by Lisa Jackson
She would leave Gryffyn here, ready for her escape, because once she had found the old priest and ascertained her true identity, she planned to locate Rhys. Aye, she needed to find out who she was, but now, after their loving, she also had a need to face him again.
As she waited, certain that Rhys would come upon her at any second, the sun rose in the heavens, giving the clouds a pearly glow and offering some warmth. Tara picked the twigs, leaves, and needles off her cloak, finger-combed her hair, and waited. Slowly they came. Carts pulled by oxen, wagons filled with casks of ale or bags of grain. Peddlers and foot soldiers, women carrying baskets of eggs and boys loaded with firewood. From within the towering walls of Twyll came the sounds of hammers clanging, voices shouting, even an occasional burst of laughter.
When the traffic was heaviest, Tara emerged from the forest and joined the men, women, and children entering Twyll. No one should stop her. Aside from a few soldiers who may have caught a glimpse of her with Rhys on that fateful day when she’d met the rogue, no one would know her or question her.
They passed by a sentry who asked the carter his business, then paused to speak with a heavily pregnant woman carrying a basket of leeks while shepherding three children behind her. Then he glanced at Tara as she passed.
“Halt,” he ordered, and she stopped. Small eyes appraised her. “What be your business?”
“I wish to speak to Father Simon.”
“The old one?” The guard’s forehead furrowed. “Why?”
“ ‘Tis greetings I am to bring him from me mother, who knew him as a girl. She is ill now, and she wanted the father to know.”
The guard sniffed, wiped his nose, and frowned. “Who is your mother?”
“Lodema of Gaeaf.”
“Let us pass,” a grumpy wagon driver called out. “I’ve got spices to deliver here; the steward, he’s waitin’ on me.”
“Aye!” another man, carting in a wagonload of straw, agreed.
The sentry snorted, stared for a long moment at Tara’s face, then waved her in. “Go on about yer business.”
She quickly moved along the muddy road through the outer bailey, where animals were penned—horses, sheep, cattle, and pigs—near the stables.
Everyone seemed in a hurry. In the inner bailey, men seemed edgy. Women, laden with candle wax, laundry, or pails of fish scurried toward the keep. Boys toted buckets of rocks and arrows to the highest towers, where carpenters were busily building hoardings, wooden extensions of the wall walk to protect the defenders in battle. The air was charged and tense. Faces were grim. Women barked orders at children to help stack firewood, make candles, spin wool, gather eggs, lug pails of water.
All about her Tara heard whispered conversations, talk of war.
“And jest ‘ow long do ye think we could stand a siege?” one hefty woman asked as she tended a barrel of salt for preserving meat in a lean-to near the keep.
“Saints preserve us, I know not,” her compatriot, an alewife from the look of her, answered, crossing her arms over her apron-covered bosom.
A carter was busily repairing a broken wheel, the armorer pounded out metal into swords, and the crier, standing on the keep steps and ringing a bell, announced that every able-bodied man was to take up arms against Cavan of Marwood.
Tara shivered. Who was this man who claimed to be the son of Gilmore? An impostor? A liar? Or was he really the babe born of Lady Farren?
Trying not to attract any attention to herself, Tara walked through the castle grounds, wondering as she saw the inner reaches of Twyll if this truly was her home. Her destiny. Where she belonged.
Aye, and what of Rhys?
What of him? she threw back at that cursed voice in her mind, refusing to think of him now or to acknowledge the tiny niggle of regret that had wormed its way into her consciousness. Do not think it, she told herself and made her way to the keep. A boy ran by chasing a cat and she grabbed his arm. “Where is the chapel?” she asked, and the lad, with a mop of red hair, freckles, and several spaces where teeth were missing in his mouth, stopped short.
“The chapel?”
“Yes, and Father Simon.”
“Ye mean Father Alden, surely.”
“Nay, his name be Simon.” Tara managed a smile.
“But Father Alden, he be … oh.” Large brown eyes rounded in understanding. “Ye mean the daft old one, don’t ye?” Before she could answer he bobbed his head up and down rapidly. “Oh, he’s not in the keep. He stays in the tower, there, up a floor or two, me mum says.” He pointed a grubby finger at a square tower that rose above the battlements. “He don’t talk, ye know.”
“I—I’ve heard. Thank you.”
She hurried across the bailey, past an herb garden and the atilliator’s hut, where crossbows were stacked in readiness for war. Swallowing hard, she ducked around a hay cart and reached the door. From the kennels, the hounds set up a racket. Overhead, hides were being stretched to cover the wooden hoardings, making them impenetrable to flaming arrows.
The threat of war and death hung heavy in the air. She reached the door, yanked it open, and half ran up the winding stairs. Her heart pounding and her throat dry, she soon reached a floor where a door was open slightly. Through the crack, in the flickering light of a single candle, a priest, bareheaded, his face gaunt, knelt. His eyes were closed, his shoulders stooped, his lips moving without a sound.
This, she knew, was Father Simon, the only man who knew the truth of her past.
“M’lord, we found yer horse.”
The soldier, a cocky boy named Jason, swaggered into the great hall.
“My horse?” Tremayne repeated.
“Aye, sire. Gryffyn. We was searchin’ fer that no-good James and we comes acrost the beast. Big as life, ‘e was.”
Tremayne vaulted out of his chair and grabbed the insolent pup by the front of his tunic. “If this be a joke—”
“Nay …” the boy whined, his bravado slipping. He looked as if he might soil himself.
“Where?”
“In the woods outside of the castle. We brought him back to the stables. We thought ye might want to—”
“Fool!” Spittle exploded from Tremayne’s mouth with his rage. “If the horse is here, then so is Rhys!” He let go of the boy’s tunic and wished he could strangle his half brother. “Search the grounds, the castle … and …” His brain was pounding with an ache that burned the backs of his eyes. “Wait—take the horse back to where you found him.”
“What?” Jason rubbed his chest.
“Yes, yes, the outlaw will be back. Leave the horse as he was, hide in the forest, and when Rhys returns, capture him!” He was striding through the keep, on his way to Regan’s quarters. “Take the best men, twenty of them—and make no mistake”—he whirled as Jason ran to keep up with him—”if Rhys slips through your fingers again everyone in the castle will suffer, you worst of all!”
Could it be? Could his luck finally have turned? At the thought of his half brother stalking through the castle his stomach turned sour. But he would be caught. This time he would! “Search the castle, every inch of it. Flush him out. If we don’t catch him here, we’ll pounce on him when he runs back to the horse.” He rubbed his hands together. Finally. Finally!
“But what of Lord Cavan of Marwood?” Jason asked as they rounded a corner, the rushlights flickering as they passed. “Is not his army marching on us?”
“There is still time,” Tremayne insisted. “First we capture the bastard, then we’ll give Cavan of Marwood his due. Do not fear.”
He threw open the door to Regan’s quarters and found the constable sharpening the blade of his sword. “ ‘Tis time,” he announced as Regan looked up. “The bastard is within our grasp.” His eyes held those of the constable. “Catch him, Sir Regan, search him out and bring him back to me.” He sketched out his plan as the constable stopped honing his blade.
“… So he has the audacity to sneak into Twyll,” Tremayne ended. “For that he will give his
life.” He stared at Regan and curled a fist. “This time, constable, do not fail me.”
Chapter Twelve
At the sound of the door opening, the priest’s lips stopped moving. Still kneeling, his expression harsh and irritated, he twisted his neck and looked over one shoulder.
“Excuse me, Father,” Tara said, suddenly tongue-tied. “I would like to have a word with you.”
Slowly he straightened, pulling himself up to a standing position, as if the movement of uncurling his spine was painful. His eyes were sunken, haunted in their bleakness, his hair thin over an age-spotted pate, his body barely more than a tall skeleton. He nodded curtly, encouraging her to speak, his expression guarded. With one hand he beckoned her inside the small room.
“You are Father Simon?” she asked, stepping into the tiny, austere chamber with its cold stone floor and smooth, confining walls. No window allowed light in. Only the wavering flame from a slowly melting candle burning on a narrow table gave any illumination at all.
He nodded and studied her without a sound. Tara’s skin crawled. The dark room and the silent, cadaverous man were in eerie contrast to the near-frantic activity elsewhere in the castle.
“I come to you from Lodema.”
His breath whistled through his teeth. There was a long, searching moment of hesitation. Thin, graying eyebrows quirked, and fear as dark and deep as a demon’s soul blackened his eyes. He shook his head as if he’d never heard of her mother, but there was a glimmer of recognition he couldn’t hide, a shadow of knowledge. With one hand he reached into his pocket and fingered the beads of his rosary.
“Aye, Father, I be Tara, Lodema’s daughter, the babe you brought to her in a basket.” His head was still shaking and now more vigorously. He held up his free hand to quiet her, but she had not come this far and endured all that she had just faced to be silenced. “My mother, Lodema … she … she … told me that I was not of her womb, that I was brought to her, by you, when you were a priest here at Twyll. She thought I be the daughter of Lord Gilmore and Lady Farren, and she showed me the ring—the emerald ring and the coins … and the faded old basket in which I was swaddled when you brought me to her.”
“No,” he mouthed, though he spoke not. He removed the other hand from his pocket and held both his palms toward her, moving them rapidly from side to side, causing the flame to dance wildly, the shadows on the wall to flutter and fade.
“Say you that I am not Gilmore’s daughter?”
He blinked rapidly, as if startled and thinking hard.
“Did you not take me in a cart the very day I was born—the day my parents were slain by Merwynn?” she demanded, her throat growing tight with the horrid, tragic thought of it all. “You arrived with blood on your vestments, with a child and a ring.” Her voice had risen with passion, and she thumped a finger on her chest. “That child was me,” she whispered. “Was it not?”
Again the violent shaking of his head, and now Tara thought she heard the sound of a footstep on the stairs.
Swiftly Father Simon snatched her hand, lifting her fingers toward the candle. His skin was cool and dry, rough as parchment, stretched tight over fleshless bones. Holding up her bare fingers, he frowned.
“I know, I know … I wear not the ring, nor do I have it any longer. It was taken from me.” She swallowed hard and stared into wary eyes partially hidden by the sag of wrinkled eyelids. “But Lodema gave it to me, I swear. I am the girl she raised from a babe. But only you can tell me if I be the daughter of Twyll.”
His skin lost what little color it had. He crossed himself swiftly and motioned that she should leave.
“Nay.”
Anger flared in his gaze. His shoulders stiffened. He towered over her and would have frightened her were it not for the fear she saw in his eyes.
“Can you not break your vow of silence?” she asked.
“He’s got no tongue,” another voice whispered.
Tara nearly fell through the floor. Whirling, her heart clenched, she faced a boy who was standing in the doorway—a thin, sober-looking lad of about ten, who regarded her through suspicious eyes.
“What say you?”
“Cut it out, he did,” the boy said, as he slipped into the room on quiet feet and shut the door softly behind him. Father Simon’s expression turned to stone. “Himself.”
Tara recoiled at the horrifying thought. “Nay,” she said, disbelieving as she stared at the priest. “Nay—”
“Why do you think he speaks not?”
“A vow of silence, his own private communion with God …” She swallowed back revulsion at the thought of the man actually mutilating himself. “This … this is true?” she whispered, her hand on her chest as she met the older man’s gaze.
He lifted a weary shoulder, but there was a spark of defiance in his tormented eyes.
“But why?”
“To hide his secrets, of course,” the boy said.
“And how do you know this?” she demanded, wondering at this youth’s insolence. Pride angled his jaw, rebellion pulled at the corners of his mouth, and she realized he was far older than his years. Experience, she assumed, had been his teacher.
“I know.”
“How?”
“I know everything.”
Impudent pup. “Do you? And how do you accomplish that, by … by listening at doors and peeking through keyholes?’
“Sometimes,” he said. He seemed to relish baiting her.
“As you listened just now.”
“Aye.”
“Who are you?”
“Quinn.” He tossed his dark hair off his face and lifted his chin proudly, as if she should know from his answer that he was someone to be reckoned with. When she didn’t respond properly, he had the audacity to raise an insolent eyebrow, reminding her for a minute of Rhys. Her heart ached for a second. “I will be baron someday.” The last he said without a hint of pride, as if it were a simple fact, one that no one dared dispute.
This boy was Lord Tremayne’s son? Then she understood his arrogance, for he thought—nay, he knew—he would someday rule Twyll. ‘Twas his birthright, or so he believed.
“Who be you?” he demanded.
Father Simon’s eyes grew wider, his lips twisted into a hard frown of disapproval, and Tara suddenly felt as if she were walking on a thin, crumbling bridge that spanned a dark, yawning abyss ready to swallow her if she stumbled.
“Tara … of Gaeaf. I be the daughter of an old friend of Father Simon’s.”
The boy glanced at the priest, as if for affirmation, and Father Simon gave a curt, irritated nod.
“He speaks to no one.” The boy was adamant.
“Except you,” she guessed. “But how, if he has no tongue?”
“There be other ways,” the lad said with a mischievous smirk. “If ye be clever enough to find them.”
“And you are?”
He didn’t respond, and Tara had to remind herself that she was talking to no mere boy. No, this upstart was arrogant and wise beyond his age, a lad who knew far more than he would tell. He held up a hand, then pressed a finger to his lips. Footsteps sounded on the spiraling stone stairs outside this tiny chamber, and Quinn, like a shadow, slipped noiselessly out the door to disappear into the darkness.
She turned back to Father Simon, but he motioned her quickly to a space behind the door. As if he’d done it a thousand times, he pretended not to hear the commotion on the stairway, dropped to his knees and took up his vigil again. Boots pounded up the stairs—loud, the sound of many feet. Tara’s heart thudded. She put one hand in her pocket and fingered the hilt of her knife, her palms suddenly sweaty. Holding her breath, she melted against the wall as the sound of voices reached her.
“You, Jack—go up to the top of the watchtower, talk to the lookout, see if he’s seen the outlaw,” a deep voice ordered.
The outlaw? Surely they didn’t mean Rhys! She strained to hear the conversation through the crack between the hinges of the door.
“Just like they seen him stealing the lord’s horse?” the first voice sneered.
“That be ‘Enry’s fault.” A snort. “The stable master paid for ‘is mistake if ye ask me. ‘Ow could he let the Bastard Outlaw outwit ‘im? Now git along with ye!”
Oh, God, Rhys was here. In Twyll. Probably looking for her. And Lord Tremayne already knew it and was searching for him. Regret tightened her lungs. Guilt hammered through her brain.
“All right, all right,” the raspier voice finally agreed. “I’ll go up, talk to the guard, but ‘tis all for naught, I’m tellin’ ye.” The footsteps drew nearer. Tara’s heart knocked wildly, fear pulsed through her blood. Father Simon, his back to the door, bowed his head and began to pray again. His lips moved soundlessly as he fingered the rosary hanging out of his pocket.
“Ahh, Father,” the voice boomed, and Tara shrank as one soldier paused at the half open door. “If I could have a word with you—”
Father Simon held up a hand, effectively cutting the man off as he continued his prayer. Tara felt the sweat bead on her scalp. She heard a rustle of feet, as if the soldier were shifting his weight. Peering through the crack between the hinges, Tara could barely make out the guard. His features were indistinct in the shadowy light—but he was big, large enough to fill the doorway. He rubbed his jaw anxiously, waiting.
“Aye, well,” he muttered, “I hate to be botherin’ ye, seein’ as yer prayin’ and all, but—”
“Come along, Tim,” another voice, from outside the door, instructed. “There be no one in the father’s quarters.”
Tim nodded, hesitated, then disappeared from the doorway. The footsteps faded and Tara let out her breath slowly.
Was it possible? Was Rhys in the keep? Oh, sweet Holy Mother, she hoped not. She bit her lip and waited until the old tower room was silent again. Slowly she peeled herself off the wall and stepped into the tiny circle of shifting light from the candle’s flame.
