liner, yet another dagger.

  She walked steadily toward Erbyn. The gate to the outer bailey was open, but could only be reached by crossing the heavy timbers of a drawbridge spanning a steep canyon. Flanking the portcullis were two round towers, twice the size of any towers at Castle Prydd.

  Though it was approaching dark, people moved freely along the rutted road. Wagons and peddlers’ carts, men and women on foot as well as those astride horses, teemed toward the gate. Despite the blasts of frigid wind that ripped the cowl from Sorcha’s head and drove the icy rain against her body, she noticed that most of the travelers were laughing and talking among themselves. Already the spirit of the Christmas revels was in the air. Sorcha only hoped that with the holy season upon them, the guards at Erbyn would be less suspicious.

  She tagged behind a farmer’s wagon, hoping to appear one of the peddlers, troubadours, and minstrels who were making their way to the castle. Stepping around a pile of dung, she slowed her walk as the gatekeepers eyed each of the travelers.

  Her heart was thundering and sweat collected between her shoulder blades as she passed by the guard. Without a second look, he waved her on, paying more attention to two on horseback. Her knees nearly gave way in relief and she continued through the outer bailey. Gardens, now choked with weeds, were rivers of mud, and rainwater ran down the thatch of the roofs to drip along the edge of each hut. Cows were penned in one corner of the grassland, and a quintain stood unattended in a marshy field. Several archers braved the weather. With leathery faces and taut bows, they wagered on their skills, then took aim on targets propped against piles of straw. Stables and sheds held horses and pigs while sheep grazed on the wet grass.

  “Halt,” a guard bellowed as she attempted to walk beneath the portcullis. His face was pockmarked, and his lank hair, wet from the drizzling rain, was flattened to his head. “State yer business.”

  While her insides quivered, Sorcha forced what she hoped was an innocent smile. “ ’Tis with the cook, Ada, I’m wishin’ to speak. I got goose eggs to sell, and ivy and mistletoe for the yule.” She winked at the guard and offered him a peek at her basket. “And what would the Christmas revels be without a spot of mistletoe, eh?”

  Flushing, he laughed. “Ye can pass, then, as long as ye be savin’ a bit of the mistletoe fer me.”

  Sorcha giggled and managed to keep a sharp retort from slipping over her tongue. ’Twould not do to let even a lowly gate guard guess her intentions, so she swung her hips in the manner of a bawdy wench.

  Some of the servant girls were lingering near the well, and a boy was dipping his net into a fish pond. Chickens scattered as she passed, and doves flapped near the dovecote.

  The kitchen was attached to the castle, though the bakery was in a small hut of its own. As she hurried by the open door, she felt the heat from the great ovens and smelled the odors of apples and nutmeg and cinnamon.

  Her stomach rumbled, but she pressed on, ignoring her hunger. At the door of the kitchen were two broad-shouldered huntsmen, hoisting between them the carcass of a deer tied to a pole. They held the heavy beast while listening to a large woman with a flushed face and fleshy arms and a tongue as sharp as Isolde’s magic knife.

  “… for the love of Saint Peter, why ye think I’ll be takin’ my time to skin that beast, I’ll not be knowing.”

  The huntsmen grumbled, and the cook wagged a fat finger in their faces. “The baron will be back soon, and I’ll not be wantin’ to complain about the likes of you!”

  “ ’Tis for the baron that we brought the buck,” the older boy proclaimed.

  “Then take it to the tanner, see that ’e ’elps you skin the bloody thing, and count yer blessings that I won’t report you to the steward. God in ’eaven!” she mumbled as the huntsmen, jaws set, carried their prize along a trail toward the hut.

  “And me, busy as I am, expectin’ the lord any time.”

  Sorcha’s stomach curled in sudden dread. “Lord Hagan is coming home?”

  “Aye. One of the scouts said he’ll be home the day after the morrow.”

  Relief flooded through Sorcha. There was still time before the dark one returned.

  “Now, then, miss, what’ve ye got in yer basket?”

  “Eggs and mistletoe for the yule.”

  “Humph.” The big woman scowled as she peeked into Sorcha’s basket. “Eggs, we got.”

  “Aye, but these are from me father’s geese …” Sorcha waggled the basket beneath the cook’s nose yet again, and as the big woman looked through the ivy, mistletoe, and holly, Sorcha stole a glance into the kitchen. It was a big room, with two fire pits. In one pit a pig was roasting, its fat melting and sizzling on the coals; in the other, stuffed eels, their skins tightly sewn together, were suspended above the flames. Little red apples filled a large pail by the door. A big scarred table was shoved into a corner, and an arch in the back wall opened to a few steps and the entrance into the great hall. Just as the traitor had forespoken.

  “Well … I said name yer price,” the cook repeated, her piglike eyes squinting suspiciously when Sorcha didn’t respond.

  “My father sends the Christmas greens as a gift to the lord, and the eggs he’ll sell for the same price as hen’s eggs.”

  “Is that so?”

  “ ’Tis the yule season, sister,” Sorcha said, though the words nearly stuck in her throat, “and my father has been blessed to have Lord Hagan as his baron.”

  Ada grinned a big, gap-toothed smile at the bargain. “Well, come in, come in. We’ll empty yer basket without gettin’ our ’eads wet.” She waved rough red fingers toward the fire. “Warm yer ’an
ds while I get the steward to pay you.” Sorcha followed her into the room and set her basket on the table. “And who is this father of yours?”

  “Will … Will Carter,” Sorcha answered, having concocted the lie on her way to the castle. She opened her palms to the fire where the pig was roasting. Nestled in the coals was a pot filled with eggs and boiling water. Smoke curled through the kitchen, and lard bubbled beneath the boar’s thick hide. From the corner of her eye, Sorcha studied the opening into the interior of the castle. She edged closer to the archway. There was a short corridor with stairs winding upward from either end. One set of stairs led to the chambers above the kitchen, the other was the gateway to the lord’s room. Another archway opened to the great hall. Sorcha’s stomach curdled at the thought that Darton was probably close. And Leah, locked away. But where?

  “ ’Ere ye go,” the cook said, returning with a few coins. “And be sure to tell yer father thank ye from the baron ’imself. ’E’ll be pleased to know that ’is man Carter is a loyal servant.” She paused as she handed Sorcha the money. “What kind of ring is that?” she asked, eyeing Sorcha’s hand where the silver serpent was coiled.

  “I know not. An old woman gave it to me mother. ’Twas passed on to me when me ma died.”

  The cook’s brow furrowed, but one of her helpers cried out as she spilled grease on the fire and flames shot up to devour the roasting pig.

  “God in heaven, you’re a fool, Nellie!” Ada scolded, her attention diverted. She motioned to Sorcha as she turned back to the fire pit. “You, girl, be on yer way.”

  “Aye,” Sorcha replied, stuffing the coins into her pocket. “My father will be pleased to hear that Baron Hagan is returning,” she said quickly, and hurried outside. Head bent, she walked across the bailey, as if she intended to return through the gate, but once she was certain the fat cook’s back was turned, she veered sharply to the left and found a spot behind a manure cart, near the beehives and untended garden. No one was about, and Sorcha planned to hide in the shadow of the cart’s big wheels until supper.

  From her hiding spot, she kept fairly dry as she watched the doorway to the kitchen, realizing that though Erbyn was thrice the size of Prydd, the work was the same: Girls tended chickens and ducks, boys split wood and mucked out the stables, the tinsmith tapped with his hammer, and the carpenters shored up a sagging doorway to a hut where candles were made. With a hollow feeling, Sorcha wondered if she’d ever run through the stone halls of Prydd again. Would she smell the sweet lilac-scented rushes, or sneak down to the creek where she swam in water so cold, her blood seemed to turn to ice? Soon, she told herself … as soon as Leah was safe.

  Slowly the hours passed. Shortly after nightfall there was an increase in activity. Servants hauling water, or carrying goods from the bakery, or laden with firewood, hurried in and out the door to the kitchen.

  It was time for her to sneak into Darton’s keep. The darkness would help conceal her, and everyone in the castle would be too busy to notice a strange servant boy. Or so she hoped.

  She stashed her robe and long tunic behind the beehives, slipped her dagger into a sleeve, then, with her hair tucked in the cowl of her short tunic, she spotted a boy staggering under the weight of a bundle of firewood. “Let me ’elp ye with that, lad.”

  “Nay. The cook—”

  “ ’Tis too big a load. Asides, ’tis Christmas.”

  Sorcha grabbed off the top half of the kindling and offered the boy a smile.

  “ ’Tis kind ye are.”

  She followed the boy into the kitchen, where the cook was busy slicing the boar’s head from its body and the other kitchen aids were pouring sauces and ladling gravies. Sorcha placed the kindling in the firebox, then, holding her breath, walked through the kitchen as if she had every right to enter the castle. In the hallway she turned right, toward the staircase leading upward to the lord’s chamber, which, Robert had explained, was being used by Darton while Lord Hagan was away.

  Her heart thundering, she expected someone to yell at her. She stole quietly up the stairs, hardly believing her good luck as no one accosted her. Biting her lip, she let her dagger slide into her palm and sent up a prayer for Leah’s safety. She didn’t move. Hidden in the shadows in a recessed alcove that once had been used as a wardrobe, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her deadly little knife and waited.

  Three

  ir Hagan returns!”

  The call echoed through the great hall and plunged a dagger of dread into Darton’s heart.

  Sir Ives, who had made the announcement, looked as if he might faint. His face was a pasty white, and his sharp little tongue rimmed his lips nervously. Ives was a dullard who was ready to fall apart at the least little change in plan. Darton loathed him, as he detested most of the men whom he’d been able to turn against his brother. Disloyal mongrels, the lot of them, but necessary for Darton’s plans.

  “Hagan returns?” Darton challenged as he hurried to the stairs, meeting Ives on the landing. “But I was given word that ’twould be two more days—”

  “ ’Twas a false report. Hagan will be upon the gates of the castle within the hour. A scout has seen the baron.”

  Darton’s fists clenched tightly. “Well, well, we’ll have to change our plans a bit, won’t we?” he said with more calm than he felt. He did not fear his brother; in truth, he was awaiting Hagan’s return, for the capture of Baron Eaton’s daughter was but part of a more intricate plan. Unfortunately he’d captured Leah rather than Sorcha and the timing was not yet right, but Darton was quick to alter his scheme accordingly. “See that my things are removed from Hagan’s room, and by all means put clean linens on his bed. Instruct the guard of Lady Leah that he is to let no one into her room. Not even the baron himself. No one is to know that she’s being held prisoner.”

  “He’s sure to find out.”

  “Yea, but not yet.” He grasped Sir Ives’s shoulder in his strong grip. “You are with me in this, are you not?”

  Sir Ives knelt quickly and swore his fealty yet again. Darton smiled. “Good. Tell the men that they are to pretend they are still loyal to Hagan, for he must not suspect that anything is amiss.”

  “As you wish, sire.”

  Sir Ives marched quickly out of the solar. Inwardly Darton congratulated himself on his accomplishments. Hagan would be astonished when he found out that half the soldiers in the castle felt no allegiance to the baron, for they were men with wants of their own. Darton, while Hagan was off fighting those bastard Scots for the past few months, was providing well for the men.

  Though Hagan had taken a dim view of wenching and drinking and gambling, Darton had encouraged his randy soldiers to find ways to release their energy. He’d staged wrestling matches, bearbaiting contests, and cockfights, and offered the soldiers all the wine and mead they could drink. As for the wenches, there were plenty of girls who would lift their skirts for a taste of wine and a few kind words. Some would even do more and were expert with their hands and mouths and tongues.

  “I’ll greet my brother myself,” Darton decided, though he quickly swooped through the immense castle, going from room to room, making sure that everything looked just as it had on the day Hagan rode away all those months before.

  All was well, and within the hour, the thunder of horses’ hooves announced Hagan’s arrival. A small evil smile crawled across Darton’s lips. He’d thought often of killing his brother outright and letting someone else, such as loyal Sir Ives, take the blame, but he couldn’t kill Hagan yet. No, he’d rather have Hagan twist in the wind a bit, know the depth of Darton’s deception, so that Hagan could, for just a few hours, appreciate the anguish of all the years Darton had lived in his shadow.

  Footsteps rang in the great hall as Darton descended the stairs, and he smiled when he saw his brother … a pitiful shell of the man he’d once been. Wet and streaked with mud, Hagan was much thinner than he had been when he’d left Erbyn. Though his skin was dark from hours in the sun, there was a haun
ted look to his eyes. His beard was uneven and matted, and his clothes were mere tatters. Worse than all this, Hagan the proud, Hagan the strong, Hagan the supremely arrogant, was limping slightly as he approached the fire. A pitiful sight and one that warmed Darton’s heart.

  Flames crackled against pitch and smoke curled lazily upward, scenting the hall with burning oak.

  “Brother!” Darton cried with forced delight. “We’re honored by your early return.”

  “Are ye now, Darton?” Hagan said in a voice that was rough as gravel. He cast his brother a suspicious glance, and the insides of Darton’s mouth turned to dust. His arrogance fled for a second. Hagan could not have yet heard about the capture of Leah … or could he have? Sometimes the man seemed to know in advance what was going to happen. Darton shuddered inwardly.

  “You doubt me?”

  “I’ve heard tales, Darton,” Hagan said, yanking off his gloves and warming cold-to-the-bone fingers in front of the flames.

  “And what kind of gossip has been spread, eh?” Darton asked, favoring Hagan with a clap on the back. He motioned to a serving girl hovering near the door to the buttery. “Bring the lord some wine, Elfrida, and be quick about it. And call for more firewood.”

  Hagan’s eyes narrowed on his brother. He knew all of Darton’s tricks, and his skin crawled as he realized that his twin thought he could fool him. Shoving his wet hair from his eyes, Hagan accepted a cup of wine from a serving girl he’d never seen before. His bones were cold to the marrow and his muscles ached. He didn’t want to deal with Darton this night. He was too weary, and his leg, blast it, burned as if hot coals had been buried in the flesh of his thigh. He swallowed back the wine and felt the liquid flow warm and sweet down his throat.