Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  Cain vaulted to his feet. “What is it, Thomas?”

  “Woodford. He attacked Hazelstone. We just received word from Ranaulf’s boy.”

  The MacKeir thunked down his cup and rose quickly.

  “Sneaky bastard,” Gifford cursed.

  “How many of his men this time?”

  Thomas shrugged. “At least a score.”

  “Gather a group often men. We ride at once.”

  The captain nodded and rushed out of the hall.

  The MacKeir moved beside him, his face set. “My men and I will go with you.”

  “’Tis not your battle.”

  “When some filthy whoreson attacks an innocent village, I am pleased to make it my battle.”

  “Very well.” Cain found himself looking forward to hunting down Harry Woodford. It was time to put an end to this. “Nyle,” he shouted.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “See that warm clothes and food are taken to Hazelstone.”

  Amice laid a hand on his arm. She was shaking. Cain paused. Her face was ashen but resolute. “Cain, Laila and I are talented healers. Let us go to the village.”

  “’Tis too dangerous.”

  “I will send a score of my men to guard them,” The MacKeir injected.

  Cain’s gaze flicked to The MacKeir then back to Amice. It was obvious she wished to help. He nodded. “Be careful. Woodford has been a thorn in my side for years, though he has not attacked so close to Falcon’s Craig before.”

  “Who is he?”

  Before Cain could answer, Gifford spat, “The knave Luce wanted to marry.”

  “Aye,” Piers added. “He blames Cain for her death.”

  Amice’s gaze turned confused and she tilted her head. “Why? How did she die?”

  Cain made his expression go blank. “There is no time to explain.”

  Within the hour, the group thundered out the gatehouse toward Hazelstone.

  They made it to Hazelstone in less than a day. Amice drew in a sharp breath at the sight, reminded of the massacre she had seen years ago. An entire village butchered for no reason but that she refused to marry the Earl of Atteby, an old man with claw-like hands and powerful allies. Her father had been almost glad of it, justifying his killing rampage as retaliation.

  She shoved back the memory into the buried place she kept all memories of her sire.

  Hazelstone was small, with no more than a tiny church and twenty or so wattle and daub houses clustered together. Wide expanses of open fields surrounded the village, spotted here and there with thatched huts, and criss-crossed with low, loose-laid stone walls.

  In the center of the village the people had gathered to tend the injured, next to what appeared to be the only intact house standing. As they rode in, Amice smelled the acrid scent of burnt wood and saw tendrils of smoke still rising from burned dwellings. Outside the village, butchered sheep littered a blood-soaked field next to bodies of men, women, and children.

  Cain vaulted from his horse. “Father Osbert, what happened here?”

  Before the priest could answer, a man lying on the ground next to him shot Cain an angry stare. “Like demons they were. Clad in black. They rode out of nowhere and started killing.”

  Amice swallowed back the urge to retch.

  “It was Woodford?” Cain asked.

  “Aye. Heard one of the men say his name.”

  Cain pointed to Amice. “Lady Amice and her companion are healers. And my seneschal shall be here soon with food and clothing.”

  “Thank you, my lord. We are hard pressed to do much for the wounded.”

  “Is there adequate shelter?”

  The priest shrugged helplessly. “Most of the houses are damaged, my lord. We have not been able to go in to discover whether they remain habitable.”

  “Everyone is welcome to take shelter at Falcon’s Craig.”

  The priest nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Which way did they ride?” The MacKeir interrupted.

  Another man standing on the edge of the group lifted an arm and pointed. “North, toward the hills, my lord.”

  Cain turned to look at Amice, his gaze hard. “See to the villagers then get back to Falcon’s Craig.”

  Amice nodded and watched as he, Lugh, and a band of ten men galloped away.

  Amice was in the process of bandaging a young woman’s burned arm when she heard the ominous sound of metal meeting metal. She jumped up and took a step back, her hand to her mouth.

  Laila pulled at her sleeve. “Run, Amice!”

  She glanced back to the battle, stunned at the sight of so many men clad in black surcoats cutting down her Highland guard one by one. Shouts rent the air and the thwack of metal against shield was deafening.

  “Now, Amice,” Laila hissed. She dragged Amice behind a hut and pointed across a field toward a copse of trees.

  “Come with me.”

  “Nay. I will slow you down. Go!”

  Amice picked up her skirts and ran, her heart hitching in her chest with terror.

  She was nearly to the trees, her breath rasping, her chest burning, when her feet left the ground. In one moment, she was running for her life and in the next she was face down over the back of a horse, the ground rushing by with sickening speed. Amice tried to lever herself up but a meaty hand shoved her down.

  “Be still,” a low voice growled.

  Amice began to pray as the heavy sound of many horses rang in her ears. First she prayed to Brigit, then to Danu. During a prayer to Eostre her stomach rolled and she threw up, heaving violently onto the grass below.

  Her captor never acknowledged any of it.

  Finally, mercifully, the mount slowed and Amice realized they had entered a forest. An eerie quiet settled over the troop as they wound their way through the trees, the leafy groundcover muffling the hoofbeats.

  When Amice could catch her breath, she demanded, “Who are you?”

  “The last man you shall ever see.”

  Biting back her fear, Amice said, “As I have not seen you, I must doubt your words.”

  To her surprise, her captor laughed in response, and hauled her up to a sitting position facing him

  Dread snaked down her spine as she stared into obsidian eyes. A crude, dull helmet shielded the man’s face and hair. The rest of him was cloaked in black and mail.

  “What do you see, Lady Amice?”

  Amice drew in a harsh breath. “A coward.”

  His eyes flashed like burning embers in a dead fire. “I advise you to watch your tongue. The method of your death is still undecided.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Henry Woodford.”

  “The man Cain’s wife favored.”

  “Aye. Favored.” His lips parted in a grim smile. “Until that whoreson, Hawksdown, destroyed her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He killed her. He was insane with jealousy. And he killed my beloved Luce.”

  Amice’s skin turned cold. No, he must be lying. Cain would not do such a thing. “I do not believe you.”

  Woodford shrugged. “I do not expect you to. I know you favor Hawksdown. But the tale is true.”

  “Why have you taken me? I have naught to do with your quarrel.”

  As he guided the horse under a grey stone gatehouse, Woodford’s eyes turned cold. “In that you are wrong.” He cantered into a bailey and shoved Amice off the horse onto the dirt. “Rafe?”

  “Aye, my lord,” a male voice answered.

  Amice slowly moved to a sitting position and wiped dust from her face. The voice belonged to a huge, black-haired man. Above a heavy beard dissected by a ridged scar, thin lips twisted in a grim smile.

  “Take Lady Amice to the chamber I have had prepared for her.” Woodford gazed down at her, and Amice lifted her chin. “Do not worry, Spirit Goddess. Your stay here shall be brief.” He turned away, laughing.

  The man called Rafe plucked Amice up as if she weighed no more than a leaf, slung her over his sho
ulders and entered the castle.

  Chapter 9

  “There is something wrong here,” Cain said to his captain. “The tracks head north but Woodford’s castle lies to the west.” He drew his mount to a halt and dropped to the ground.

  The MacKeir shouted, “Why do you stop, Hawksdown?”

  “I am not sure. This does not feel right.”

  With a grant, The MacKeir leapt off his horse and approached him. “Why?”

  “’Tis the wrong direction.”

  “Mayhap the man goes to another manor. Or to an ally’s.”

  “Perhaps, but—”

  “My lord!” Arider pounded into the center of the group.

  As Cain turned, his feeling that something was awry solidified into conviction. The small figure jumped down and ran up to him.

  Cain recognized one of the villagers from Hazelstone, and he braced himself for the news.

  “My lord, they took the Lady Amice!”

  The MacKeir let out a roar.

  “When?” Cain bit out.

  “Yesterday,” the man said on a breath. “’Twasn’t nothin’ we could do.”

  “My men?” The MacKeir asked.

  The villager closed his eyes and crossed himself. “All killed, my lord. We been doin’ nothin’ but preparing bodies for burial.”

  “It was the same men?”

  “Aye, not as many, but the same.” The man spit in the grass. “Like demons.”

  “He must have taken her to Hexham,” Cain said to The MacKeir. “’Tis the only place he would feel safe.”

  “Then to Hexham we go.”

  Within a few moments, they thundered west. Fear choked Cain’s heart, and he silently prayed to God over and over. He had seen too many examples of Woodford’s brutal treatment. Dear God, let Woodford be using Amice only to lure me to Hexham.

  Amice woke in a cold, dark room and listened to a faint scurrying sound in the far corner. She stretched, kneaded her sore arms, and listened for any other noise. The silence was tomblike.

  Her teeth chattered despite her strongest effort to calm herself. No, Woodford had ordered the man called Rafe to put her in a chamber, not a tomb. Amice gathered a thin coverlet around her and stepped onto the floor. She inched toward a sliver of light and willed whatever was making the sounds in the corner to stay there.

  Just as she neared the light, the door opened, flooding the room with torchlight.

  “Ah, you are awake. Good.”

  Woodford. Amice glared at him and rubbed her head, wincing as her fingers grazed a lump.

  “Rafe knows not to hit any harder than necessary.” He walked into the room and lit the fire.

  As the fire took hold, Amice looked around at her surroundings. It was a poor chamber, small and dusty with neglect. Her bed was no more than a thin pallet, the single cover the one she had wrapped around her. A scarred table stood against one wall with a jug of water. The other wall had only two iron rings embedded into the stone. A length of white silk hung from one of the rings.

  “Not the comforts you are accustomed to,” Woodford said as he turned to face her.

  “Nay. Not at all.” As Amice studied him, she thought what a strange combination of beauty and wickedness he presented. He had the kind of looks that immediately made a woman think of long firelit nights of passion, his lush mouth alone evoking the image. But his eyes revealed the darkness inside the man. Flat, reptilian eyes. Amice suppressed a shiver.

  He tilted his head and gazed at her with open curiosity. “You are very different from my Luce.”

  “How?”

  “In every way, I imagine,” he said softly. “She was a small woman, yet still lush-figured. Luce was all that was bright and beautiful.”

  “Why did you not marry her?”

  His face tightened. “Her father disliked me.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a fool.” He paced the floor.

  Amice sensed he was lying. “Did you love her?”

  “Aye!” he roared. “And she loved me.” He stepped close to Amice. “Luce was the other half of my soul. She shared the same desires as I.”

  “Desires?”

  Woodford’s face drew on a faraway expression, and he gave Amice a soft smile. “Aye. Luce was willing to do anything for the sake of pleasure.” His gaze shot to the rings. “Anything. She was a goddess.”

  Amice made herself look away from the rings and what they suggested. “This has naught to do with me.”

  He just looked at her speculatively. “What do you desire, Amice?”

  She fought against a surge of horror. “To leave this place.”

  “Nay. You shall never leave.”

  Panic twisted in her stomach, but Amice made her face remain expressionless. “Cain will come for me.”

  “Oh, I hope so, my dear. I truly do. ‘Twill be all the more satisfying.”

  An aura of evil seeped from him like a stream of venom. Amice pulled the coverlet tight around her.

  Woodford chuckled. “Rafe will bring you food and drink. Be nice to him and mayhap he shall procure a thicker blanket and some extra logs for the fire.”

  “I am not cold,” Amice lied.

  “Sweet dreams, my lady,” Woodford said, then thankfully left her alone.

  Amice stood in the dim chamber staring at the door. She fought it but in the end her body started to shiver, and it seemed nothing she did could stop it. She huddled before the meager fire and stretched out her hands.

  How was she to escape this place?

  When the door opened, Amice stiffened. The man called Rafe slid in, a rawboned, young woman behind him. He held a brace of candles aloft. “Put the platter and ewer over there.”

  The servant hastened to do his bidding, then turned back and waited, eyes downcast.

  “Leave us,” Rafe said.

  Amice clutched at the edges of the coverlet and met Rafe’s gaze. He stared back at her unblinkingly, then walked outside, returning in a moment with a heavy wool blanket which he tossed toward her.

  “I… thank you.”

  He grunted. “Eat. You will need your strength.”

  “What does Woodford intend?”

  “Naught good, you can be sure of that.”

  Amice stood. “He means to kill me.”

  “Aye.”

  “I have done naught to warrant such a fate.”

  “Life is not fair, my lady.” He nodded toward the rings. “Mayhap you could persuade Woodford to change his mind.”

  Revulsion swirled in Amice’s stomach, and she was glad she had not yet eaten. “Nay.”

  Rafe shrugged. “’Tis your fate.”

  “How can you give loyalty to a man like that?”

  He cocked a brow. “Not all of us are born into wealth, my lady.”

  “You know nothing of me.”

  “I know you are noble born. It is easy for you to talk of things like loyalty.”

  “Woodford is a sick man.”

  Rafe laughed. “Aye. You do not know the half of it. Best hope you do not have the chance.” He turned to go.

  “Help me. My brother will pay you whatever Woodford offers and more.”

  “Nay.” He narrowed his gaze. “The last man to defy Woodford ended up watching his innards ooze out of his body into the dirt. I’ve no taste for that.”

  Amice swallowed. Dear Lord, how was she to get out of this mess?

  Rafe set the candleholder down. He crossed his arms. “This old tower is an odd one, my lady. Many hidden passages, secret rooms. You be careful where you step.”

  “What?”

  He left.

  What did he mean? Amice dropped the blanket and picked up the candleholder. She walked to the opposite wall and studied it. It was painted wood, the colors long faded into dirty grey.

  Slowly, Amice ran her hand over the wall, knocking against the wood and listening for a different sound. Nothing. Had Rafe been wrong? Or had she misread his meaning? With a heavy sigh, Amice continued until she
reached the corner.

  And felt something move. She pushed hard and blinked in shock when a section of the wall swung open. The candlelight revealed narrow, stone steps winding down into darkness.

  Amice ran back, wrapped the food in the blanket, took a gulp of ale, and started down the steps.

  Piers watched Laila pace back and forth across the floor in Gifford’s workroom, whispering half to herself.

  “Sit down, dear lady,” Gifford said. “All that movement is making my head ache.”

  Laila sat on a stool and stared woodenly ahead. “Amice is in terrible danger. I can feel it.”

  Gifford reached over and patted her hand. He poured some wine into a cup and pushed it into her hands. “Drink.”

  “Who is this Henry Woodford?”

  Before he smashed a chunk of pink crystal, Gifford shared a look with Piers.

  Piers rubbed his chin. “Bad bit of blood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only met the man a few times, but I have heard, well, Cain will get Amice away from him.”

  “How?”

  “He will do whatever he must. That is the kind of man he is.”

  “Why does Woodford blame the earl for the countess’s death?” Laila took a sip of wine.

  Before he answered, Piers tipped a long gulp of ale down his throat. He could still hear Luce’s screams of fury and pain before she died. “’Tis a bit of a story, my lady.”

  Laila gave him a grim smile. “I have naught else to do but worry.”

  Piers nodded. “Woodford and Luce both fostered at Wolfton Castle. Apparently, they fell in love, or at least as much as that evil bastard can possess such an emotion. Woodford had a sister, who befriended Luce and Luce spent a time at Hexham.”

  “Hexham?”

  “Woodford’s holding.”

  Gifford hit the crystal. “The old earl, Luce’s father, did not like what he heard of Woodford.”

  “What do you mean?”

  After taking a pull from his jug, Gifford’s mouth turned down. “Stories of his cruelty, depravity. That when he was in the mood, he was uncontrollable. ‘Twas rumoured he killed a servant in one of his… bouts.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Laila said, her hand going to her throat. “My poor Amice.”

  “Cain will save her,” Piers insisted. “’Twill be all right.”