by Lisa Jackson
The clang of the armorer’s hammer, the creak of the bucket being drawn up the well, and the shouting of thatchers who were repairing a hole in the tanner’s roof were only a few of the sounds filling the air. Children laughed and played, and the rattling of bridles and creak of the wheels of carts was ever present.
Leah slipped the hood of her mantle over her head. “You were right,” she admitted, breathing deeply of the cool air, “’tis good to be out of that room. Oh, if only we were at Prydd again!”
“We will be, and soon.” They passed the dovecote and followed the trail to the stables, where Bjorn was brushing a small chestnut mare. He looked up when they approached, his gaze colliding with Sorcha’s for an instant, his blond hair ruffling in the breeze, before he turned his attention back to the horse’s muddy hide.
Sorcha cleared her throat. “I wanted to check on my horse,” she said, ignoring the stiff back turned in her direction. Her heart turned to stone. He had to help her, and yet all friendliness had disappeared and he was treating her as if she were an enemy. “My stallion’s the big—”
“I know which one is yours,” he said swiftly. “Your charger’s fine.” Again his eyes met hers for just a second before he turned back to his task and ran the comb through the mare’s coarse mane.
What had gotten into him? Was he so afraid of Hagan or had she read him incorrectly? “If I could see for myself.”
“No one is allowed near him. He’s a wild one, that.”
“I rode him here from Prydd. I’m not afraid.” Annoyed, she felt her fists clench and stared at him boldly. “Please, get him for me—”
“Hey, what’s this?” The stable master, squinting against the daylight, appeared in the doorway of the stables. Covered with filth, with a belly that hung low and eyes nestled in a puffy face, he hitched up his belt and hung his whip on a peg near the door. “Well, well, well.” He dusted his big hands together and grinned widely, showing off a mouth with few teeth. “I’ll be buggered. What can I do for you, m’lady?”
“I just wanted to check on my horse.”
“A devil, he is,” Roy said.
“But surefooted,” Sorcha replied. “He belongs to my brother.”
Bjorn looked up quickly, his eyes meeting Sorcha’s over the back of the mare.
“Sir Tadd’s charger, is he?” Roy asked, his pig eyes slitting a bit.
“Aye, he’s taken my brother into many a battle.” This was a lie, of course. Tadd had not yet seen war, but Sorcha wasn’t above stretching the truth if it served her purpose.
Roy rubbed the stubble on his chins. “Bjorn, can’t you tell that the lady is worried about her charger? See that he’s fed and watered. A bit of exercise wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Every muscle in Bjorn’s body flexed. His jaw clenched tight as if he were trying to hold his tongue, and for a second Sorcha thought he might disobey. He snapped the mare’s reins from the post to which she’d been tied, then led the docile horse back to the stables, as if he were following Roy’s orders.
“We’ll take good care of the animal; you’ve got no worries of that,” Roy said with a smile that made Sorcha’s skin crawl.
“Well, if it isn’t the savior of Prydd and her sister, Lady Leah.” Darton’s voice reverberated through the bailey. Leah gasped softly, and Sorcha turned, wondering how long he’d followed them. Wearing polished boots, a dove gray surcoat, and purple mantle trimmed with black fur, he smiled easily, as if pleased to have found them. “What brings you to the stables?” he asked amiably, though Sorcha read suspicion in his eyes.
Leah looked at the ground, refusing to meet his gaze.
“I was checking on my brother’s horse.”
“I’m sure Roy will take good care of him.”
“If only I could see for myself—” she said just as Bjorn reappeared holding the tether to McBannon. The stallion’s eyes were wild, as if he sensed danger, but he was following the lead, nervously mincing as Bjorn spoke soft words to him.
Roy spat on the ground. “What in Christ’s name do you think y’re doing?” Wiping his sweaty hand on the front of his tunic, Roy swaggered toward Bjorn. The stallion reared.
“Move slowly,” Bjorn warned as the first few drops of rain fell from the sky.
“Don’t tell me what to do, you stupid bastard! I’ve taken care of more horses than you’ll ever clean up after. They just need to know who’s boss! Come here, you!” Roy stripped the reins from Bjorn’s fingers.
“Be careful!” Bjorn yelled.
“Shut up!”
Whistling, the horse reared. Heavy hooves pawed the air.
“No, please …” Sorcha said. “McBannon, please …”
The huge stallion paid her no mind. Neighing loudly, he lunged, then reared again, his front hooves flailing the air.
“You bloody bastard.” Roy threw his weight into the reins and pulled hard on the lead, nearly snapping the leather.
The wind seemed to rise. Peasants and servants abandoned their tasks and inched closer to the stables. A group of children playing near the well stopped to watch. People were whispering, others shouting, some even laughing as the fat horsekeeper tried to calm his charge.
“Give me the reins,” Sorcha said, her eyes fixed on McBannon. “Slow, boy—”
“No!” Bjorn stepped forward. “Let me—”
“Get the hell away from me!” Roy snarled, his puffy face flushed and straining. “Bring me my whip.”
“Nay. I will calm him.” Sorcha reached for the bridle, but Roy jerked hard on the reins. McBannon stepped backward, the muscles in his great neck bulging as he strained against the tether.
Despite Roy’s strength, the stallion began to drag him forward. “This bloody animal needs to learn a lesson, and I’m more than willing to give him one.” The muscles in Roy’s arms flexed. He leaned back against the reins, digging in the worn heels of his boots.
McBannon reared again, twisting in the air, trying to rid himself of the horrid man.
“Who’s teaching who a lesson?” one of the carpenters yelled. Loud laughter erupted as a group of men gave up work in favor of watching the battle between horse and man.
“That’s it, Roy, give ’im bloody ’ell!” a guard yelled from the tower.
“Yeah, show ’im who’s boss!” another guard called, laughing at the fat man’s vain attempts to quiet the stallion. The children who had been near the well moved closer to the stables, three boys and a little girl with a smudged face.
“Let me hold him,” Sorcha commanded, fearful for the nervous stallion and unaware of the interested crowd. Sweat flecked the great beast’s hide, and his nostrils flared into the wind. His ears twitched anxiously, and blood colored the spittle that ran from the corner of his mouth. “He’s frightened. Give me the reins!”
“And have the beast kill you?” Roy spat on the ground. His forearms bulged with strain, and the cords in his thick neck stood out. “Bring me my damned whip!”
When Bjorn didn’t move, Roy inched closer to the stables, to the whip coiled on the peg.
Sorcha was frantic. “I can calm him—”
Roy sneered. “I’ll quiet the bastard!” With one hand he reached for the whip.
McBannon’s flesh quivered. Lather appeared on his great chest.
Fear curdled Sorcha’s insides. Without thinking, she ran forward. “Don’t—”
“Watch out!” Darton tried to grab her, and McBannon kicked hard. The blow landed on Darton’s knee with a sickening crack.
“Christ!” Darton wailed to the heavens as he dropped to the ground, writhing and clutching his leg.
“Almighty God, now look what you’ve done! Get back, woman!” Roy snarled. He wrapped the reins around one meaty fist and yanked hard, intending to reach the stables and the whip.
“No!” Sorcha flew across the ground, grabbed hold of the whip, and backed up. Her eyes were on fire, her heart hammering above the rising wind.
“Let him go!” she commanded.
The crowd hushed as Sorcha uncoiled the whip. “Give the reins to Bjorn, you idiot, or I’ll give you a sting from your own strap!”
Darton pulled himself to a stance. His face was white with pain and rage, his eyes murderously dark. “I’ll handle that devil.” He made a move for the reins, and Sorcha, reacting, snapped the coiled whip over her head. Crack! The leather lashed out and the tip of the whip flicked against the stable master’s butt. With a roar, the man danced, nearly dropping the reins.
“Hey!”
Darton’s mouth was tight with fury as he struggled to stay on his feet. “Stop!”
“Give the reins to Bjorn!” Sorcha commanded again, the whip drawn back and ready. Her fingers began to sweat around the handle as she saw the rage on Darton’s features. He took an uneven step toward McBannon, and she cracked the whip over Darton’s head.
He ducked and covered his head. “You bloody wench!”
The little boys and girl giggled nervously.
“Take the stallion, Bjorn,” Sorcha ordered, unaware of the whispers of milkmaids and the silversmiths and even the cook, who had stepped out of her kitchen to watch the drama in the bailey.
“God help us,” Ada whispered through the spaces in her teeth and she crossed her ample bosom.
Bjorn walked toward the beast, but Darton grabbed hold of the stableboy’s tunic. “I’ll handle this!” he said, pushing the younger man backward. The horse wheeled, yanking his head with renewed strength. The reins slid from Roy’s sweaty fingers and McBannon, sensing freedom, whistled and kicked.
“Oh, God,” Sorcha murmured. “McBannon …whoa…”
The horse was loose. For a stunned second, even he did not realize his freedom.
Sorcha walked quickly forward, trying not to frighten the nervous stallion. “Easy, McBannon, there’s a good boy.” She dropped the whip as she advanced on the horse, who wasn’t moving, though his coat was gleaming with sweat and his muscles quivered. “You’re going to be all right.”
From the corner of her eye, Sorcha saw Darton grab the vile piece of leather from the ground. “Don’t!” she said under her breath as she tried to grab the free-swinging reins.
Without warning, Darton snapped the whip against McBannon’s rump. The horse neighed wildly and Darton struck again. McBannon tore away, hooves flying, barreling toward the crowd of children who had gathered near the stables. Screaming in fear, the boys scattered, but the tiny dirty-faced girl stood frozen on the spot, her skin paling to the shade of snow.
“No!” Sorcha yelled. “McBannon—”
Bjorn lunged for the child, throwing himself in front of the enraged animal. He shoved the girl out of the way. McBannon’s deadly hooves came down. Bjorn screamed, a horrid wail that would wake the dead.
“No!” Sorcha cried, running forward as Bjorn was trampled. “No! No! No!”
The horse sped for the gate.
“Christ Jesus!” one soldier whispered, and a woman howled with grief and fear.
The tiny girl cried pitifully.
“Oh, Lord,” Leah whispered, running to the child, but Sorcha could see that the girl was unhurt—saved from certain death by the stableboy.
Several women crossed their breasts as Sorcha dropped to her knees to sink into the mud where Bjorn lay, his chest crushed, his eyes at half-mast. Blood stained his tunic, and a jagged rib poked through his skin.
“Oh, please, God, no,” Sorcha whispered.
“Get him, you fools!” Darton pointed at the fleeing stallion. Chickens flew, scattering feathers; men and women alike hid in their shops.
Bjorn didn’t move. Dread coiled around Sorcha’s heart. His eyes were closed, his lips pale. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. She dropped to her knees and felt for a sign of life. His breath was shallow, the beating of his heart faint. “You must not die,” she said, placing a hand upon his cheek. “You must not.”
A few drops of rain began to fall, and the wind whipped through the bailey, tugging at her hair.
“Take ’im inside,” the cook said, but Sorcha didn’t move.
As if in a trance, she reached into her pouch and pulled out the necklace that had once surrounded Leah’s neck. “May the gods be with you, Bjorn,” she whispered as she placed the red, knotted string over his head. She laid her hands upon his chest and closed her eyes, oblivious to the men who had finally captured her horse, or the crowd of peasants who stood a safe distance from her and yet stared in awe, or the commotion at the gates where Hagan and his hunting party had returned early.
“Save him,” she whispered, willing Bjorn to live. He had acted with noble valor, throwing himself in front of the horse to protect the child. He didn’t deserve to die. “Please …” she prayed, her voice soft on the rising wind. Cold rain drizzled down her neck and fell upon her hands as she touched him. “Don’t give up,” she said, and the earth seemed to tremble. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard her name, and then the serpent ring began to warm her finger. With one hand she clutched the twigs of the necklace. “Live, Bjorn,” she commanded as the breeze tossed her hair in front of her face. “Please, live.”
She didn’t know how desperate she sounded, didn’t realize how she appeared, on her knees, in the mud, her hands caressing the bloodied tunic of the stableboy.
Hagan watched in silence. He slid from his destrier and stood a short distance away as the day seemed to turn to night. The wind shrieked through the castle walls and rain lashed the ground, but the peasants and soldiers, who could easily have run into the castle or huts for warmth, stood transfixed, as did he, fascinated as Sorcha leaned over the boy. Her lips moved silently with the words of love, her hands offered warmth and comfort. Jealousy cut Hagan to his soul.
Lightning sizzled across the sky.
“ ’Tis the sign of the devil!” Ada, the cook, cried.
Thunder cracked across the hills.
Still Sorcha didn’t move.
“Saints preserve us!” one of the seamstresses whispered.
Bjorn’s eyes blinked open and he moaned.
“ ’E’s alive! By Christ, ’e’s alive!” Ada said, gripping the doorway for support. “ ’Tis a bloomin’ miracle!”
To Hagan’s horror, Sorcha smiled and pressed her cheek to that of the stableboy. She clutched the twigs around the boy’s neck, then whispered so softly, no one but Bjorn could hear.
Anger and awe surged through Hagan’s blood. His throat was dry, his joints didn’t want to move, but he strode through a puddle and called to his men. “Take him inside—to my chamber.”
“But, m’lord, ’e’s just a stableboy,” a soldier said in protest.
“Take him!” Hagan roared, and the soldier, along with three other men, lifted Bjorn from the mud and carried him away. “Call Nichodemas—see that the lad’s cared for. As for you—” his gaze settled on Sorcha “—I think there are things you need to explain.”
She swallowed hard as he grabbed her arm. “The child …” she began to protest as he marched her toward the keep. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as Leah gave the little girl to a slim peasant woman with lank, damp hair and eyes still gripped in fear for her child’s life.
“Baby, oh, sweet, sweet baby,” the woman whispered, kissing the muddy curls and holding her daughter close to her tattered dress. The girl clung to her mother’s neck.
With Sorcha in tow, Hagan approached the woman. “Does Marna need care?”
“Nay, she is but scared,” the mother replied, smiling at Hagan as if he had saved her himself.
“If she needs the physician …”
“I know, but she will be fine, won’t you, sweet?” With tender lips she kissed the child’s muddy crown, then bowed quickly and carried the girl into a hut near the well.
“Get back to work!” Hagan yelled at the peasants, servants, and soldiers who were still standing around, whispering among themselves. Several of the women were pointin
g at Sorcha and eyeing her with either awe or fear. The men, too, cast worried looks in her direction.
Darton, still holding his leg, fixed Hagan with a glare. He’d been right, curse him, Hagan realized. Whether Sorcha was blessed with special powers or not, the people of Erbyn believed her to be unlike any other. His fingers clenched more tightly over her wet arm when he heard the guard shout.
A company of horsemen and women passed through the gates.
His stomach tightened as he recognized the coat of arms emblazoned upon a banner—the colors of Nelson Rowley. Rowley climbed off his mud-spattered destrier. A short, stout man with a fringe of gray hair and a thick beard, he waited for his wife to dismount. Astelle, Nelson’s wife, was helped to the rain-washed ground. A stately woman who stood three inches taller than her husband, she was slender and seemed to forever wear a smile.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Sorcha said, ready to take her leave. “I must see to Bjorn—”
“You’ll go nowhere.”
“But—”
His fingers dug deep into the muscles of her arm.
“There you are!” Rowley spied him, and Hagan realized that he was still gripping Sorcha’s arm as if he intended to break it.
“Welcome, Nelson … Astelle.”
Darton, limping painfully, joined them. His face was white, the skin across his nose and cheekbones stretched tight. “Nelson,” he said through a grimace. “I was hoping you’d be here for the revels.”
“We wouldn’t have stayed at home, now, would we have?” Nelson clapped Darton on the back. “What happened to you?”
“Trouble with a horse.” Darton’s eyes flicked toward Sorcha for just a second, and Hagan felt the unlikely urge to protect the damned woman who had been the bane of his existence from the moment she’d stepped into his chamber. “ ’Tis over now.”
“Good to see you, Lord Hagan,” Astelle said with a soft smile.
“This is Sorcha of Prydd,” he said. “Nelson Rowley, the Baron of Pennick, and his wife, Astelle.”
