Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  Sorcha yanked hard on the palfrey’s reins and kicked the little horse hard. The mare broke into a gallop, and Leah’s frightened horse was close behind. Their hooves pounded the ground, their breathing nearly as loud as the thunder of Sorcha’s heart in her ears.

  Another arrow sliced through the air, landing in the gnarled bark of an ancient tree.

  Oh, God!

  “Run, you devil!” Sorcha said as her game little mare stretched her legs, extending muscles that bunched again and again. Tears blurred Sorcha’s eyes.

  Over the whistle of the wind she heard men’s shouts and knew her little horse would soon give out. The palfrey had been ridden hard already, and against fresh horses, she would be no match. Still Sorcha urged the mare forward, glancing over her shoulder for only a second. Leah was right behind her, and Bjorn, hunched over McBannon’s shoulders, brought up the rear. Blood stained his tunic and drizzled down his arm.

  Farther behind were riders. She only saw glimpses of them through the trees, but it was enough to drive a stake of fear into her heart.

  “Get off the road!” Bjorn yelled as McBannon raced beside them. “Take to the forest and follow me.”

  Her heart clattering as fast as the horses’ hooves, Sorcha watched McBannon disappear into the forest. Leah followed and Sorcha gave chase, though she felt her little horse falter. “Come on, girl,” she said as she heard the voices grow louder behind her.

  McBannon’s rump was only a flash through the trees, and Leah’s bay seemed to melt into the woods, but her white horse would be visible, a bright target.

  “We got ’em now!” The harsh voice rumbled through the forest, and Sorcha knew she couldn’t outrun the bastards.

  “Think,” she told herself as Leah’s horse jumped over a fallen tree. Her own horse, a few strides behind, gathered for the leap, sprang wildly, and Sorcha held her breath as hooves grazed the old log and the mare stumbled on the far side only to regain her footing.

  “That’s it! Good. Good.” She heard another arrow sizzle through the air over her head and ducked low on the mare. The horse was breathing hard, her strides no longer fleet, and it wouldn’t be long before she was overtaken. The thought of the cutthroats behind her chilled Sorcha’s blood, and she knew she had no choice but to try and hide; lead her pursuers away from Bjorn and Leah, and hope to win this battle with her wits. She didn’t think they were far from Tullia’s cottage by the stream, and by sheer instinct she turned her little mare in the direction of the rising sun.

  Chancing a glance over her shoulder, she saw the horsemen follow her, peeling off from the trail that led them to Bjorn and Leah. “Come on,” she yelled at the horse, her voice rising on the wind. “Run!” Slapping the reins against the tired mare’s sides, she hugged low against her shoulders, urging her up a hill that the poor beast could barely climb.

  Again an arrow hissed by her ear, and another landed in the mare’s hip. With a scream, the horse went down on her knees only to scramble to her feet. “You can do it!” Sorcha whispered, though by now the palfrey’s breath was whistling and her legs were unsure. Twice she stumbled, and the horses behind her, galloping through the trees, came closer. The huntsmen were not always in sight, for the forest was a shield, but their hooves echoed through the canyons, and the riders’ shouts sent shivers down Sorcha’s spine.

  At the top of the hill, the mare gave out. Sorcha tried to encourage the beast over the ridge and down a steep embankment, but the white horse refused. “You’ve done well,” she said, patting the mare’s quivering shoulder. Voices, muffled and savage, floated through the trees. Sorcha had no choice. She hopped off the horse and slapped the animal hard with the reins. The little horse broke into a run, cantering atop the ridge. Sorcha scrambled down the other side of the hill, into the shadows of trees, and prayed that the men chasing her would follow the horse for a while before they realized that she was no longer astride.

  She still had the knife Bjorn had given her, and she clutched it in her fingers. “Please let them be safe,” she said, thinking of Bjorn with a horrid arrow lodged in his shoulder and Leah frightened out of her wits. Even her mare was injured and might not survive the wound of the arrow that had found her white coat. “Godspeed,” Sorcha whispered as her boots slid over the mud and rocks.

  Far in the distance she heard men shouting and she realized that her attackers, whoever they were, had discovered the riderless mare. Now it was only a matter of time before they doubled back and found her. She scrambled down the hillside, her tunic ripping on the thorns of berry vines, her ankle twisting as she tried to keep her balance.

  In the canyon, the forest was darker still, providing her with more shadows to hide within. She heard the lapping of a creek and stumbled through the brambles and ferns until she spied the sliver of cool water cutting through the forest floor. Her muscles ached, her head pounded, and she had to spit the metallic taste of fear from her mouth. She fell onto the bank and drank huge gulps of the water, splashing some of the cool liquid over her face and arms. Though the day was cold, with winter winds rushing through the gorge, she was sweating from her wild ride and race down the hillside. But she could not pause too long. The men who were chasing her did not seem inclined to give up, and it was only a matter of time before they found her.

  She followed the stream, keeping her boots in the water, making sure that she left no footprints as she started upstream. She wasn’t certain where she was going or who the murderers were who were attacking her, but she knew she had to keep running. Eventually, God willing, she’d find the road to Prydd.

  “What do you mean she’s gone?” Hagan’s temper turned white-hot at the news.

  “Just what I said, m’lord.” Ona, the silly girl who had been Sorcha’s maid, wrung her hands. Looking for all the world as if she expected to be beaten, she kept her eyes downcast and bit her lip. “She wasn’t in her bed this mornin’, and I talked with Nellie, the girl who’s with her sister, and Lady Leah’s missin’, too.”

  “Anyone else?” Hagan asked, a tic leaping near his eye.

  “It looks as if the stableboy, Bjorn, has taken flight as well.” Darton, his skin drawn taut over his features, strode into the room. “And several horses are missing. The horse from Prydd, a white palfrey, and Anne’s courser.”

  “What?” Anne had been hurrying down the stairs.

  “It looks as if the savior of Prydd has escaped,” Darton said.

  “How’d they get out?” Hagan asked. “The guards were to be doubled.”

  “ ’Twas that twit Nolan at the gate. Bjorn claimed that he was going to let the horses graze.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “Two pages, but it was dark yet, just before dawn, and Nolan wasn’t quite sure …”

  As Hagan listened to his brother, his teeth ground together. Sorcha had given him her word that she would wait until after the revels and the messenger had returned. True, the revels were now over and Frederick had walked back through the gates, but the wench hadn’t waited until he’d decided how to approach her brother.

  Well, now, it seemed, it didn’t matter. Anger aimed at his own foolishness as well as the scheming woman raged through his veins. “Get my horse,” he ordered a page who was hovering nearby. “I’ll ride after them myself. Tell Royce, Kennard, and Winston and a few of the other guards that they are to go with me.”

  “But you know not where they are,” Anne said.

  “Of course I do,” he said with a snarl as he reached for his sword mounted high on the wall. A fury, black as midnight, stormed through his soul, and betrayal burned through his veins. “Sorcha planned this all along.” He slammed his weapon into its scabbard. “She’s on her way to Prydd, and whether she knows it or not, she’s about to start a bloody war.”

  Thirteen

  ou’re sure of this?” Darton eyed the stable master, because Roy was known to lie. A shrewd pig of a man who smelled of horses, filth, and dung, Roy sat on the hearth in Darton’s chamber, one mu
ddy boot resting on his other knee, fingers with grimy nails drumming against his leg. He was proud of himself, the fat little spy, and Darton was grateful for his watchful eyes, loose tongue, and easily bought loyalty.

  Sir Marshall was also in the room, upwind of Roy and standing near the window, surveying the bailey with narrowed eyes. He showed no interest in the conversation, but Darton knew he was following every word that the fat man spoke.

  Roy took off his hat and ran thick fingers through his coarse, oily hair. His fleshy chin jutted stubbornly. “I’m just tellin’ you what I ’eard, there in the stables with my own damned ears. The witch-woman came to ’im, I tell ya.” His lower lip was thrust forward in indignation. “Look, if ye don’t believe me, I’ll ride after the baron and tell ’im what I seen.”

  “No reason, no reason,” Darton said hastily. With a nearly invisible nod from Sir Marshall, he reached into his pouch and handed Roy two gold pieces. “Asides, Hagan’s already gone. ’Twould do no good.”

  Roy grinned, and Darton didn’t doubt for a minute that the stable master knew that the two brothers were at odds. He’d chosen his side. Good. Darton appreciated a man with a greedy streak.

  “I just thought ye’d like to know that the witch has stolen off with Bjorn.” Roy’s eyes, deep in the puffs of his skin, slitted with evil intent. “Been plannin’ it for days, I guess. Anyway, when I get me hands on Bjorn’s skinny neck, I’ll gladly wring it meself.” He grinned broadly, pleased with himself, and he rubbed the pieces of gold that Darton had handed him between his fleshy fingers.

  “Don’t worry about Bjorn just yet. Only listen to the gossip and tell me what you hear from the peasants and servants. You’ve done well, Roy.”

  “I ’ave, ’aven’t I?”

  He seemed about to settle in for a spell, so Darton helped him to his feet.

  “But the job’s not done, now, is it? Not until Lady Sorcha is found and safely back in the keep. So you must be off, with your eyes open and your ears to the ground.” Darton shepherded the stable master out of his chamber and closed the door.

  Marshall wrinkled his nose. “You think he can be trusted?”

  “Nay,” Darton said with a grin, “but he can be bought, and that serves me just as well.”

  It was as if fate had played into Darton’s hands. True, he was still missing Sorcha, but she would be found, and when she was, he would force her to marry him, just as he planned. In the past few weeks he’d been thwarted by his brother, but now Hagan was off chasing her, taking with him his most trusted knights, leaving the castle to its lesser defenses.

  Most of the guests, including Nelson Rowley, had already left, so the timing couldn’t be more perfect. He gloated inwardly at this stroke of fortune. Now no one, not even his sister, doubted his authority, and soon he would be the true baron, for, unless things turned unexpectedly against him, outlaws would kill Hagan and the barony would fall neatly into Darton’s waiting lap.

  “What if the plan goes awry?” Marshall, ever the doubter, asked.

  “What can go wrong? Ralston and Brady are the best archers in the castle. They will see to it.”

  “You thought that once before,” Marshall reminded him. “One of your paid assassins was to have killed him in the war but Hagan returned with barely a scratch.”

  “That was my mistake. But Brady will not fail. He, like Roy, enjoys his gold.” Darton felt more confident than he had in days. Things had turned around in his favor. With his ever watchful eyes, Darton had seen the friendship growing between Sorcha and the stableboy, suspected that she would use Bjorn to help her with her escape. Ever since the day that her devil horse had nearly shattered Darton’s knee and Bjorn had saved the child, Darton had known that the bond between the stableboy and captive lady was strong. He’d watched with interest as she’d laid her long fingers over his wound and whispered into his ear.

  Hagan had seen the friendship forming as well, but he’d thought her concern for the boy was due to the stupid notion of love. What a fool his brother was when it came to women. Hagan still believed in romance of the heart, in loving a woman until the end of his days, when it was painfully obvious to Darton that women were simply put on the world to service men and bear their children. Only once in a long while did a woman come along who was more than a warm body on which to rut.

  Sorcha of Prydd was such a woman. Because of her special powers. That she was beautiful meant nothing. The fact that his fingers ached to strip away her clothes and touch her in the most intimate of places wasn’t in and of itself so all-compelling. But a woman who had the power to raise the dead, to heal the wounded, to cause a storm to rise from a listless wind; now, that was a woman worth binding oneself to. Her other attributes would give him much pleasure, but ’twas her power that seduced him. Oh, to unleash that power on the world, to use it for his own gain. Darton’s mouth fairly watered at the thought. Kings had been crowned for less.

  Clouds blocked the sun, but the cold that cut through Hagan’s surcoat and mantle had nothing to do with the raw January wind that whistled through the canyon. His chill came from within. From fear. From the knowledge that out here somewhere in these damp, gloomy hills, Sorcha was riding.

  He hoped she’d returned to Prydd safely, but his fingers tightened over the reins as he thought of the outlaws who prowled these woods. Many of his guests during the Christmas revels had told stories of being attacked on the less-traveled roads. The noblemen had all lived to tell their tales and mayhap they had embellished the truth, heightening the excitement, but several knights had been killed, two women raped, a peasant beaten near to death for his cart of milled wheat.

  If Sorcha had managed to get herself safely to the walls of Prydd, there might possibly be war, but at least she would be secure, and her safety, he discovered, was more important than the threat of battle.

  Tadd of Prydd was not known for his bravery, and unless his pride was stretched thin, Hagan suspected he could be bought. If not, there would be war.

  If Sorcha or Leah were taken by outlaws, there would be war.

  If the women remained his prisoners, there would be war.

  But it mattered not. As long as they were safe. He sent up a prayer for their safety when the first arrow struck. Thwack! It pierced the tough bark of a yew tree. His horse reared. The air whistled and arrows rained. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

  Holding on to the reins in one hand, Hagan drew his sword.

  His men scattered through the woods.

  Another arrow screamed past his ear.

  “Bloody Christ!”

  With an agonizing wail, Jacob, one of his men, fell from his horse. Sir Benjamin stopped to help and was felled as well.

  Hagan yanked hard on the reins, guiding Wind into the woods, searching the leafless cover of brambles and vines, squinting in the darkness. The two men were dead, two trusted knights, and his heart ached. He could not see his attackers, yet they were there in the woods, waiting, suddenly silent, their weapons, no doubt, at ready.

  An eerie breeze rattled the branches of the trees overhead. The horses pranced nervously, coats shiny with sweat, eyes white-rimmed and wild.

  Silently Hagan motioned to his men, spreading his arms and telling them without words to split into two groups in hopes of surrounding the attackers. The men did as they were bid, with Hagan leading one group and Kennard leading the other. Silently they moved through the black-barked trees, ears straining, mouths spitless.

  Another arrow zinged past Hagan’s head, and still another. Kennard yelped as one of the deadly missiles ripped through his leggings. “God’s eyes,” he growled, yanking the damned arrow from his leg as he fell to the ground. Blood oozed up from the wound as more arrows screamed through the air.

  “I’ll get him,” Winston said, and Hagan, knowing that he had to face his attackers, to unmask the men who were trying to kill him, agreed.

  “Put him on his horse, get Jacob and Ben as well, then return, all of you, to Erbyn and wait for me.” />
  “Nay, we will not leave you—”

  “And find the others!” Hagan ordered, his voice harsh. He would accept nothing less than complete obedience. “Tell Kennard to take his men and return as well.”

  “But—”

  “The outlaws will think I’ve gone with you. Now, go, before they find us.”

  “I will not leave you,” Winston said, as Hagan sheathed his sword and dismounted.

  Angrily, Hagan grabbed him by the front of his hauberk, the mail rattling between his fingers. His face grew fierce. “’Tis an order, Sir Winston. Do as I say.”

  “I cannot—”

  “You will, Winston!” Hagan growled. Another arrow sizzled through the air, and Hagan’s nostrils flared with impatience. “Now!” He didn’t wait for his command to be answered, and took up the reins of his horse. He swung into the saddle and turned in to the deepest woods, through the shadows, racing against the faceless forest murderers who dared attack him. Gritting his teeth, he yanked suddenly on the reins, turning in to a gully where a creek washed over smooth stones. With the noise of the brook as his cover, he rode back in the direction from which he’d come, the horse wading through the water. Hagan held his bow at ready, in one hand, and his dagger, hidden in his boot, pressed cold and deadly against his leg. He hoped to come up behind those who had ambushed him, grab the leader by his hair, and press a knife to the black-heart’s throat. ’Twould be sweet vengeance.

  Carefully he picked his way through the trees, pausing every few steps to listen, hoping to hear the quiet jangle of a bridle, the clearing of a throat, the plop of a heavy destrier’s hoof in the mud. But the noises and the men seemed to have vanished as quickly as they had come. He heard no shouts of victory, so he hoped that his men had been able to elude their attackers and return to Erbyn safely.

  He rode along the creek bed when he noticed the footprints that appeared on the edge of the shore. Not often, but once in a while, as if someone had purposely tried to keep his tracks hidden, an impression of a boot was visible.