Dark Emerald

by Lisa Jackson

  What good would it do to blame Pigeon? For all Tara knew, the girl might be already dead. Tara’s heart lay heavy at the thought of lives lost, for though Rhys’s companions were cutthroats and thieves, a few seemed to be decent souls and, surprisingly, had endeared themselves to her. Johnny had been good to Dobbyn, and Leland had offered her shy, toothless smiles.

  She rode onward, accepting her fate for the time being, but she knew that at the first opportunity she would again attempt to escape. The key to who she was, where she belonged, and what was her destiny lay with Father Simon at Twyll. Beyond meeting with him and discovering the truth, she knew not what she would do. She glanced again at Rhys. Bastard. Outlaw. Jailer. Lover. The words spun around in her head, chasing after each other like a pup who spies his tail and tries vainly to capture it in his teeth.

  Rhys twisted in the saddle and looked back over his shoulder. Their eyes met. Locked. Tara’s stomach did a slow, sensuous roll. Her fingers were suddenly clammy. His eyelids narrowed just a bit, and the stare he sent her brimmed with unspoken lust—a hot hunger that promised sensual delights and hinted at a deeper purpose, one that frightened her a bit and caused her lungs to constrict.

  “Where … where are we going?” she asked, pretending that she had no interest in fleeing.

  Moving with Gryffyn’s gentle gait, he considered her question, his lower lip protruding thoughtfully. He didn’t answer.

  “Will I not know when we get there?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “We ride to a village between Marwood and Twyll, where I am to meet Abelard.”

  So they wouldn’t be far from her destination. Her heart began to beat more rapidly.

  “While we are there, you will do as you are told,” he added. “And you will give up the stone.” His face was stern. “ ‘Tis little enough payment for what you have done.”

  “I did not start the fire!” she said again, but her words fell upon deaf ears. Rhys’s skin tightened over his face, and his glare silently told her that she would never be able to convince him of her innocence. He would never trust her. Never believe her. Never love her.

  Like a bolt of lightning, the thought struck her hard. Of course he would never love her. Why would she want him to? ‘Twasn’t as if she was in love with him.

  He was ruthless. A rogue. An outlaw set upon his own ends. Nay, she would never—could never—love a man like the Bastard Outlaw. And yet her stupid heart jolted every time he cast a look over his shoulder, and the thought of making love with him scorched through her mind.

  Fool, she chided herself as the path led onto a well-worn road, a muddy expanse rutted by cart wheels and carved by hooves and boots. Farmhouses were visible, many cut into the hills with their few fallow acres flanking the sparse homes. Without pausing, Rhys turned toward the hills and, Tara assumed, the village where he was to meet Abelard.

  Clouds roiled in the sky overhead, turning day to night. Somewhere far away thunder rumbled, and the first icy drops of rain began to fall.

  His muscles tense, Tremayne drew back on his bow, narrowed his eyes, and aimed his arrow at the target, a mound of hay covered with a hide painted to look like a stag. He released. The arrow shot forward. Hissed through the air. Thwack! Deep into the stag’s chest. Tremayne smiled. In his mind’s eye he saw the mighty beast stagger and fall to its knees. Good. His aim was true. With a sensation of pride he glanced down at his son.

  Bareheaded, Quinn watched the display without much expression. As if anyone could do as well.

  “ ‘Twas a good shot,” Tremayne said and tried to ignore the feeling that this boy, his only son, was odd.

  Quinn pursed his lips thoughtfully and reached into his own quiver. Sighting without much thought, his fingers bare, he positioned the arrow against his bow, pulled hard on the bowstring, and released. The deadly missile streaked through the air and buried itself deep in the target, not two inches from Tremayne’s shot.

  Tremayne felt more than a bit of irritation. Aye, he was proud of the boy, but ‘twas Quinn’s insolent attitude, his lack of interest in anything to do with Twyll, that burrowed like a nettle under Tremayne’s skin. Someday Quinn would be baron—well, unless Cavan had his way.

  “Your aim be true, Quinn, lad.”

  Quinn rolled bored eyes up at his father, and Tremayne was tempted to shake some sense into him. But ‘twould do no good. He was young. In a few years the boy would realize his good fortune and take pride in someday becoming a baron in his own right, ruler of the keep.

  Or so Tremayne hoped.

  “Now let us try again.” Despite the rain, Tremayne reached for a second arrow, intent on felling another imaginary beast and somehow impressing his brooding son. When he looked up, he spied Percival slogging through the outer bailey.

  From the old man’s expression, Tremayne could tell he wasn’t bearing good news. But there hadn’t been much lately. The bastard Rhys had not been found at Broodmore, nor had Abelard or the woman. They’d searched the grounds, then set the castle on fire, hoping to flush him out. It hadn’t worked. Tremayne could only hope that he’d died in the ensuing blaze. But he had an unsettling feeling in his gut that the thief had gotten away. Gryffyn hadn’t been on the grounds—a bad sign, for the bastard would never have given up the prized steed, the best stallion in all of Wales, Tremayne’s most valuable possession.

  His fingers clenched around the arrow, breaking the shaft. A tic began to jump beneath his eye. All this, plus that upstart, Cavan of Marwood, was soon to attack.

  “What is it?” he asked as Percival hobbled close. The rain, as cold as ice, started in earnest, peppering the ground, creating puddles.

  “Ah, m’lord,” Percival said, as he stopped and drew a breath. “Sir Regan has questioned all of the men in Rhys’s band.” The old man was wheezing a bit from his exertion. He sniffed, coughed, and leaned heavily on his cane.

  “And?”

  “They know not where Rhys is.”

  “They lie.” Tremayne spat on the ground. Lying dogs, every one of them. Quinn was watching the exchange with wide blue eyes. “You, boy, go inside,” he said and saw a moment’s defiance cross the lad’s face. “Now. We will practice again later, and next time … next time I will take you hunting,” he promised, though he knew ‘twas a lie. For the next few days he would not be leaving the castle. Not until he’d dealt with Cavan. “Run along.”

  One of Quinn’s eyebrows raised in a look of disdain and mild curiosity that Tremayne found unsettling, but rather than say a word, the boy hitched his quiver onto his back. As if making an inner decision, he tightened his fist around his bow and took off at a dead run, his dark hair flying in the drenching rain. Tremayne wondered vaguely if the boy would search out the silent old priest, for several times he’d caught Quinn sneaking out of the north tower, where Father Simon claimed a small room. Barren save for a pallet and a cross mounted on the wall, the chamber seemed to be the silent man of God’s prison cell, a place where he prayed upon his bony knees for forgiveness of some ancient, unknown sin.

  Ah, the old one was daft. Talked to no one. Smiled rarely. A troubled soul. If God had any sense, He would call him up to heaven soon. But then, God didn’t pass out many favors these days.

  “Not one of the prisoners seems to have an idea where your brother be,” Percival said, once Quinn, splashing swiftly and defiantly through puddles, had disappeared around the potter’s hut.

  “Half brother,” Tremayne reminded him. “Son of a whore.”

  “Aye.” Percival tugged on the edge of his hood and shot an angry glance at the gray heavens. Rain dribbled down his nose and dripped onto the ground.

  “The prisoners—can they not be bought? Would not coins loosen their tongues?”

  Poking at the soft, muddy grass with his walking stick, Percival shook his head. “They be fiercely loyal.” He blew on his hands for warmth.

  “Fine, fine,” Tremayne said, disgusted that he was coddling the traitors. “Then have them all flogged—in view of t
he others. One by one. Afterward they can take turns in the pillory. Mayhap then someone will remember where their leader has gone.”

  Percival sniffed loudly. “I doubt that will change their minds.”

  “Well, something will.” Tremayne turned on his heel and glowered at the skeletal man who had once been his father’s most trusted knight. Percival was now only a shell of that bold warrior. “Is there not someone who will speak? Take away food and water—make them starve or die from lack of a drink. Mayhap then their memories will return.”

  Hesitating, the older man focused on the target, his drooping eyelids pinching a bit as he thought.

  “There is something you’re not saying,” Tremayne prodded, knowing the signs well enough.

  “Aye.” Percival sighed and scratched at his chin with a yellowed fingernail. “There is one in the group who does not fit. A girl—the big woman’s daughter. She be an odd one, and she said something about a witch or a sorceress to Sir Regan.”

  “What does the witch have to do with Rhys?” Tremayne asked, but in his mind he was already putting this together with the information he’d heard before. That Rhys had been spotted with a woman.

  “Only that the girl was certain this witch had cast a spell upon Rhys.”

  Tremayne’s temper snapped. “A spell?” he sneered. “A spell? Bring her to me. In the great hall. Away from the others.”

  “She knows no more, I assure you.”

  “Mayhap not, but I mean to speak to her.” He slid a wet arrow from his quiver, took sight, and let fly. The missile hissed through the air and struck just above the stag’s head. A miss. Just the mention of the bastard’s name caused his aim to falter.

  As he walked through the outer bailey, past pens of bleating sheep and pigs rooting and grunting, their snouts buried in soft mud, Tremayne thought again of Broodmore, where victory over his half brother had been so close. For a fleeting second he’d felt the anticipation of a chance to give the criminal his due. But the sensation had been short-lived. When they rounded up the sorry group of criminals and misfits that had been inhabiting the decaying castle, they found a surly, weak lot, sickeningly loyal to the bastard, but nowhere was there any sign of Rhys or the other leader, Abelard, or the woman.

  No, for all his trouble Tremayne had ended up only with a dozen or so new prisoners, including a woman and her daughter, and more mouths to feed—unless he let them starve. Unless Rhys was willing to bargain for their lives.

  He passed the armorer’s hut, where men were busy cleaning mail. Several suits at a time were dropped into a barrel and sprinkled with vinegar and sand. Then the barrel was rolled, which helped the rust to disappear. A couple of boys in tatters—orphans, if Tremayne remembered correctly—polished helmets and shields with bran. They were working feverishly, knowing the equipment would be used soon. Against Cavan. Or Rhys.

  “M’lord,” the armorer said, bowing slightly as Tremayne passed.

  The boys, too, mumbled and stared at the ground. Good. At least they knew their place.

  Tremayne stepped in a puddle and cursed under his breath as cold water seeped through his boot. By the gods, would nothing ever go right?

  He strode onward, past the farrier, who was busily shoeing horses to get them ready for battle. At the moment he held a destrier’s leg between his knees and tapped nails into the animal’s hooves with a small hammer.

  Aye, the castle was preparing for a siege. Just this morning the steward, a nervous sort with a thin moustache, pale eyes, and, Tremayne was beginning to suspect, fingers that dug too easily into the stores of spices, had already mentioned that the supplies of sugarloaf and rice were low.

  Tremayne couldn’t be bothered.

  He didn’t expect a siege. No, Cavan of Marwood would be dealt with and dealt with swiftly. The whelp would learn the painful lesson of what it was to do battle with the baron of Twyll.

  Dry leaves fluttered as a stiff breeze caused them to whirl and dance, but Tremayne barely noticed. Neither did he notice the huntsmen hauling in the few quail, rabbits, and squirrels nor pay any attention to the soldiers greasing the gears of the portcullis.

  As he crossed the last stretch of the bailey he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the thatcher, a scrawny man with few teeth and a nasty sense of humor, box the ears of his eldest son for shirking his duties. The boy, red-faced, let out a pitiful wail that could be heard over the carpenter’s hammer and the mason’s chisel.

  “Be not a crybaby, Paul,” his father reprimanded. “ ‘Tis a man’s job ye can do. Now, do na make me take a switch to ye.” Sniffing loudly, Paul set his jaw and turning his back to his father, did as he was bid, continuing to bundle reeds, straw, and heather together.

  Tremayne wondered how it was that he, baron of Twyll, had less luck in disciplining his own boy. ‘Twas as if Quinn resented him.

  As Tremayne reached the steps of the keep, he caught a glimpse of Father Simon—the odd, silent priest—walking around the perimeter of the inner bailey. Seeming not to notice the wind and sleet, he ambled, his lips moving in mute prayer, his fingers caressing the beads of a rosary. His robes, once fine, were worn, the hem dirty from other solitary treks, miles upon miles, around the bailey.

  His mind was gone. Surely.

  Bothered by the old priest, Tremayne hurried up the stone steps of the keep and shouldered open the door. The dogs bolted to their feet, muscles tense, then relaxed at the smell and sight of the lord. They settled back into the rushes, their jaws resting between their paws, their brown eyes following Tremayne’s every movement.

  Mangy, useless beasts.

  Wiping the rain from his face with a gloved hand, he walked to the grate, where a fire roared, snapping and popping as flames devoured a massive chunk of oak—nearly the size of the Yule log that had burned for days during the Christmas Revels last year.

  He flung his wet mantle over a bench, pulled off his gloves with his teeth, and with stiff, freezing fingers shoved the damp strands of his hair off his face. Slowly the heat from the blaze found its way to his bones, and the chilling worry that had been with him since Broodmore lessened a bit. He was home—in the great hall of Twyll, where he belonged. Despite rumors, ghosts, and bastard half brothers bent on doing him harm, Tremayne belonged here. He was destined to rule. To be the baron.

  With a careful eye, he studied this cavernous room where he’d made so many decisions. Dozens of candles burned in sconces, their tiny flames giving off flickering light and illuminating the tapestries that decorated the walls. Blue, red, gold, and green, the woven pictures added life to the dingy, once white walls. Aye, this was home.

  So why did it feel so empty, so lifeless—as if it were a crypt?

  Because there is no woman.

  Anna is gone … so long gone.

  You need another one—a wife to warm your bed and your tired, weary heart.

  As if anticipating his return, Mary, the kitchen wench who had spent fruitless hours in his chamber, poured him a mazer of wine. “Is there anything else, m’lord?” she asked, blushing and swiftly looking away.

  He swirled the crimson liquid in his cup. “Nay, but mayhap I will think of something later.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed, looked at the ground, and hurried away, her buttocks swaying beneath the folds of her dress and the strings of her apron. She was a pretty girl and eager to please, but ‘twas to no avail. ‘Twas Anna he longed for. Anna he dreamed of. Anna … sweet lying Jezebel. His fingers tightened over his cup, and he felt the same excruciating pain in his chest that he had for a decade. A decade. Would it never go away?

  Regan appeared, and with him was a thin, pasty-skinned girl with mussy, wet hair and enormous eyes—the waif they’d found in Broodmore—so frightened she was trembling. Regan had to urge her forward with his hand. “This be Peony,” he said, obviously vexed. “You wanted to see her?”

  “Aye.”

  Tremayne walked to his chair and climbed easily into the carved wooden seat. From his raised posit
ion, he knew, he appeared even more intimidating.

  “Now, child—er, Peony—tell me of the witch that was at Broodmore.”

  She gulped. Linked her fingers in front of her and stared down at the rushes.

  “You mentioned her to Sir Regan, did you not?”

  Regan opened his mouth to answer, but Tremayne lifted a hand, stilling him.

  “Answer me.”

  “A-aye,” was the barely audible reply.

  “But she was not in the keep when we arrived.”

  Again silence.

  “Listen, Peony,” he said, barely able to hold on to his patience, “you must answer me. If you do not, the rest of them—the men who were taken prisoner with you and your mother …” She flinched, her head jerking back, and he caught a glimpse of her eyes as she sought his gaze for a moment, then stared at the floor again. “Surely you do not wish any harm to come to them.”

  “Nay.” She shook her head vehemently and bit her lower lip. Her fingers twisted together.

  “Good, good. Then you must help me.” Cradling his cup of wine, he propped one boot on the knee of his other leg. “Who is this witch?”

  Peony’s face crumpled upon itself. Her eyebrows drew together, her lips pursed, and small lines appeared over the bridge of her nose.

  “Who?”

  The girl drew in a long, shaky breath, and then, as if her tongue had finally been released, she said, “Her name is Tara. She comes from somewhere near Gaeaf, I think. So me mum says.”

  “Why think you she be a sorceress?”

  “Oh, she is.” Her eyes were suddenly round with conviction as they stared up at him. “She chants spells, she does, and … and … she draws runes in the mud—the work of the devil, me mum says.”

  “You think she has Rhys under some kind of spell?” he asked, not believing it for a moment.