“I don’t think it’s wise to go down to the common room by yourself.”
“Would you like to hold my hand while I go to the privy?” she quipped. “Or maybe you can spoon-feed me my meals since I’m clearly not capable of doing anything by myself.”
After a long moment, Slane answered, “At least put on the cloak I bought.”
She grabbed the cloak he tossed to her, then headed out of the room. She paused in the hallway to pull on her boots and don the cloak before descending to the common room. She ordered an ale from the weary innkeeper and took a seat in the back of the room, in the shadows.
Staring into her ale, Taylor pondered the feelings that had coursed through her when Slane had touched her. She had felt warm and... loved. Love? Ha, she scoffed at herself. She knew there was no such thing as love. What she and Slane could share would only be lust. She wondered if what she was feeling was the same feeling that had gotten her mother killed.
Her mother. Even now, eight years later, the memory was still very painful. Taylor swiped at the tears in her eyes and raised the mug to her lips. Maybe it was so painful for her because she never understood how her father could have killed her mother. Or what kind of love would cause her mother to have so much faith in a man who never showed up to rescue her. It couldn’t have been love. Her father couldn’t have loved her mother. You didn’t burn someone you loved.
There was no such thing as true love. Her father had told her that, and now she believed it with all her heart. Love was an illusion -- something people whispered into their partner’s ear but never truly felt. What she felt for Slane was only lust.
Suddenly, the door burst open and she glanced up to see six black-clad men entering the inn! Her heart froze. One of the men pointed to the rear of the inn and then to the stairway. Three men moved to the rear of the inn and two hurried to the stairs.
Taylor eased the edge of the hood forward, concealing her face deeper within the shadows of the cloak. She waited until the men passed her; then she stood and moved for the stairs. She walked slowly, carefully measuring each step, hoping the leader wouldn’t see her, holding her breath in anticipation of discovery. Above her, she heard the soldiers methodically kicking in each door, searching.
She pulled the cowl closer around her face as she began her slow climb up the stairs. One of the guards appeared at the top of the stairs and raced down them toward her. Taylor hesitated as he approached, but continued her ascent. He sped past her, knocking against her shoulder. She stopped, gritting her teeth as he continued by her. She made it to the second floor and saw two soldiers kicking open a door three doors down from her room. She hurried to her own door and pushed it open, entering unseen. She had no sooner shut the door when a hand wrapped around her waist, dragging her against a rock-hard chest, and another hand pressed a dagger to her throat.
She held her breath for a long moment before she heard an exasperated exhalation. “Taylor?” the harsh whisper said in her ear.
“We can’t stay here, Slane,” she murmured. “Corydon’s men are searching the inn.”
Slane released her. “How many?”
“Six. Probably more.” The sound of wood splintering nearby made her jump. Her heart beat frantically in her chest.
Slane grabbed her hand, paused to seize a sack on the table, and moved to the window. He shoved open the shutters and urged her out with a nod of his head.
Taylor climbed onto the windowsill and looked down. The ground was only about fifteen feet below. Slane grabbed her arm and eased her out, dangling her down the wall. When she was down as far as he could reach, Slane released her. Taylor landed in a crouch and quickly rose to her feet, moving to press her back against the wall of the inn. On the far horizon, the sun was barely beginning to appear; the world was still cloaked with night’s darkness. She hid in the gloom, searching the murky street for any sign of Corydon’s men.
Slane dropped silently to the ground beside her, making as much noise as a ghost would have.
They exchanged a glance and Slane started to move toward the road that led away from the town.
“What about our horses?” Taylor asked in a hushed whisper.
“They’re in the stables around the front of the inn. We can’t risk it.”
Just then, a whinny reached Taylor’s ears, and she glanced over her shoulder to see several horses tied to some trees. She slowed her pace for a moment, straining to see any guards. Slane joined her, whispering, “What is it?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” she replied and led the way toward the horses.
The horses skittered nervously as she approached them, but she quieted them with soft words. She glanced over her shoulder at Slane, who was standing guard nearby. He signaled her to hurry with a quick flick of his wrist.
Taylor grabbed the bridle of the closest horse and the one beside it. She led them toward the gate with a triumphant look.
“You do this often?” Slane wondered as he took one of the horses and mounted.
Taylor pulled herself onto the other horse and cast an ingratiating smile at him. “Only from people I don’t like.” She jerked her head at the brand on the horses’ flanks. Corydon’s mark. Then she kicked her horse, urging it down the road.
With a satisfied grin, Slane kicked his own steed, following the impulsive little imp.
***
The incessant, persistent misting of drizzle covered Slane with a fine layer of moisture. The rain had started just as they sighted the small city of Bristol.
Slane hunched his shoulders, his clothing and hair already soaked. He cast a glance at Taylor. She looked like a drowned rat but somehow she was still lovely. She even managed a crooked smile. Slane couldn’t help but return it. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss once since it happened. Slane refused to even think about it... except in the darkness of every night before he fell asleep.
And now Slane found that he couldn’t take his gaze from Taylor. She was proud and courageous and... God’s blood, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Slane tore his gaze from her.
She was also out of reach. And she always would be.
As they approached Bristol, a man dressed in a dark tunic and brown breeches blocked the road, waving his arms at them. Slane’s eyes darted around the road for any sign of Corydon’s men, but the flat lands held no hiding places. Frowning, Slane brought his horse to a halt.
“No sick people allowed in the city,” the man announced, moving up beside Taylor’s horse. He walked around both of them, studying them intently, taking particular notice of any exposed skin. “Are you ill?” he questioned.
Slane shook his head and exchanged a befuddled glance with Taylor.
“Then God be with you if you enter this town,” the man murmured, stepping aside to allow them to continue their journey.
A feeling of dread snaked up Slane’s spine.
Taylor’s horse danced nervously in a circle before she finally brought it up next to Slane’s mount. “Let’s not go,” she said. “We can go around.”
“It will take days to go around,” Slane replied. “There’s a river blocking the route to the west and a thick forest to the east. Let’s see what’s causing all the commotion first. If it looks bad, we can go around.”
As they neared the buildings on the outskirts of the town, a foul smell rose to assault their senses. It was a rotted smell. Pungent and noxious.
The smell of death.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As they entered Bristol, a terrible silence greeted them -- an odd silence that made Slane cock his head this way and that as he rode through the heart of town, listening intently for any familiar sound, any sound at all. His gaze searched the storefronts, the narrow alleys, the small homes built tightly together. But the town was empty and still, except for their horses’ hoofbeats echoing in the road. In the distance, a castle loomed in the ominous quiet.
Then, in the street ahead of them, Slane spotted a man sprawled facedown. A rat scurri
ed past, stopping to sniff at the prone figure; then it moved on.
Taylor dismounted. For a long moment, she simply stared down at the corpse.
Slane positioned his horse close by, hovering over her in case this was some sort of trap.
With the tip of her boot, Taylor kicked the man over. His eyes were wide open, staring lifelessly into the sky.
Suddenly, Taylor lurched away, almost leaping in her haste to distance herself from the body.
“What is it?” Slane demanded.
“His neck. Look at his neck.”
Slane’s gaze shifted to the dead man’s neck. The glands in his neck were horribly swollen, the skin black and discolored.
“The plague,” Taylor hissed, wiping her hands on her tunic, digging the tip of her boot into the dirt to clean it. She looked at Slane, and he could see there was something close to panic in her eyes.
Suddenly, two dozen men, naked from the waist up, came marching down the street, shouting loudly at the sky above, chanting prayers to God. Each of the men held a cord or a rope of some sort. And they were whipping themselves with the frayed ends, drawing blood from the welts that already covered most of their exposed flesh. Slane slid his hand slowly over the hilt of his sword but left the weapon sheathed; he had never seen anything like this before and he didn’t know what these men would do if he drew it.
Taylor mounted her horse. “Let’s go back, Slane,” she pleaded. “Let’s go around the town to get to the castle. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”
Slane didn’t answer. What were these men trying to accomplish? Would they attack the castle trying to find some sanctuary from all this madness? Slane stiffened, his gaze swiveling to the castle in the distance. Suddenly, he drove his boots into the horse’s side, spurring the beast on at a frantic gallop, racing straight into the heart of town.
“Slane!” Taylor shouted. She followed him, madly dashing through the town.
Slane tried to ignore the growing number of dead bodies at the sides of the road as he drew closer and closer to the castle. He heard Taylor call, but he paid her no heed. He spurred the horse on, snapping the reins to get the beast to move even faster. Faster. He had to reach the castle!
Suddenly, a woman stumbled into the road, her clothing torn, some of the exposed flesh on her body covered with black patches, her armpits swollen to the size of overripe melons. Slane’s horse whinnied sharply and reared back. He felt himself falling out of the saddle. He grabbed for something to cling to, anything, but there was nothing there. He floated in the air for a terrifying moment; then his back slammed into the dirt road, knocking the breath from his lungs.
“Slane!” Taylor was off her horse and at his side in an instant. “Are you all right?” she asked. She grabbed his arm, helping him to his feet.
“I have to get to the castle,” he panted.
“Are you mad? Let’s get out of here!”
“No,” Slane gasped.
“Why?” Taylor asked.
Slane watched the dying woman stumble across the road and disappear into the shadows of a nearby shop. “I have to see Elizabeth,” Slane replied.
“Elizabeth?” Taylor echoed, stunned.
Slane climbed back into the saddle and slid his boots into the stirrups. He spurred the horse on toward the castle, leaving Taylor standing forlornly in the middle of the road.
***
Taylor chased after Slane all the way to the castle. She expected him to stop there, but he didn’t. The drawbridge lowered at Slane’s approach and the guards called out a muffled greeting. Taylor glanced up at the guard towers as she passed them, and a strange feeling of doom settled in the pit of her stomach as she entered the outer ward. The guards seemed to know Slane on sight. What was this place? And who was this Elizabeth who elicited such foolhardiness in Slane?
She caught sight of Slane dashing through the open inner ward gates and raced after him. She entered the inner ward just in time to see him run into the keep. Prickling goose bumps peppered her arms. She felt like an intruder in this strange, quiet castle, but she continued to follow Slane inside. He ran down a corridor and then up a set of spiraling stairs.
Taylor took the stairs two at a time as they rose into the unknown, trying to keep up with Slane.
He was far ahead of her, but as she reached the top of the stairs she saw him enter one of the rooms down the hallway. She raced to the room in pursuit, only to come to an abrupt halt at what she saw inside. Slane was embracing the woman who lay in the bed, rocking her slightly, kissing her lips gently, murmuring her name over and over. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Elizabeth.”
Taylor’s throat closed tightly and she had to choke down a swallow. Her eyes darkened with pain before she turned and left the room.
Taylor walked down the hall, keeping her back straight even though she felt like collapsing into sobs. She was not a weak person. She would never give in to those feelings.
Maybe Elizabeth was a sister, a cousin, some sort of relative. But Taylor knew she wasn’t.
She moved through the unfamiliar castle like a specter. The image of Slane holding that woman, that Elizabeth, haunted her every step. She felt lost, abandoned.
Finally, she wandered into the Great Hall. It was empty and its vastness only seemed to enhance the loneliness she felt. She moved as far away from the doors as possible, searching for a place that would move her away from him, a place that would take her away from the confused and hurt feelings that were swirling through her. She turned to look at the large double doors she had just entered, somehow thinking Slane would materialize there and explain what was happening. But the doorway remained empty.
Taylor bumped into the wall and she came to an abrupt halt. What was she doing? She had never needed anyone. And she didn’t need Slane. But what was she to do now? She had no coin. She had no food. She realized with a start that she had put her complete trust in Slane.
Desolation swept through her, and she slid down the cold stone wall and buried her head between her arms. She had never felt so lost.
Then she heard footsteps. She lifted her head so she could peer over her arms, half expecting to see Slane moving toward her. Disappointment stung her heart as she watched from beneath a wooden table as a peasant’s woolen skirt swished toward her from a rear door. The table hid the rest of the woman from her view.
Behind the first woman trailed another woman, her green woolen skirt a bit shorter than the other’s. “When did he return? Lord Slane was supposed ta be out lookin’ for that girl,” one of the women said.
Taylor stiffened, holding her breath.
“Just minutes ago,” an older voice answered. “And thank the Lord, he come none too soon.”
“Lady Elizabeth was cryin’ out for him just last night. I’m prayin’ she lives.”
Taylor’s heart jumped. Did the woman just say Elizabeth was crying out for Slane?
“She’ll be fine now that lord Slane is here,” the older voice reassured. “He’ll take care of her -- you’ll see. Put this cup there.”
“But if it’s the plague –”
“Hold your tongue, girl,” the older woman snapped. “I’ll not have any talk like that. Lady Elizabeth don’t have the plague. Besides, things will be better now, I’m sure. Lord Slane will want to be getting’ on with their plans.”
“But no one will come near this cursed town.”
“I don’t think they’ll be worrying about wedding guests. After all, they’ve waited a year now!”
Wedding? Taylor’s mind refused to acknowledge the word, refused to acknowledge what the voices were saying.
“I guess you’re right. If lady Elizabeth survives...”
“Of course she will. How many times do I have to tell you...”
Taylor watched the women move out of the Great Hall. She fought back the urge to race after them and shake them and demand an explanation. Instead, she sat stock-still for a long moment, unable to move, not wanting to think. But the thoughts came anyway
.
Wedding. There was to be a wedding.
Taylor rose on shaking legs. If she concentrated on taking one step at a time, the realization wouldn’t come. She wouldn’t have to think about it. About how Slane had kept the truth from her.
That Elizabeth was his betrothed!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Taylor walked the castle, desperately trying to clear her mind. But the image that kept resurfacing was Slane embracing and kissing his betrothed. She felt a wretchedness of mind she’d never known before. Even the thought of downing a few quick ales left a sour taste in her mouth. It’s my own fault, she thought over and over. I let him get close to me. And now she was stuck in a town ravaged by this dread disease with no coin, no food, and no friends.
She fought back the sudden tears that came to her eyes, angry with herself for letting a noble come very close to destroying her. She had to get away from him before he tricked her again with his damned charm, his warm words and gentle looks.
Just like the faceless, formless knight of her nightmares had destroyed her mother.
She quickly pushed the thought away and concentrated on trying to figure out a way to leave. She turned a corner of the hallway and came upon a group of four men drinking ale and playing dice.
A grin lit her face as she watched the dice tumble end over end on the stone floor.
***
An hour quickly passed, then another. Soon Taylor had a good pile of coin before her and an ale in her hand that didn’t taste sour at all. She snatched up the dice and shook the small cubes vigorously in her hand, then flung them to the ground.
There was a moment of silence as the dice spun; then came a roar of disbelief that brought a warm smile to Taylor’s face. She bent to collect the coin from the floor and add it to her pile.
“You’re luckier than a wart on the king’s hand!” one of the men across from her hollered.
A Knight of Honor Page 13
