by Lisa Jackson
“No — oh, please.”
Ware lunged forward, but Clare held on to his arm, restraining him. “Nay,” she whispered, before turning her swollen face to Strahan. “You can’t pledge women’s lives to your men—”
“I can and I have. Glyn is spoken for, and so, dear cousin, are you.”
Ware leapt forward again, but Joseph gave him a swift, hard kick to the groin that sent him sprawling on the floor. Clutching his crotch and fighting back tears, he stared up at Strahan with hatred. “You lying black-hearted bastard. I’ll rip your throat out!” Fighting the pain, he found his footing and charged again, only to be shoved backward by Joseph. He hit the floor with a thud, his head landing in the rushes, his pride in tatters as he still held his groin.
“Stop it, Ware. It’s no use,” Clare ordered, but her eyes were trained on Strahan. “I’ll not lie with any man unless he’s of my own choosing. I’ll die first.”
“I don’t think so,” Strahan said, and Joseph, his attention torn between Ware and Glyn, grunted.
“You’ve got your woman,” Strahan reminded the lusty soldier. “Be satisfied.”
Joseph frowned. “But, sire—”
Ware cringed at the term.
“I said, be satisfied. As for you” —Strahan pierced Ware with his evil glare— “I’ve left instructions that if you cause any trouble, you’re not to be killed, but you will be chained and forced to watch as your sister and Glyn are raped and beaten. Now, you can save them a lot of trouble and pain by setting an example and doing as you’re told. If you do not, Joseph here will carry out my orders.”
From the corner of his eye Ware saw his sister step forward, tilting her face upward to meet her cousin’s black glare. “God will punish you without end, Strahan.”
“I think not. You see, even Friar Francis, after searching his soul, has seen the light and accepted me as the new baron of Abergwynn. He will absolve me of all my sins, cousin, so don’t worry about my soul.”
Clare spat on the man who was her cousin. Ware scrambled to his feet, determined to pummel Strahan should he attempt to hit Clare again, but this time Strahan restrained himself. “You’ll regret that, Clare. I’ll see to it personally.” He turned and strode to the door. Joseph sent Glyn one final lustful glance and followed the new baron of Abergwynn from the chamber. The door swung shut with a thud that echoed through the stone halls and seemed to mock Garrick, wherever he was.
The sun was high and pale. Shafts of light filtered through a thin layer of clouds and thick spring leaves as Garrick’s tired party followed yet another road. This path was overgrown, little more than a deer trail, which was no longer used, as a larger, more traveled road lay only half a mile east. The horses plodded through the undergrowth, and insects, excited by the sunlight, droned and flitted in the air.
Morgana was cold. Deep inside, she felt the wintry hand of death wrap itself around her heart. Hunter had ridden ahead to scout the area and to slice through the vines and brambles that blocked the road. Garrick rode at the head of the column, leading the rest of the weary band. Morgana, astride Luck, was wedged in the middle between Sir Giles and Sir John.
As the company made its way deeper into the copse of saplings and gnarled oaks, the sunlight became dappled, mere patches of light that pooled on the ground. Morgana felt as if a sliver of ice had slipped down her spine. Gooseflesh rose on her skin, and she wondered if the devil himself resided in these woods.
“You’re being silly,” she told herself, but even smooth-tempered Luck was nervous. His ears flicked forward and back, and his steps sometimes minced, as if he were afraid of laying a hoof down too long for fear some snarling beast would charge out the dark shrubbery, claws and fangs extended.
Some of the men felt it, too, the change in the air. They looked anxiously over their shoulders. From the corner of her eye, Morgana saw Sir Adam make a hasty sign of the cross when he thought no one was looking. Others kept their free hand on the hilt of their swords, ready to slay whatever beast or man came rushing through the brush.
She heard a snap. Luck trembled. Pulling back on the reins, Morgana eyed the dark undergrowth. Something was wrong here. Very wrong.
“Ho!” Hunter called, his voice ringing through the woods and startling birds and rodents. Pheasants and quail were flushed out of their hiding spots in an eruption of feathers and a fluttering of wings that caused even the calm war-horses to dance and neigh. “Lord Garrick, over here!”
Garrick spurred his horse forward, and the rest of the knights followed. They joined Hunter in a clearing that had been trampled by several horses. A fire pit was filled with coals, now cold, and yet Morgana sensed that people had been here not long since.
Upon entering the clearing, Morgana felt death, and her throat grew dry. As the men studied the broken undergrowth, she dismounted and followed a narrow path to a brook slicing through the wet ground. Heart in her throat, she knelt at the water’s edge and splashed a few drops on her face. She reached into the brook again, and her fingers touched a fragment of cloth. Her breath stilled in her lungs as she looked into the shadows and saw a scrap of gold shimmering just below the surface. Just like her vision! “Holy Father,” she whispered, trying to stay calm.
The fabric was caught on a sharp root that extended into the stream. She reached into the frigid water and retrieved the scrap of silk.
“It’s Jocelyn’s.” Garrick’s cold voice startled her.
She jumped, startled. Looking up, she noticed fury mingling with fear in Garrick’s eyes. He took the wet fabric from her hands and swore under his breath. “This is what you saw in your dreams, isn’t it?” he asked, dangling the dripping silk in front of her nose.
“Aye.” A feeling of impending doom settled over her shoulders.
“There was more to your vision and you chose to keep it secret. Now, tell me,” he demanded, his eyes narrowing as he grabbed her upper arms and drew her to her feet. The rage in his soul was mirrored in his eyes.
He clutched the scrap of silk in a death grip, as if in so doing he could conjure up his son. “This” —he held up he soiled fabric in his hands— “was first Clare’s. It is from a belt that Clare gave to Jocelyn because the girl fancied it. Clare had a fondness in her heart because Jocelyn was so good with Logan.” Garrick’s voice nearly broke and his anger disappeared as he thought of his son. He twisted the wet rag in his hands, and water dripped through his fingers. “What does this mean, witch?” he asked, his face taut with torment.
“I don’t know.”
“But you saw the vision. Can you not interpret it?”
She averted her eyes, wishing she could hold her tongue, yet knowing he deserved the truth. “ I saw this and more — the sword and triangle of death as I told you before.”
“For Logan?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I know no more than you.”
He gripped her so hard she thought she might faint. “Tell me, woman! I need the truth.”
Her heart ached that he would think so little of her. Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she said evenly, “I would tell you all, Garrick, if I knew more. I swear it. I would never, never trifle with a child’s life. As soon as I learn more of Logan, I’ll tell you.”
His eyes searched her face, as if expecting deception to show in the curve of her chin or the tilt of her head or within her steady gaze. “I swear to you, Morgana, by all the saints and God himself, if you do not tell me everything—”
“Lord Garrick! Over here!” Randolph called through the brush.
Garrick released her. Quickly he followed the sound of Randolph’s voice, moving upstream along the bank, holding back the branches for Morgana until they saw a small group of Garrick’s men clustered near the creek.
“What is it? Why are you all…” His voice drifted off as he looked at the stream. The blood drained from his face. Morgana followed his gaze and suppressed the urge to scream, for there, face down in the water, lay th
e bloated body of a woman. Her blond hair billowed around her, and her tunic, too, swayed with the current, though the body didn’t move; it had been wedged between the tangled roots of a willow tree.
“M’lord, I’m sorry,” Hunter said, but Garrick’s jaw tightened and he motioned to one of his men.
“Get her out of there.”
Randolph, his bony face twisted in disgust, dragged the woman from the stream and turned her face up.
Garrick grew rigid, and the men murmured sounds of dismay. Fulton, usually a clown, dropped to the ground and, kneeling, offered a prayer over the blond woman’s body.
“It’s Jocelyn?” Morgana guessed, and Garrick, grim-faced, nodded stiffly.
All the hope soaring in Garrick’s chest was suddenly hurled back to earth and dashed against cold, hard stones. He examined Jocelyn, and a terrible anguish filled him as he noticed the black-and-blue wounds on her back and legs and the scratches on her face. Though the water had washed her wounds, he guessed she’d been raped and beaten before she drowned — whether by her own hand or that of another, he could only speculate.
But there was no sign of Logan. Garrick’s heart was as black as the clouds that gathered steadily overhead. Where was his child? Was he safe? And who was the bastard who had done this treachery? He vowed to avenge Jocelyn’s murder — for what was done to her had either killed her or driven her to take her own life — and when he caught the beasts, he’d see to it that they suffered as she had. A quick death would be much too easy.
He ordered his men to bury Jocelyn, and then, leaving Morgana and two knights to make camp, he and a small band rode in ever-widening circles around the campground, looking for any sign of Logan or his captors.
Garrick rode alone. Astride his war-horse he mourned the woman who had raised his son as if Logan were her very own. He remembered Jocelyn’s easy laughter, her lighthearted spirit, the joy she received when Logan ran to her and buried his head in her skirts.
A pain, deep and raw, tormented his soul. His body ached from the inside out, and his mind was vivid with horrible scenes of the torture of the woman. And what of Logan? What horrible fate did the boy face? With a blinding pain he realized that he was but a man, a mortal, and his son’s safety was not in his hands. “Please, Lord, keep him safe,” he said over and over, chanting the words as a litany and knowing that only the power of God could protect his boy.
As the men continued their search, Garrick reined in his horse by a giant oak tree. He climbed from the saddle and bowed his head. Laying his sword on the ground in front of him, he knelt, and thus, unarmed and repentant, he whispered, “I’ve been prideful and stubborn, Lord, refusing to accept you and your mercy. Please be with Logan. I offer you my kingdom, my soul, and my life for the sake of my son. Please, God, hear my prayer. If anyone should suffer, it is I, not the boy. He is but a child.” Garrick felt the unfamiliar sting of tears, hot against the back of his eyes, thick in his throat. He sucked in a ragged breath and refused to cry, for there was still a godless streak of pride within him that would not allow him, even alone in the presence of the Almighty, to weep. “Please take Jocelyn’s soul and protect my boy.”
With that singular prayer, he stood, stared up at the darkening heavens, and finally mounted his steed. Jaw clamped tight, he jerked on the reins and urged his horse forward.
He searched until dusk and finally returned to camp. Morgana was by the fire, her face illuminated by the golden flames, and for the first time that day, he felt a whisper of joy. The woman was beautiful and headstrong and often at odds with him, but he was beginning to love her, and right now, as desperately as he needed God’s forgiveness, he needed her love. The comfort of her body would ease his, and though he knew it was a sin and that God was watching he couldn’t help but think of the wonder of lying with her, of melding his hard body to hers, of claiming her with a primitive force that would bind them forever.
He smiled bitterly as he handed the reins to Sir Randolph and gratefully took a cup of mead. It seemed that no matter how good his intentions, he was destined to sin.
Chapter Nineteen
“You’ll do us no good by starving yourself,” Clare observed as she paced from the window. Her back was rigid, her face more lined than Ware remembered. Still, he shoved away the trencher in front of him. His face was beginning to heal, and his pain had lessened to a dull ache that pounded through his skull.
The chamber was dark, lit only by a few sconces and the fire glowing in the hearth. Ware thought of grabbing some of the burning embers and hurling them at his captors when they came close, but each time they had entered the locked chamber, the soldiers had been careful. They had grabbed Glyn and held a dagger to her throat. She’d screamed, but hadn’t struggled, though she nearly fainted each time. No, Ware could not risk her life.
“I can’t eat,” he told his sister when she pointed at his trencher of untouched stew.
“You have no choice.”
But Ware wasn’t to be won over. Strahan had left two days before, and nothing had changed. There had been no chance of escape. The door was continually barred, except when a servant or guard brought in water, food, or slop pails.
Everyone in the room was listless. Glyn, had given up on her prayers and often sat weeping in the corner. Cadell, his bravado ebbing with each day, was picking through the rushes, searching for mice, and Clare, though she walked as if an iron spike had been driven up her spine, was losing her spirit as well. Her words sounded hollow, and Ware knew that all of the prisoners were counting on him to set them free.
But he was failing. The hours passed and he had no plan of escape, no way to free them. He tried to pretend that he was Garrick, for his older brother, he knew, would never be kept hostage.
The door opened, and Springan slipped through with a pitcher of water. She moved slowly, her gaze lowered, her gait unsteady.
“Hurry, wench! I’ve not got all day, and I have other duties I wish you to perform. Duties much more pleasing.” From the open doorway, Joseph’s voice boomed through the room before he slammed the door and threw down the bar. Springan visibly shuddered.
Ware felt sick. So Springan had become Joseph’s woman. From the looks of her, she was hurting. He watched as she poured water into the cups, and as she turned toward him he saw it — the bruise discoloring her face. Though she’d tried to cover the purple-tinged skin with her hair, the welt was visible, and Ware’s guts tightened at the thought of her pain.
“Springan, wait!” he said when she started for the door.
“I’m wanted, m’lord.”
Ware was on his feet and crossed the room quickly. “Stand still.” He brushed back her hair. She winced at his touch, and her face suffused with color. “Joseph did this to you.”
She wouldn’t look at him, dared not answer.
Ware felt a wave of self-loathing. Not only had he failed his brother, but he’d failed the servants as well. He touched her lightly on the chin, forcing her to lift her gaze up to his. “Springan, I’m sorry—”
“Wench!” Joseph called through the closed door.
“I must leave.” Panic rose in Springan’s eyes. “He doesn’t like it if—”
The door flew open to bang against the wall. Sir Joseph weaved into the chamber. He smelled of sour mead, and his face was flushed. The leather thong holding his breeches together was undone, and his manhood bulged against the partially opened fabric. “There you are,” he snarled when his gaze landed on the servant girl. “Not giving it to Sir Ware, are ye? Y’re my woman now!”
“Leave her be!” Ware ordered and felt all his youth and impotence wash over him in a pitiful tide.
“Shut yer mouth. Y’re not lord of the castle anymore,” Joseph pointed out. “Not that you were before. Git over here,” he yelled at Springan.
Eyes rounded with fear, Springan approached him and he laughed. “Not so saucy, are ye, wench? Not since ye’ve been warming my bed. I know how to handle a wo
man.” His arm snaked out, and he grabbed Springan’s hand. She dropped her tray, and all the cups clattered to the floor as he pulled her roughly to him. “Look at the mess you made, you stupid woman.” He shoved her hard to the floor. “Pick it up! But mind ye kneel as you do it.”
Springan’s jaw tightened, but she did as she was bid, and Ware watched in horror as Joseph stood behind her, his legs spread, his hands planted on his hips, his gaze on her rounded rump.
“That’s a girl,” he cooed, wiping the back of his hand over his lips. His eyes slitted into lusty stones, and drops of sweat beaded his eyebrows. His thin tongue snaked around his bearded lips. “Just the way I like to see you — on all fours with your arse in the air.”
“That’s enough!” Furious, Ware kicked a burning log from the fire. It rolled toward Joseph, and the big guard’s eyes left Ware for an instant. Without thinking, Ware sprang forward, catching Joseph off guard. His fingers slid around the bigger man’s throat, and he clutched with all his might. With a scream of rage, Joseph nearly lost his balance and clawed frantically at the hands closing around his massive neck.
But Ware was a man possessed, and his fingers were like the springs on a trap, tightening, tightening, threatening to cut off the flow of air to Joseph’s lungs as the bigger man bellowed and stumbled, trying to dislodge his attacker. In desperation, he groped for his sword, but Springan was quick and she leapt upon Joseph, biting his hand before he could unsheathe his weapon.
Footsteps pounded in the hallway and five men, guards posted by Strahan, rushed into the room. “Halt,” the largest man commanded.
“You halt,” Ware ordered, still hanging on to Joseph like a hungry dog on a bone. “I’m still lord of this castle.”
The soldiers hesitated, and that was all the time Clare needed. She stumbled over Springan, yanked Joseph’s sword from his scabbard, and swung it wildly. “Stop, all of you!” she commanded.
Cadell kicked the burning log at the soldiers. Embers exploded, raining fire and threatening to ignite the tapestries and rushes.
