Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

  Flattening his body along the side of the curtain wall, he moved stealthily to the stables, with which he was most familiar. He knew a spot in the hayloft where, as a lad, he’d taken many a nap undetected.

  With one last glance upward to the window on the third floor of the keep—Bryanna’s chamber—he stole through the doorway and entered a familiar realm smelling of leather, oil, manure, hay, and urine. Easing through the stalls, he hit his knee on a bench that stuck out and bit back a curse.

  Horses neighed and snorted and he held his breath, hoping not to disturb any of the grooms sleeping nearby.

  “Shh,” one man muttered, then immediately began snoring again.

  Stealthily as a cat, Gavyn slipped through the shadows and up an ancient ladder to the hayloft. He hoped to high heaven no one else had taken over his spot, his small nook below the rafters. But no one had; the nook was empty. He curled up and pulled loose hay over him. Come the morning, if Neddym was still the stable master, he’d take the older man into his confidence.

  If not? If Neddym had passed on?

  Hell, he was just too bloody tired to think of it.

  With the cock’s crow, he would come up with a plan.

  “Gavyn?” Bryanna whispered, reaching across the cold bed. . . . Wait a minute. He’d been with her, right? Her head thundered, pain pounding behind her eyes. When she sat up, the world still spun a bit.

  She lay back on the pillows and thought.

  Had she really made love to Gavyn? Had she spent hours in his arms, moving in and out of ecstasy in the dancing light of the fire?

  She stretched in bed as the memories, thin and gauzy as spiderwebs, breezed in, then out of, her mind. The sweet wine of last night had soured on her tongue. Perhaps it was spoiled. Tainted?

  Had she been dreaming?

  Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate, to remember, but it was all so dreamlike, her mind so detached. “Oh, Holy Mother of God.”

  Where in the world was Isa?

  Why had her voice suddenly stilled?

  Bryanna remembered bits of the night before. The way she’d been so wanton and voracious, so unlike her. Granted, she’d been so tired, drunk far too much, and part of the night was a blur. . . .

  She opened a cautious eye and her head pounded with pain.

  The fire had died, and though the room was cold, Bryanna’s body was drenched in sweat. No doubt because of the dream, part nightmare, part fantasy. Sweet Rhiannon, it had seemed so real!

  As her flushed skin cooled, Bryanna pulled the covers to her neck. The gray light of dawn was filtering through the shutters and the rain, finally, had stopped.

  She heard people stirring within the keep. Boots clomped by her doorway and muted voices filtered through the oak door. She was still exhausted; her slumber, though deep, had been restless. Her bones and muscles were not relaxed, nor refreshed, and she wondered if she were ailing.

  She forced herself from the bed.

  And winced in pain from the tender area between her legs. Of course, he’d taken her virginity.

  Images from the night before flashed behind her eyes. Flesh, sweat, and pain. Desire so intense she’d begged him to take her. Then passion and pleasure. She flung open the sheets and saw the small stain: blood, dark red turning to brown. ’Twas not her time of the month, so . . . it must be because . . . because the dream was real. . . .

  Aye, he had loved her so completely that she felt a thrill at the thought of it.

  Thoughts running amok, she tossed on the chemise she didn’t remember taking off . . . or did she? “Oh, for the love of God,” she whispered, remembering how wantonly she’d bared herself to him, how she’d been atop him, his member hard and stiff inside her.

  Could it have been?

  Had she made wild love to him nearly all of the night?

  Did she remember him leaving in the predawn hours?

  Everything was such a blur, a blending of truth and fantasies.

  Her head throbbing, she walked to the basin on a small table and tossed cold water onto her face. Another splash of cold water dampened not only her face but a few strands of her hair. She grabbed the linen towel left at the basin and looked at the piece of polished metal that had been hung on the wall. In the reflection she saw her face, white as death, and near her throat the ring of tiny bruises.

  From another dream. Physical evidence of a nightmare that had torn through her brain while she slept. Could not the blood on the sheets, the burning between her legs, be the same? If so, could she not be already with child? A babe conceived of a dream lover? Though it seemed unthinkable, she was not so naive as to believe pregnancy was impossible.

  Anything, it seemed, was possible.

  Biting her lip, trying to deny the turn of her thoughts, she looked into the mirror again. Haunted blue-green eyes stared back at her. “Oh, Morrigu, no,” she whispered, ashamed to the depths of her soul. It could not be. It had to be a dream . . . but as she glanced down at herself, she remembered the weight of the man who had stolen into her room. She glanced at her image again and there, over one shoulder, lurking in the shadows behind her and staring at her reflection, was the image of a man, a dark warrior whose features were blurred by the metal.

  Someone insidious and evil.

  Her heart stopped.

  She remembered that first spate of rutting, for to call it lovemaking would have been a falsehood. She’d not seen her lover’s face, only felt his hot body against hers, his steamy breath and sharp teeth scraping against the nape of her neck.

  And what had he said? “I’m not Gavyn.”

  Hugging herself, she stared into the looking-glass as if it could surrender the secret. “Who was that man?” she whispered aloud.

  In the mirror was a glimpse of his face, eyes that were almostblack, the tiniest bit of color around huge pupils. One brown, the other blue. Both shining intently. Malevolently.

  She twirled, ready to lunge at the demon, to claw out his eyes, but the room was empty.

  Still.

  She found herself alone in the cold dim chamber, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her heart hammering, vengeance firing her blood.

  Her skin prickled in apprehension just before a deep voice filled her head:

  “Bryanna of Tarth,

  Daughter of Kambria,

  Granddaughter of Waylynn,

  Descendant of Llewellyn

  And the Great Witch Goddess, Rhiannon.

  Yours is a world unknown, a world of darkness.

  A world where untamed beasts and demons, the hated and the feared, rule.

  Only you, of mixed blood, can enter the realm.”

  The voice faded and she stood, stunned, her eyes wide, her mind screaming disbelief. “What realm?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. This was the voice she’d heard last night, the voice of the man who had taken her by force. By the gods, was she going mad?

  “Show yourself, demon,” she insisted, walking barefoot to the spot where she’d thought the image had stood. She felt a disturbance, a chill in the air, a bitter fury. Her skin prickled, the marrow of her bones turning to ice. “Coward, appear to me!” Her breath fogged in the air. “By all that is holy, show yourself!”

  She thought of all the spells she knew, the runes and chants for protection that had failed her. Even this castle with its barricaded gates, guarded towers, and thick curtain walls had not saved her. Gleda had insisted she seek shelter here, for her protection.

  Or had Gleda harbored another motive?

  Mayhap the woman who claimed to be Isa’s sister was just another liar, an enemy hidden in the guise of a beekeeper. And what of Gavyn? Had he really come to her last night, or was he, too, just an image imbedded in her mind, nothing more than a manifestation of her wishes?

  Oh, she’d been such a fool.

  So trusting.

  Of some vexing voice only she could hear.

  The bitterly cold air of the room faded in an instant.

  “Isa,
where are you?” she demanded, needing to know that her mind was not addled completely. Voices without bodies, strangers in mirrors, bold, unwanted warriors appearing in her bed. Why? Because of some old prophecy? A curse? A stupid doeskin map and useless dagger? Not just any dagger, mind you, but a Sacred Dagger.

  She should have stayed with Gavyn in the forest instead of wishing him into her bed and dreaming so intimately of him.

  Why had she left him? Because of Isa? What kind of idiot was she?

  “Isa, please, if you can hear me—”

  Just then, soft knuckles tapped at her door. “M’lady?” a woman called through the thick panels.

  Startled, shaken out of her reverie, Bryanna quickly found her tunic and tossed it over her head.

  “Just a minute.” Hurriedly, the bodice still unlaced, she walked to the door and held it open just a crack.

  A slight serving girl stood in the hallway, a bucket of steaming water hanging from one fist. Her eyes were gold as a morning sunrise, her face spattered with tiny freckles, her eyebrows thin and red as her hair. She dipped her head in a half curtsy.

  “I’m Daisy,” she said shyly. “Garnock—he’s the steward here—he asked me to see to you,” she said in explanation, then seemed to take in the disheveled state of Bryanna’s clothing and hair. “But . . . I, um, don’t want to bother you. If you’d like to sleep some more, please do so. . . . Otherwise, mayhap I can help you dress?”

  Grateful that she’d been sent any servant other than the cross, sallow-faced Hettie, Bryanna said, “Yes . . . please, come in.” She pushed the door open wide enough for Daisy to pass.

  The girl hurried inside. She poured the cold water from the washbasin into the empty bucket before refilling the basin with warm water and leaving a fresh cake of lavender-scented soap on the table. “Garnock said to tell you that breakfast will be within the hour,” Daisy said.

  Bryanna stepped behind a screen and scrubbed herself, including the tender area between her legs. Afterward, Daisy, warming to her new charge and chattering on about the scandalous behavior of the wright’s eldest daughter, helped her finish dressing. Daisy’s stories continued on as she combed and plaited Bryanna’s hair.

  Bryanna was glad to let Daisy chatter on, as her head ached and she couldn’t escape the feeling that last night had been more than a nightmare, much more than a sensual dream. While Daisy prattled, Bryanna’s thoughts strayed to the night before.

  Once the girl was gone, she thought about everything she’d learned in the past day. Could it be true? Could she be the daughter of Kambria and Alwynn, and thereby an ancestor of Llewellyn and Rhiannon?

  It seemed highly unlikely.

  She touched her neck where the chain of bruises ringed her throat and thought of Gavyn. Why, even in her dreams, would their initial mating have been so harsh, so loveless, so brutal? Why would he not have turned her to face him? Kissed her on the lips as he had before? Why would he have made the act so vile, so malicious?

  And then, why would he come to her a second time as a passionate yet caring lover?

  Because he’s angry with you for leaving him alone in the forest. He’s punishing you. He’s a violent man. He’s robbed and killed. He murdered that sheriff. You infuriated him; he got his revenge.

  Mayhap he didn’t intend to attack you. He might have stolen into the keep intending only to rob you. Remember how he looked at the dagger? How intent he was upon reading the doeskin map?

  She couldn’t think about it another second or else she truly would go mad. She had to do something—anything. Without wasting a second, she bundled her things together: her extra dress, her herbs, candles, amulets, and the leather map, still wrapped around the dagger, the knot Gleda had tied still tight.

  She slipped it into her pouch just as Daisy knocked on the door to announce that breakfast was ready. Bryanna walked down the two stone flights of stairs and inquired about a monk or a scribe, someone who could pen a letter to her sister at Calon. She was hoping that Father Patrick would agree to send the letter by messenger.

  On the main level, they walked through a short arched hallway that opened into a great hall, where the trestle tables had been placed and candles burned brightly. At the far end of the enormous room, upon a raised step, the lord’s table had been covered in a fine cloth and Father Patrick was already seated next to several men she didn’t recognize, possibly members of Lord Mabon’s family.

  She took a stool near his. “Good morning, Father.”

  He offered her a beatific grin, but rebuked, “You were not at the chapel this morn.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, I overslept.”

  “ ’Tis not an excuse, daughter.” As a page filled his cup with wine, he added, “No matter how weary we are, we must find time to give praise and penance to the Holy Father and his Son.”

  “Of course, Father Patrick.”

  “I hope you’ve not let Gleda influence you, Lady Bryanna, for she is . . . well, I wouldn’t say she’s a heathen, but let’s just say she sometimes strays. Her allegiance to God is often in question.”

  “Is that so?” Bryanna said, nettled. “I found her to be a woman of uncommon faith.”

  “Then, I fear, you’re mistaken,” he said as three pages with platters entered the room and approached the lord’s table. Smoked trout and cheese on one wide platter, wastel bread and roast boar with onions on the next, and jellied eggs with fig and milk pudding smelling of cinnamon on the third.

  “Ahh, I see the cook has outdone himself,” the priest said. He offered up a long prayer once the savory food had been served upon thick trenchers.

  Once the long prayer was over, Bryanna ate hungrily. She avoided most conversation except to ask for help in sending a missive to her sister, which the priest, though seeming a bit annoyed, agreed to do.

  When she’d nearly finished eating and the castle hounds were stirring, staring hungrily at the gravy-sodden trenchers and bones, a soldier strode into the keep. Grim-faced, he wended his way through the trestle tables filled with castle workers and soldiers. At the lord’s table, he leaned down and whispered gravely to the ruddy-faced constable, who listened, frowned, then brushed off his fingers. “Don’t move them. I’ll be right there,” he said. Then, as the soldier made his way back through the tables, the constable turned to speak to the priest in low tones. The only word Bryanna was able to hear was “Gleda.”

  She’d been dipping a piece of bread in gravy, but she put down the food as she turned to the priest. “What is it?” she demanded, for the expression on the constable’s face was dire.

  Father Patrick made the sign of the cross over his chest. “They are in the guardhouse?” he asked. The constable nodded as he pushed aside his trencher and stood. “I’ll be there soon.”

  As the tall man left, Father Patrick turned to face Bryanna again. “I’m afraid there is bad news,” he said with more kindness than she would have expected.

  Bryanna’s stomach dropped. “What?” she asked, though she wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

  “It’s Gleda. Both she and her husband, Liam, were found this morning by hunters.”

  She thought she might faint. “What?”

  “They were both dead, apparently drowned in the creek.”

  “No!” Bryanna shot to her feet, nearly knocking over her stool. “But she was here last night. You and I, Father, we . . . we talked with her. She was alive and well and . . . this I can’t believe.” Tears filled her eyes, but she dashed them away with the backs of her hands.

  “There is no reason for my men to lie,” he said.

  “I want to see her.”

  “What? Oh, child, I don’t think that—”

  “I want to see her and I want to see her now,” she insisted, her voice rising enough that several soldiers at a nearby table looked her way.

  “Perhaps we should pray,” he said in that melodious, self-important voice she was quickly learning to detest.

  “I just want to see her. Now. Take m
e to her. We can pray over her body.” Bryanna was already heading for the door. Not bothering with a mantle, she rushed through the crowded great hall, ignored the guard, and pushed open the door. The air was thick and moist from the recent storm, tinged with the scent of wood smoke.

  Following a pathway muddied by a trickle of water running downhill, she headed across the bailey to the guardhouse. Already some girls were gathering eggs while two boys, red-haired twins by the looks of them, were strewing oyster shells and seeds for the clucking, pecking chickens. Dyers were at their vats, swirling spun cloth with wooden paddles in their open-air huts, and the potter’s wheel was whirling as he shaped mazers and ewers and jugs. A thatcher was on the farrier’s hut, fixing the roof, and the clang of a stonemason’s hammer and chisel rang through the bailey.

  Bryanna found her feet flying over the earth, passing the kennels, where hounds were barking, and the stables, where horses whinnied and nickered as they were being fed.

  Gleda? Dead. No, no, no! It couldn’t be!

  She brushed past a man who was standing in the shade of a hayrick and stopped dead in her tracks when she realized he might be Gavyn. She turned quickly to seek him out, but in a matter of a heartbeat he was gone, probably just a figment of her imagination. Her wild imagination . . . hearing voices and following a mysterious quest.

  Breathlessly, she hurried onward, her shoes slipping in the mud, her mind still caught in a web of thoughts of Gavyn.

  Forget him. He left you.

  Concentrate on Gleda and what happened to her.

  Bryanna’s heart sank as she swept past the guard at the door of the gatehouse and forced her way inside.

  “Wait, m’lady,” he cried, and she recognized him as Quigg, the flat-nosed soldier she’d met the night before, the sentry Gleda had known since he was a boy. “Please, ’tis not a good idea—”

  Ignoring his protests, she pushed her way past other men standing around a table. A fire burned, candle flames flickered, and weapons of all sizes and shapes—knives, swords, quarterstaffs, maces, and broadaxes—were mounted on the walls. But she paid little attention to anything but the two bodies lying upon a wide plank table.