by Lisa Jackson
No one had seen him stir.
Except you, her mind nagged.
“Bother and broomsticks,” she muttered, her breath coming out in a cloud as she reached the chapel door.
Carrick’s cry for help had been too long coming. Too many people knew that he was within her keep to have his whereabouts hidden or to help him in any manner other than to bring him to justice.
Quietly she stepped inside the chapel and slipped off her hood. She was tired from lack of sleep and drained by the thought of what she must do.
You don’t have to do anything. You are the ruler of this keep, Morwenna. Do not forget. Do not feel duty bound.
Her gaze swept the interior of the chapel, its coved ceilings, whitewashed walls, and long tapers burning in iron sconces surrounding the carved altar.
The chapel was empty. Morwenna stepped through the intimate room and felt, instead of being closer to God, as if she were somehow trespassing through a forbidden chamber, treading in an area where she should not set foot.
Which was silly.
This was God’s house, in the keep where Morwenna was the lady, the ruler, the law. What was wrong with her? Her skin crawled and she mentally chided herself. It seemed that all Isa’s talk of omens, curses, and demons was getting to her.
Listening hard, she walked toward the communion table and thought of calling out to Father Daniel. But she held her tongue, something in the vacant room forcing her silence. She genuflected near the altar, stared up at the figure of Christ upon the cross, and thought fleetingly of all her sins. In her life she’d collected many, and so many surrounded Carrick of Wybren, an old lover who now seemed her bane. Oh, how she’d lain with him, so trustingly giving her virtue, so joyously lying in his arms, so happily realizing she was with child—his child.
And all the while he was bedding his brother Theron’s wife. The old pain twisted inside her like a knife to her womb, and she couldn’t help wondering if there would ever be another babe.
Yes, she’d sinned more often than not and, she was certain, she wasn’t through. There would be more. Her fingers touched the hem of her pocket and she frowned. Her decision, though already made, weighed heavily upon her.
Yesterday she’d met with the scribe, had told him what she’d wanted to say as he’d scratched out her words. Then she’d sealed the letter that was Carrick’s fate. It now rested in her large pocket and she, ridiculously, felt like a traitor as she set her plan in motion. Finally she would officially admit to Lord Graydynn that she was harboring his cousin, the traitor to Wybren.
She was planning to seal Carrick’s fate forever.
’Tis your duty, her mind told her, and yet she felt tricked, trapped into a corner, forced into making a decision that still felt wrong, kept her thoughts in constant turmoil. Ever since the stranger had been carried through the gates of Calon nearly a fortnight earlier, she’d had little sleep and no peace whatsoever.
Nonetheless sending Carrick to Wybren would only make things worse. Well, ’twould be done. She fell to her knees, made the sign of the cross, and prayed for guidance. Through the windows she heard muted sounds of men talking, axes striking, the mill wheel grinding, but above those noises of the castle at work there was another sound, soft and low, a droning . . . nay, more like a chant. Ever steady, it whispered through the chapel, bounding off the walls.
Instinctively she climbed to her feet and stepped to one side of the apse, where she peeked through the slits of a curtained doorway to the private chamber of the priest. She nearly gasped as she peered through the small opening and spied Father Daniel lying facedown in front of a small communion table, a cruder version of the chapel’s intricately carved altar.
Her stomach twisted in revulsion.
The priest lay naked, his white skin nearly translucent, red welts visible upon his back as he prostrated himself. In one hand he clasped a small prayer book, in the other he gripped a leather whip so tightly his knuckles bulged from his fingers. Obviously he’d been flailing himself, using the weapon to . . . what? Expunge demons from his soul?
“Forgive me, Father,” he said, and his voice was a wet rasp. He sobbed and sniffed. “For I have sinned. Oh, I have sinned. I am not worthy of Your love.”
Blood began to rise to the surface of the red streaks upon his back, and Morwenna noticed other wounds, scars from earlier floggings. She nearly retched. What would drive a man to whip himself until his flesh was raw?
Rather than risk being discovered spying upon him, she slowly backed away from the curtain. Intending to sneak out the way she’d come, she inched toward the door.
Crack!
The heel of her shoe hit the doorframe, and the noise seemed to reverberate through the chapel.
The chanting stopped abruptly.
Damn.
She heard the rustling of clothing and feet as Father Daniel quickly dressed and knew she would be found out. There was no way to hide that she was in the chapel. Rather than try to run away, she flung the main door open as wide as it would go. It slammed back against the wall.
“Father Daniel!” she said in a loud whisper, as if she’d just entered but didn’t dare yell inside the chapel. “Father Daniel, are you here?” she called again. Treading loudly, she walked to the altar and slipped to her knees.
She was just making the sign of the cross over her chest when the priest, fully robed, swept into the room. He was still carrying his prayer book in his one hand, but the other was empty, no whip in sight.
“Oh!” she said, as if surprised to see him. “I—I was looking for you.”
“I was in my quarters. Praying,” he said a bit breathlessly, and his face was flushed as he cleared his throat. He stood over her, looking down. She was still on her knees and close enough to smell the blood upon his skin. He managed a thin, patient smile that curved his lips but didn’t add any warmth to his eyes. Those eyes regarded her with an intensity that made her want to squirm. She saw his feet shift beneath his cassock, and in this position, her knees pressed to the cold floor, she felt submissive and vulnerable. Her skin crawled as he asked in a quiet, silky voice, “Is there something I can help you with, my child?”
She cringed inside, and when he touched her on the shoulder, she wanted to flinch. “Aye, Father,” she said, nodding. “Please.” She finished a quick prayer and then climbed hastily to her feet. “I—I need your counsel.” This was better. A tall woman, she nearly looked him in the eye.
“Of course.” He seemed to relax a bit as they walked out of the chapel and into the garden, where water from last night’s storm dripped from the eaves and puddled in footprints in the earth. As nothing was in bloom, the garden looked as desolate as Morwenna felt.
“What’s troubling you?” the priest asked.
“There are several things, including Sir Vernon’s death.”
“A tragedy.”
She agreed. “I also must deal with the stranger who was brought to us, the wounded man.”
“Ah.” Father Daniel nodded as they walked through the garden gate, and dark clouds moved across the sky. Two boys ran by, laughing, their noses running, as they chased after a squealing piglet. A dog bounded behind them and nearly knocked over a boy toting two pails from the well. Water sloshed over the sides of the buckets and the boy cursed roundly before spying the priest. He quickly hurried toward the kitchens.
Father Daniel stared after the lad as Morwenna said, “It’s been suggested that I tell Lord Graydynn, your brother, that we have possibly apprehended Carrick.”
“He may already know.” Father Daniel returned his attention to Morwenna. “Wybren is not far away.”
“All the more reason to give him official notice.” She met his eyes and withdrew the sealed letter from her pocket. “I was hoping that you would take this to Wybren. Since Baron Graydynn’s your brother, I thought ’twould be best if the news came from you.”
She handed him the letter.
“And what would you have me tell him? Aside fr
om what you’ve written?” he asked as they made their way past the candlemaker’s hut toward the great hall.
“Just that we’re not certain that the man is Carrick, of course, because he was so badly beaten as to be unrecognizable. And even though he’s healing, it’s difficult to see his features, to be sure that he is Carrick.”
“You doubt that he is?”
Morwenna swallowed hard. Did she? Rather than answer, she said, “When you meet with Graydynn, please mention that the man who was attacked came to us wearing a ring emblazoned with the crest of Wybren, but that the ring has since been stolen.”
“And would you have me tell him that another man was murdered, possibly at Carrick’s hand?”
“Nay!” she said quickly, surprised at the question. She had to make herself clear. “As I said, we’re not certain of the stranger’s identity, and it’s unlikely that he slew Sir Vernon, for our guest was under guard at the time of the attack.”
Father Daniel studied her face intently. “So you still defend him?”
“We know not what happened to Sir Vernon.”
Father Daniel shook his head as if she were a naive child, and then he touched her shoulder again, and even through her tunic she felt the coldness of his fingers upon her skin. “Oh, we know he was savagely murdered; we only do not know who did the heinous deed.” He winced a bit, as if his cassock had shifted to rub against the new wounds upon his back. He dropped his hand. “Whoever took Sir Vernon’s life will have to answer to the Father.”
“And to me.”
“Oh, Lady, please, place your trust in God. Have faith. Only He can right this wrong.” The words were said with conviction, but there was something else in the priest’s expression, something more troubling. “Remember the passage from Romans, Morwenna: ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ ”
Morwenna pulled her arm away but held the priest’s intense gaze with her own. “But in my keep, Father Daniel,” she pointed out as a breeze tugged at her hair, “please remember that justice is mine.”
She left him standing near the candlemaker’s hut and marched up the stairs into the great hall, where two guards stood. Geoffrey held the door open for her and she felt the warmth of the room seep into her bones.
She was letting the events of the past two weeks get to her, starting to believe all of Isa’s silly notions of curses and omens and bad luck. She’d become rattled enough that now she was doubting the priest, a man who had dedicated his life to God.
And a man who flogged himself performing some kind of painful, self-inflicted penance.
What was it that tore so at Father Daniel’s soul?
What sin had he committed that he felt the need to flail at his own flesh?
Yanking off her gloves as she climbed the stairs to her chamber, she passed by Fyrnne and Gladdys. She felt their eyes upon her and told herself she was imagining things. Ridiculously she was beginning to believe that no one in this keep was who they first appeared to be.
“You’re as bad as Isa,” she said once inside her room, where the fire was burning bright, a tub and a bucket of warm water waiting for her. Mort was snuggled upon the bed. He gave up a bark as she entered. “Miss me?” she teased as the dog wiggled, tail slicing the air frantically until she walked over to him and scratched his ears. He rolled over, offering up his belly to be rubbed. “I guess so.”
She kicked off her shoes, petted the dog, and told herself that for just a few minutes, she would quit worrying. There was a bucket of hot water resting on the coals, and she considered having a handmaiden help her with the bath and then thought better of it. She wanted a few minutes alone.
She wound her hair onto her head, stripped out of her clothes, poured the water into the towel-lined tub, and then sank into the warm depths.
“Aaah,” she whispered to herself and using lavender scented soap washed her body before unwinding her hair and lowering herself even farther into the warm water. She scrubbed her hair and skin and felt the tension ease from her muscles. It was heaven. All of her aches, all of her worries, all of Isa’s dire warnings of curses and omens and death seeped away.
But as she lazed in the tub, her mind wandered and she did think of Carrick. He was healing, and as she’d stared at him in these last days she’d become convinced that, yes, it was he lying across the hall, he who had awoken suddenly and begged her to help him, he whom she had loved so impetuously, so madly, so rashly.
Too easily she remembered what it had been like to be with him. She’d spent her days fantasizing about the weight of his body upon her, the feel of his flesh against hers, the erotic touch of his lips to hers. Each night had been spent in hours of lovemaking, of skin touching skin, of straining muscles working together, of hot, gasping breaths and mind-splintering, furious joinings of bodies and souls.
Her heart contracted and she felt that same dark void that had been with her since the morning she’d lost the babe, as if part of her life had ended.
Dipping a cloth in water, she squeezed it over her face, letting the drips run down her cheeks.
She wondered if she would ever feel as she had three years earlier or if those emotions were forever lost to her, killed by Carrick’s betrayal. For a fleeting moment she considered Lord Ryden and knew that she would never feel the same breathless, dizzying, soul-rending glory with him that she had had with Carrick. And she also knew that not only did she not love him, she could not marry him.
’Twould be a sham of a marriage. A disastrous mistake that she would forever regret. ’Twas too late to write to him as he was on his way to Calon, so she would wait until he arrived and tell him face-to-face, no matter what her brother thought. She knew she would be able to convince Kelan that the marriage could not happen.
Leaning back in the tub, she glanced up at the ceiling and that shadowy part of the wall that loomed above the crossbeams. Was it her imagination or did she see something . . . a reflection of light in the mortar between the stones? ’Twas impossible.
And yet . . .
She covered her breasts with a wet cloth and gazed upward, but whatever she’d seen was no longer visible. Probably just her imagination again.
Nothing was amiss.
Not right now.
Not for the moment.
There was no evil within the castle walls.
Listening to the crackle of the fire, hearing the muted sounds of voices echoing from the chambers below, she closed her eyes and ignored the feeling that hidden eyes were watching her every move.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The sheriff didn’t like the turn of his thoughts. Seated in his wooden chair, he stared into the fire and felt the same restlessness he always did when he was close to finding a culprit but hadn’t yet been able to figure out who the criminal was.
His boots were warming by the grate and he stretched his legs so that his stocking feet felt the heat of the glowing embers. The scents of Sarah’s mutton pie still lingered, and both his belly and the cup at his side were full.
He and Sarah lived within the castle walls in a substantial structure of stone with three full rooms and a private entrance, only a short walk to the great hall. He used the first room to conduct business; citizens of the town would find him there and could lodge their complaints. Lately it seemed that everyone had one. Neighbors squabbling, the insistence by Tom Farmer that one of the carpenter’s sons had stolen his goat, several merchants and farmers complaining about a band of thieves near Raven’s Crossing, a charge that one man’s boar had run amok, breaking through a fence and destroying two bags of seed for spring planting, and on and on.
Payne’s head throbbed, for on top of all the normal complaints were the business with Carrick of Wybren, or whoever the man was, and Sir Vernon’s vicious murder.
He rubbed his chin as he stared into the hungry flames and all the while he considered what had happened to Sir Vernon. The guard’s slaying had been for a reason. Vernon’s unusual wound, the slash in the shape of a W upon
his throat, was a hint to the killer’s mind. And mayhap something the bastard wanted everyone to see and know, a macabre taunt.
Certainly the wound had been intentional.
A clue to the killer’s identity?
Or an attempt to turn Payne’s head from the true culprit, more a diversion than an actual indication of who the killer was?
Why would someone kill Sir Vernon?
Plowing his nose into his mazer, Payne considered the big man’s demise and took a long swallow of ale.
Somehow, Payne was certain, Vernon’s death was linked to Carrick of Wybren. But there was no way Carrick could have crept from his sickbed, passed the guard, climbed up the guard towers, slit Vernon’s throat, and then returned undetected. No, Sir James, the guard at Carrick’s door, hadn’t moved all night.
Unfortunately there had been no witnesses. None. No one interviewed since the slaying, including all the sentries stationed around the keep, had seen or heard anything unusual during the storm. Nor had they spotted any person unknown to them.
The people who had been sighted out in the storm had generally had good reason: Father Daniel had been returning from visiting the millwright’s ill daughter, as had the physician, Nygyll; Alfrydd had been double-checking the locks on the stores of spices. Isa, the old sorceress who claimed to have “seen” the death, had been alone in her chambers. The tanner had been awake, but he’d seen nothing out of the ordinary. The apothecary, Samuel, had upon his return from the town spied Dwynn hauling firewood into the kitchen, though it had been the dark of night. The kennel master and stable master claimed they were sleeping near their charges. Alexander, captain of the guard, had also returned and been asleep, as had all of his men who hadn’t been actively guarding the keep.
Everyone had been talked to officially, and afterward there had been the buzz of gossip swirling through the keep, words whispered in the corridors, towers, and pathways. Speculation in the fields and huts. Guesses and jokes over games of dice or cups of ale.
