by Lisa Jackson
“But I have it not—”
“Then you’d better find it quickly. The fate of this pathetic excuse of a boy,” he grabbed Quinn by the scruff of his neck, “your precious Rhys—oh, yes, I know of you and him—and your own life depends upon the damned stone.”
“Halt! Hey!” The sentry’s cry rang through the bailey.
“What now?” Tremayne grumbled, but over his voice there could be heard shouts and horses’ hooves and creaking wheels on the other side of the castle’s great walls.
“Halt! Who goes there? I say—bloody hell!”
Whistling over the wall, a huge boulder flew into the bailey, landing with a jarring thud only a few feet from the lord.
“Cavan,” Tremayne growled, his expression turning vexed. To one of his guards, he said, “Did not Regan lead a garrison of troops to ambush the upstart?”
“Aye. Hours ago.”
“Mayhap they were found out. Or defeated.”
“Curse the fates!” Tremayne shook a fist at the sky. “But ‘tis nightfall. Only a fool would strike at night.”
“Or a man anxious for battle who knows we would be taken by surprise without the light of day on our side,” another man offered.
“Get the tar pots! Order everyone to his station!”
Tara knew this was her chance. She grabbed Quinn’s hand, and while the soldiers were still staring at the boulder that signified the start of war, she yanked him toward the stables. But ‘twas too late. One quick-footed soldier caught her and wrapped his huge arms around her waist. Her fingers coiled over the hilt of her knife. She drew back and plunged the blade into his arm.
With a yelp he let her go, but another man, larger and smelling foul, grabbed hold of her, taking her wrists in one large hand and shaking the weapon out of her hands.
Tremayne lunged and held fast to the boy he’d thought was his son.
Bam! The castle walls rocked.
“What the devil …” Horror washed over Tremayne’s face.
Bam! Again.
The very ground shook.
“ ‘Tis the ram,” Tremayne shouted. “As I said, all men to your stations! Now! And you,” he glared at Tara again. “Oh, bloody Christ, haul them both into the keep,” he ordered his guards as he motioned to Quinn and Tara.
Men and women flew out of their huts. Soldiers streamed through the open doors of the great hall and the barracks. Children cried and curses flew in the ensuing chaos.
Rain lashed from the heavens.
Lightning forked through the sky.
Horses screamed.
Dogs howled and thunder clapped loudly, in sharp report against the horrifying thud of the battering ram.
As Tara and Quinn were dragged toward the great hall, all the men of Twyll became soldiers. Donning quivers, carrying longbows and hauling buckets of rocks, farmers, merchants, freemen, and serfs climbed up the tower stairs to the wall walks and the hoardings while the battering ram continued to crash against the main gate.
“Move!” The meaty-armed guard pushed her toward the keep. “Come on, you!” Her thoughts were with Rhys as she stumbled to the great hall. Was he locked away? Had James saved him? Dear God, help him. Help us all.
Rhys feigned sleep, though in truth he was tense, every muscle rigid, his ears straining as Rosie seduced the heavy guard. The man, taken by his own sense of manhood, had locked himself into the cell with her and was mauling her in front of all the prisoners.
Pigeon was curled in a corner of the stinking cell, her arms wrapped around her knees, her tiny body rocking against the horror that had befallen them all.
And all the while Rhys thought of Tara. Was she alive? Hidden away? Would he ever see her again? Oh, sweet, sweet woman. I would give my life for yours. His body ached, aye, but ‘twas nothing to the pain in his heart when he thought she might already be dead or held by Tremayne. Silently he vowed to escape and find her, tell her he loved her, save her from whatever dire fate was now hers.
“A fine lass ye be, Rosie girl,” the guard was saying as he kissed her neck and fondled her breasts through her coarse gown.
Rhys’s teeth were sore. He held fast to his tiny weapon and waited; for he and Rose had exchanged glances, and in the split second when their gazes met, they had passed a silent message.
Now, with her skirts bunched and the obese jailer having his way with her, she moaned as if in ecstasy, clung to the man, and ever so slowly inched backward, toward the bars that separated her cell from Rhys’s. “Ahh … William … ahhh …” she moaned as her rump pressed against the metal.
The jailer reached beneath her skirts and his face was mottled and red. He fumbled with his breeches and Rosie sighed low as if in great want. ‘Twas sickening. “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “Now … now … do it now!”
Rhys sprang. Like a snake striking, his arm shot between the bars past Rose’s head, and he jabbed hard, his arrowhead burrowing deep into the fleshy neck of the jailer. Blood spurted and sprayed. The man roared in disbelief and grabbed his wound, only to have blood pulse between his fingers. Rosie snagged his knife, drew it swiftly from its sheath, and with all her strength thrust it deep into the dying man’s chest. With more dexterity than Rhys would have thought her capable of, she untied the ring of keys from the jailer’s belt and tossed them to Rhys.
There were footsteps on the stairs. Damn! Rhys unlocked his cell, tossed the keys to the men in another cage, then searched for a weapon.
Too late. Two men burst down the stairs. Rhys sprang, only to realize that he was attacking James. Keys jangled, cell doors creaked open, and all the prisoners were free.
“By the gods, don’t you know me?” James asked once Rhys had realized his mistake and let him go. “Christ, it stinks in here.”
Rhys had no time for small talk. “Where is Tara?”
“Waiting at the pillory with your son.”
“My son?” What was James saying? For a second Rhys didn’t move. There was some mistake …
“Ah, I see you do not know. Well, there is no time to explain it all. I only learned of it recently, but Quinn, who has been raised by Tremayne, is not of his seed at all. It seems, Bastard, that Anna was carrying your child when she married Tremayne. Come … now … ‘twill all be told later.”
Bam!
Mortar crumbled.
The walls shook.
“ ‘Tis the ram!” James said. “Cavan has reached us. Just as we planned.” He handed Rhys a crossbow. “There are more men above. Let us be off!”
Rhys needed no further encouragement. He flew up the stairs, two steps at a time. Men followed behind him, and his head pounded with the thought that Tara was safe and he … he had a son. Anna’s boy. Could it be true? Was Quinn safe? At the top of the stairs he shouldered open the door and with his small army of weaponless thugs behind him exploded into the melee of the terror-riddled bailey. Rain poured. Thunder cracked. Men shouted and children ran. A few torches sizzled and soldiers manned the curtain.
On wobbling legs, he ran to the pillory, yelling her name. “Tara! Tara!” No one hid at the pillory, nor were there more weapons. He slapped angrily at the water running through his hair and down his face. His gaze swept the bailey. Where was she?
Then with desperate certainty he knew. His gaze fell on the great hall.
Rhys’s heart stopped for a minute. The ram banged hard against the main gate. Metal crunched. Timbers cracked. ‘Twould not be long.
“I’ll go to the murder hole above the main gate.” James said. “I’ll kill the guard, let down a rope, and bring in more troops once the portcullis is destroyed. Then,” he vowed, “ ‘twill be the end of Tremayne.”
Rhys didn’t stop to listen. He stripped James of his sword and with a weapon in each hand ran straight for the keep. Suddenly, after years of plotting, it mattered not if Tremayne was the ruler of Twyll, it made no difference to him if his half brother lived to a hundred and was the baron. Now all that mattered was the lives of the woman he loved and the boy wh
o just might be his son.
Tara stood in front of the lord of Twyll. Three guards were at her back, swords drawn, razor-sharp blades ready to slay not only her but Quinn as well.
“So you have no stone,” Tremayne accused, his eyes appraising every inch of her. He was seated in a thronelike chair on the dais, drumming his fingers on one arm. “Where is it?”
“ ‘Twas taken from me.”
“Convenient.”
“My father has it!” Quinn piped up, as if he gained pleasure in goading the man who had raised him.
Tremayne’s furious gaze landed full force upon the boy. “Your father,” he sneered. “Your father.” His lips trembled in rage. “I raised you as my own flesh and blood. Cared for you. Loved you as my son. And how do you repay me? By turning on me!”
“You beat me!” Blood crusted at the corner of Quinn’s mouth. “My back has scars.”
As does Rhys’s.
“Because I was trying to turn you into a man. Oh, why should I explain myself to you? Percival!” he yelled, and an elderly man with a walking stick appeared. “Where are the others? Father Simon and—”
Bam! Crack!
“Mayhap we should surrender, sire,” the old man said, his eyes moving from Tara to the boy and back again.
“Never.” Leaning forward, resting his hands on his knees, Tremayne looked directly into Tara’s eyes, and she saw more than simple greed there. Hunger lurked as well. She could barely swallow, wanted to shrink away, but she held her head high.
“I need that stone,” Tremayne explained slowly, his gaze lowering to her breasts. “To prove that Cavan isn’t the heir of Gilmore.”
“I have it not.”
“Where is it?”
She shrugged. “I know not.”
“You had it once.”
“I had a ring. It was stolen from me.”
“By whom?”
“I know not.”
“By me.” Rhys’s voice boomed through the keep and Tara’s heart soared. She turned, saw him appear from behind a curtain, a crossbow aimed directly at Tremayne’s heart, a sword in his other hand.
“So, brother, you are here to kill me.” Amazingly calm, Tremayne leaned back in his chair, but there was animosity between the two, and the smell of hatred vied with the scent of burning wood as the fire crackled and popped. Dogs growled and every soldier in the keep eyed the intruder. The Bastard. Half brother to the lord. Outlaw and criminal.
“Do not even think of being a hero, any of you,” Rhys warned, as if reading their minds, “or your ruler is dead.”
“You would not kill me.” Tremayne seemed certain. In an instant he lunged like a cat, pulling Tara in front of him as a shield, and stood facing his half brother.
There was the splinter of wood. The castle shuddered. Tara struggled. The crossbow was pointed straight at her heart. “Go ahead,” Tremayne encouraged. “Kill us both.”
“No!” Quinn flung himself at the man who had raised him and the soldiers, weapons drawn, lunged forward.
Thunder clapped loudly.
Again the ram pounded, and suddenly footsteps thudded up the stairs and into the castle. Men stormed through, the guards were taken aback.
A soldier grabbed the boy and lifted him off his feet.
Tara shuddered at the smell of Tremayne, so close.
The door burst open. A guard starting to protest was rewarded with a sword through his heart.
“Surrender!” A man in wet, muddy finery ordered as he entered with an army of thugs. He was young, his hair raven-black, his green eyes flashing fire. “Murdering brute, if you value your life, you will kneel down to me.”
“Cavan,” Tremayne spat.
“Lord Cavan,” the regal one replied.
“This be my keep.”
“Stolen from my father.” In one hand Cavan wielded a sword with a jeweled hilt, in the other a fine dagger, and on his finger he wore the ring. The dark emerald of Twyll winked in the firelight.
“Nay!”
“ ‘Tis true. Give up the woman and surrender,” Cavan ordered. In the moment of hesitation, Tremayne’s grip loosened. Tara rammed her elbow hard against his ribs, kicked his shin, and as he tried to cling to her, catapulted away from him.
Tremayne drew his sword and swung at her, but before the arc was completed, Rhys fired.
Sst. The bolt shot through the air, burying deep in Tremayne’s chest. He fell back, dropped to the cold stones of the floor, and with an agonized groan gave up his life.
“Nay!” Percival cried. “Nay, nay, nay!” He fell onto Tremayne’s body and wept bitter tears.
“ ‘Tis finished,” Cavan said with a smile of satisfaction.
“Not quite.” Rhys advanced upon the baron. “Ye be not the true issue of Gilmore. The ring was bought.”
“Was it?” Cavan’s eyes glittered with an evil fire. “Does it matter?”
“Tara be the true ruler.”
“She has no proof. I have the stone. Twyll is mine.” He walked toward the dais, intent on taking the lord’s chair.
“Where is Abelard?”
Cavan frowned. “Dead. We were ambushed. He gave up his life.”
“Nay!” Rhys’s lips pulled back hard against his teeth.
“ ‘Tis true.” Cavan’s eyes met Rhys’s grief-stricken gaze. “A pity. But not a tragedy.”
Rhys looked as if his soul was scraped raw, but the new baron of Twyll didn’t notice. “Clean up this mess,” he ordered his men. “Put those who will not pledge their fealty to me in the dungeon. We will kill them, one a day, until the rest understand. And you.” He glared at Tara with hatred. “You, witch, will be first.”
“No, Cavan, I will be,” Rhys said, raising his sword.
Cavan smiled at the thought of battle with the infamous outlaw. “So be it.” He lifted his own elegant weapon and the crowd in the great hall hushed. No one dared breathe.
Cavan lunged, but not before Percival struck. With a small dagger hidden in his hand, he leaped upward, threw his body on that of the younger man and shoved his blade into Cavan’s neck.
“Die, bastard,” he hissed.
“By the saints, nay!” Cavan hit the floor, clutching his neck, blood covering the ring on his fingers, but from his pocket rolled another piece of jewelry, another ring identical to the one on his finger.
Tara couldn’t move.
As Cavan gave up his last rattling breath, his clouded eyes found Tara’s and he whispered, “Sister … twin.”
Tara froze. Her body and mind seemed separated. She didn’t believe a word of it, though she felt Rhys’s strong arms surround her, knew ‘twas he who was kissing her neck and whispering that all would be well.
A brother? A twin brother? Nay, it couldn’t be true … and yet he was here with the rings … dead at her feet.
“ ‘Tis true,” Henry, the stable master said. “I was there, driving the cart when Father Simon took the boy to Lord Innis of Marwood, then dropped off his twin sister with the old crone in the forest.”
“Lodema,” Tara whispered.
The great hall was filling with soldiers and peasants and laborers. Father Simon stood at the back of the room, and when Tara looked at him, he nodded and crossed himself, his job finished.
“Come, lad,” Rhys said to Quinn, and he kissed Tara full on the lips. “You, lady, need rest. The boy needs to sleep.”
“I will tend to him.” Rosie insisted, and from the corner of her eye Tara saw the big woman take Quinn’s hand.
“Come—” Rhys smoothed the hair from her cheek.
“Nay … I …” Stunned, she began to cry. Tears fell from her cheeks and Rhys kissed each one. Lifting her from her feet, he carried her up the stairs. “You are home, Tara.”
“And what of you?”
Through her tears, she saw him smile. “I’m home, as well. With you, love, and with my son. Come now, lady of Twyll.”
“No … wait … I cannot stay here. Not without you. I’ll not be lady unless
you be lord.”
She heard laughter behind them and saw James at the door.
“Are you proposing to me, witch?” Rhys asked as they reached the second story of the keep. The rushlights had burned low, ‘twas nearly dark in the hallway.
“Nay, ‘tis not a proposition,” she said with the hint of a smile. “ ‘Tis a command.”
He laughed then, held her close and whispered into her ear. “You have one night to convince me that I should be your husband.”
“Only one?”
“Need you more?”
“I think not, outlaw,” she admitted with a wicked little grin. “I think not.”
Epilogue
Tower Twyll
Fall 1291
The baby cried loudly, his little lungs straining. “ ‘Tis your son,” Tara said to her husband.
“Not yours?” Rhys turned over and looked down at his wife. Her breasts were full, her waist still thick from giving birth to their child two weeks earlier, but she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.
Never before had he felt such peace. As the lord of Twyll. What great irony, he thought, as the door to their chamber opened and Lodema, carrying the swaddled babe, entered.
“Abelard, he be hungry again,” she said, and Tara tossed her black curls from her face.
“He always be hungry.”
“Like his brother,” Rhys said, for it seemed there was not enough food in all of Twyll and Gaeaf put together to keep Quinn’s hunger at bay.
Lodema chuckled as she handed her grandson to his mother. “I never thought I’d see the day,” she admitted and walked to the window to look out. From his position on the bed Rhys saw Father Simon walk along the edge of the bailey, as he always did. A secretive smile crossed the older woman’s lips, and she clucked softly. From the doorway a mottled kitten emerged, dashing playfully through the rushes to rub against the old woman’s leg.
“Ah, Luna, ye be not as smart as the first, but you’re a sweet thing,” she said as she picked up the kitten and stroked its soft back. “I had a vision last night,” she said as she edged toward the door.
“Did you?” Tara was bent over her child as the babe pulled at her nipple and gurgled contentedly.
