by Lisa Jackson
Tarth Castle appeared more eerie and decrepit at twilight than it had in the daylight hours. Though torches and sconces burned brightly, the bits of illumination did little to make the crumbling stone walls and dangerous spires look more welcoming. As she rode toward the town, Bryanna shuddered at the sinister appearance of the keep, rising up on the hill, the sky darkening ominously over the surrounding mountains.
Not for the first time she wished that Gavyn and his powerful black horse were with her, for though he was still recovering from wounds, surely he was more reliable than this sparrow of a woman astride the ancient, nearly lame horse Liam had not wanted out of his sight. Bryanna wondered where Gavyn was this moment. He would have awoken hours ago, and there was a chance he was riding to Tarth, approaching the village gates this very minute. Her heart beat a little faster and she told herself she was a romantic ninny, but she couldn’t help but look for him or the black steed with its white markings.
Silently she cursed Isa for insisting that Bryanna leave him.
“Ride to Tarth and get thee inside the castle walls! You must go alone!”
Riding up to the fortress, Bryanna was glad to have Gleda at her side, if only for company. The old woman had insisted that Bryanna collect her meager belongings at the inn, though Bryanna had a fair share of misgivings about staying in this decrepit castle, even if hospitality were to be offered.
As they approached the main gate of the castle, a guard wielding a long quarterstaff stepped out from the shadows and blocked their path.
“Halt, there,” he ordered in a bellowing voice. “State your name and business.”
“ ’Tis I, Quigg. Gleda. So hush. There is no reason to yell at me,” she said, as if her feathers had been ruffled.
“The gates are to be closed.”
“Oh, fie, Quigg. Enough of this. Send for Father Patrick and be quick about it.”
“ ’Tis my job.”
“I’ve known you from a boy. Now send for the priest or let us pass.”
Grumbling, Quigg conferred with another man whom Bryanna thought might be the captain of the guard. Gleda inched her horse closer to Alabaster and leaned near enough to Bryanna to whisper, “Quigg knew my son. Fought with him in the battle where he died. He’s a good man, just . . . narrow-minded. Now the priest is in charge of the keep, but that is only temporary because Baron Romney followed his wife to the grave, the result of a sickness that killed so many here just after the Christmas Revels. His son, Lord Mabon, is now the baron, but he’s still returning from a battle far to the east. He and my son fought side by side,” she added sadly. “’Twas Mabon who brought me the news of Frey’s death. He’s a good man and no one at Tarth will want to anger him. Not even Father Patrick, the priest who is serving as baron until Mabon’s return.” She smiled, though Bryanna noticed her teeth were clenched and her lips barely moved as she spoke.
“Excuse me,” the soldier, Quigg, said. “Would you please state your business?”
“Of course,” Gleda said as a few drops of rain began to fall and splatter on the ground near the castle walls. Gleda motioned to Bryanna with a gloved hand. “This is Lady Bryanna. Her sister is Morwenna of Calon and her brother is Lord Kelan, the Baron of Penbrooke. ’Twould be a shame if Sir Mabon returned to Tarth and found out that during his absence the daughter of an ally wasn’t offered hospitality but was turned away, would it not?”
The guard shot a dubious glance at his superior, a huge man with eyes set deep in his skull and a complexion that had been ravaged in his youth.
“I’ll see that Father Patrick knows you are here,” the captain said. He barked an order at a page standing by, shivering in the rain, and the boy took off at a dead run. The captain introduced himself as Sir Giles. As he chatted with Gleda, Bryanna waited under the cover of the yawning gatehouse with the portcullis raised above them, smoke from night fires drifting to her nostrils. The cold of the coming night seeped through her mantle, and she wondered, not for the first time, if coming to Tarth had been a mistake. From astride Alabaster she was able to view the bailey, where a few leafless fruit trees grew and a single well was visible, its bucket creaking as it moved with the shifting of the wind. Alabaster’s head was up, nostrils flared, and she sidestepped nervously, as if she, too, sensed something evil within.
’Twas idiocy to be here, she told herself. Bryanna wanted to argue again that she’d paid for a perfectly good room at the inn and could stay there, but that protest had already fallen upon Gleda’s deaf ears. “You need the security of a fortress,” the older woman had told her. “Gates and guards and castle walls.”
What had Isa told her? Get thee inside the castle walls!
When Bryanna had asked why the older woman had stared at her long and hard, Gleda had looked over her shoulder suspiciously before answering.
“Have you not felt it? The evil that stalks you? Surely you’ve sensed it ever nearer.”
Bryanna had not been able to protest, for the older woman’s words were true. She’d never been able to shake the blood-chilling certainty that she was being watched and followed.
By whom or what, she knew not.
Nonetheless, she doubted Tarth would keep her safe within its crumbling walls, its rumors of spirits haunting the barbicans and towers. Staring up at the interior of the dark fortress, Bryanna felt as if dozens of unseen eyes were watching her from the dark windows, crenels, and arrow loops.
She was ready to insist that they leave when she saw something in the older woman’s eyes, a shadow of worry.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said, suspicion curling inside her. “Something you hide from me. What is it?”
“Nothing that can be changed,” Gleda said, her eyes haunted by great sadness.
Before Bryanna could insist she explain herself, the page splashed through the puddles in the bailey, running as if the devil himself were chasing him. Breathless, the boy with strawlike hair nodded at Bryanna. “Father Patrick invites the guests inside, to warm themselves and stay the night. He says he’ll see you both now.”
“Good of him,” Gleda whispered sarcastically.
They rode to the stables, left their horses with a groom, and accompanied Sir Giles inside the castle. The big man said a word to a guard standing at the entrance of the great hall as the door was opened, and Gleda whispered to Bryanna, “Do not let this pretender to the lordship bother you.”
The women followed the page into a cavernous area where faded tapestries hung over walls that needed another coat of whitewash. The trestle tables had been turned against the walls and a priest stood near the fire, his vestments as clean and stiffly pressed as the rest of the keep was dirty and shabby. Bryanna couldn’t help but notice the rings glittering on his fingers. He was dwarfed by a hearth so massive that the priest, of short stature, could easily have walked into the fiery pit. Massive logs burned upon iron dogs holding them in place, the fire’s flames casting an eerie light on the priest’s beatific smile and his pink face, as clean shaven as a babe’s.
“You must be Alwynn of Penbrooke’s daughter,” he said, his gaze upon Bryanna. He squeezed her fingers, his hands soft, plump, and clammy.
“Aye, Father,” she said with a forced smile as she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. It seemed to Bryanna that he held himself with a pride and fastidiousness that bordered on arrogance, as if he were not only the baron here, but king of all Wales.
“Lady Bryanna has ridden from Castle Calon, where her sister, Lady Morwenna, rules with her husband. As Lady Bryanna’s father, Baron Alwynn, was an ally of Lord Romney, she expected Lord Mabon would eagerly extend his hospitality. ’Tis a shame poor Romney and his wife were stricken.” She made the sign of the cross over her breast and with a quick glance at Bryanna conveyed that the younger woman should also show some piety and grief. As Bryanna made the sign of the cross, Gleda added, “Please express my condolences to Baron Romney’s family as well as everyone who lives here in the keep.” She sighed
loudly.
“It is not for us to understand God’s ways,” the priest intoned.
“But I am certain both Lord Romney and his son would insist the lady be their guest.”
“Undoubtedly,” the priest said, not hiding his irritation.
Standing near to the beekeeper, Bryanna felt awkward and unwanted, almost as if she were a piece of goods that Gleda was intent on selling to the priest. She wished she could turn and depart, but then Isa’s words rang through her mind once more, reminding her to follow Gleda’s instructions.
“Please, have a seat here near the fire. You must be exhausted from your travels.” He motioned to two small benches positioned near the hearth. Sinking onto one of the stools, Bryanna felt the weariness of the day deep in her bones. She managed to smother a yawn but noticed tantalizing aromas rising from the kitchen. The scents of sizzling pork and tangy onions mingling with cloves and cinnamon wafted into the great hall, making Bryanna’s stomach rumble hungrily. Perhaps with the prospect of a warm bed, mouth-watering fare, and servants to bring her wine and warm water, it wouldn’t be so difficult to spend a night in this gloomy, inhospitable keep.
“Is it not true that Sir Mabon is returning soon? Aye, but he is sorely missed,” Gleda persisted, making her point as there was an almost imperceptible tightening of the priest’s mouth. “And isn’t Sir Mabon well acquainted with Lord Kelan of Penbrooke?” Eyeing the rafters as she rubbed her chin, she nodded confidently. “Aye, I think they were pages together at Braddock Keep and fought side by side in some battles. Yes, my sister Isa mentioned it to me on more than one occasion, and she was the nursemaid for all of Baron Alwynn’s children.”
Bryanna wanted to kick Gleda. ’Twas embarrassing. Father Patrick had already given them entrance. The priest was cornered and he knew it. He managed a thin smile, as if it had been his idea to host the lone woman from Calon all along.
He turned to the page, snapped his bejeweled fingers, and ordered, “Geoffrey! Bring Lord Mabon’s guests some wine and a platter of meat and cheese.” As the boy turned toward the kitchen, Father Patrick added, “And this time, do not sample the fare. Now”—he clapped his hands rapidly—“be quick about it.”
The page seemed to take forever to return, but finally he reappeared with a jug of wine and three mazers. Another boy carried a platter of succulent boar, venison, and salmon along with a brick of cheese and mincemeat tarts. Whatever ill had befallen the castle, the malaise hadn’t extended to the kitchens.
Bryanna ate and drank as if she hadn’t had a meal in a month. The wine was the sweetest she’d ever tasted, and each time she took a sip a page promptly refilled her mazer. She tried to maintain society, but the priest’s conversation bored her. Father Patrick kept discussing how he had all the powers of a baron, along with the blessing of the church. Feigning interest, Bryanna took another sip. Though the room spun a bit, she couldn’t help but indulge in this delicious wine after such a long drought.
Gleda argued with Father Patrick while Bryanna, more than sated, tried with all her might to stay awake. Finally, Gleda pushed her chair back and, promising to return in the morning, stood to take her leave.
“You cannot leave,” Bryanna said, her mind spinning. She had assumed the older woman would stay at the keep as well.
“Oh, I must get back to Liam,” Gleda insisted, rising from the table. “What would he do without me? Thank you for the hospitality, Father Patrick.”
“’Tis not me you should thank, but the Lord.” Father Patrick’s expression held no warmth as he nodded curtly and took his leave.
“But . . . but, ’tis late,” Bryanna argued, trying hard to make her words come out without a slur. The wine was catching up with her, making her tongue thick, her legs wobbly. How much had she drunk? No more than usual. Was she ill, then?
“All the more reason I need to get home. No telling how worried Liam will be.” Gleda’s old eyes twinkled as she adjusted her mantle. “More about the horse than his wife, I’m afraid.”
“Please, Gleda. Do not leave me here alone.” Bryanna rose but found herself clutching the table for balance. Why did the room spin so? She kept her voice low, though there was no one about. Even the guard at the door was deep in conversation with another soldier.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” the old woman said, her voice the barest of whispers. “We’ll visit your mother.”
“At her grave?” Bryanna asked, aghast. “Nay!”
“I think you two should meet.”
“But . . . she’s dead,” Bryanna said, stepping backward. Though her mind was a little muddled from the wine, she did know that Kambria wasn’t alive.
“Even so, she has something you need. You’ll need to look inside her coffin.”
“Are you mad?” Bryanna shook her head. “By the saints, Gleda, this is lunacy.”
“And it must be at night.”
“What? You can’t be serious,” Bryanna said on a gasp.
But the old woman’s face was set. Determined. “You can use the moonlight as your guide.”
“Nay, Gleda, I’m not about to go digging up coffins.” Panic stormed through Bryanna. This was beyond lunacy. The woman had truly gone round the bend.
“And be wary of the dark warrior.”
“What dark warrior?”
“The one who plans to do you harm, of course.”
“Are you daft?” Though she was whispering, the words seemed to ricochet through the keep. “ ’Tis nothing more than nonsense you speak of.”
“Shh!” Gleda glanced over her shoulder. “I can say no more.” She touched Bryanna’s arm, a consoling gesture. “Go up to bed. Sleep. You look exhausted, and we have much to do on the morrow.”
“But—” Before Bryanna could protest further, Gleda was out the door, only a cold gust of wind left in her wake.
“Dear God,” Bryanna whispered, leaning against the wall as a sallow-skinned woman carrying towels and a bucket of water appeared, almost as if she’d been standing on the other side of the staircase, listening to their conversation. ’Twas not right, this swirling storm in her head.
“M’lady,” the serving woman said, “I’m Hettie and I’ll be showin’ ye to yer room now.”
Great, Bryanna thought, annoyed with Gleda for leaving her. A shiver slithered down her spine like a sleek snake. What did that cryptic comment about meeting her mother mean? Was Kambria a ghost? Could a witch rise from the dead? Or was it all a lie?
Dear God in heaven, what had she gotten herself into?
“Drat and dog fleas,” she muttered.
“Pardon?” Hettie asked, and Bryanna shook her head.
“ ’Tis nothing,” she said, thinking she must’ve misheard Gleda. The wine . . . that was it. Surely there had been no suggestion of digging through a paupers’ cemetery. Nay! She pushed the horrid thoughts of decomposing bodies, pits looming in the damp, dank earth, and vermin crawling through deep, dark places out of her mind, at least for the moment.
She had to clear her head of this nonsense.
It wasn’t easy.
More than a little tipsy, Bryanna followed the dour-faced Hettie up three flights of stairs that seemed to shift a little as she climbed them to the guest chamber. The cold, dark room on the third floor was furnished with a large bed draped with crimson silk, a stand for a basin, a bench, and a folded wooden screen to be used for privacy while dressing. Her head spinning, Bryanna nearly stumbled into the room, only righting herself by grabbing hold of a bedpost.
Hettie’s lips had tightened in disapproval. “The latrine is that way, around the corner,” she’d said, pointing down a dim hallway away from the main stairs. Without so much as cracking a smile, Hettie lit the fire and a candle, then pointed to the stack of extra wood near the grate.
Only after the dour maid had departed did Bryanna slip out of her clothes, blow out the candle, and slide between the cold linen sheets of the canopied bed, which seemed to spin every time she closed her eyes. The fire cracked, hissed
and popped, sparks floating upward, flames casting a dancing golden light upon stone walls that hadn’t been whitewashed in decades. The sheets felt rough against her bare skin and the feathers of the mattress probably hadn’t been fluffed or cleaned in months, but Bryanna was too tired to care. She’d been awake for a day and a half, and now her head felt heavy.
She closed her eyes and wondered how many nights she could stand residing in this decrepit castle. Yes, she had received food, drink, and forced hospitality. Aye, there were soldiers and battlements and gates that locked, so being here insured her some kind of protection. But she had no plan to idle. If she was to be on a quest, then so be it. She didn’t want to spend an extra minute at Tarth.
“Oh, Isa,” she whispered. “Why do you not give me instruction? Why do you always talk in half-truths and send me to people who have no more answers than I myself?” God’s teeth, it was frustrating.
But for one night, she would sleep.
Weariness was already dragging her into slumber. In the morning, she would try to speak to the dead woman again . . . And what about Gavyn?
Ever since she’d left him, he was never far from her thoughts. She thought of him constantly, wondered where he was and, yes, she wished he was with her.
She reached one arm across the expanse of bedding, where no one lay beside her, and imagined him there. Sighing and pounding her pillow to plump it, she considered his hard muscles, his quick smile, his quicksilver eyes.
Silly girl.
She thought of their one brief, heart-pounding kiss, and how she’d looked into his soul and seen that he’d killed a man.
Did it matter?
If he was telling the truth, then he’d killed to save himself and to avenge his mother’s murder.
Then again, he was a liar . . . a bald-faced, self-proclaimed liar. Had he not said so himself? She let out her breath slowly as sleep pulled her under. Her last thought was that she was surely and steadily falling in love with him.
