by Lisa Jackson
Dylis raised a knowing eyebrow as a blast of wind swept through the bailey, catching on the straps of her hat and blowing them around her face. “Is that so?” Quickly she tied the strings beneath her bony chin.
“Aye. And the way I heard it, the lady, she’d been with him all night long.” Leah nudged her friend with a hefty elbow.
Morwenna winced. She knew she should announce herself but couldn’t stop listening. Sometimes one learned more from the servants’ conversations than from actual interrogation. She felt Bryanna bristle at her side and placed one hand on the younger woman’s arm, staying her.
As they watched Leah dipped the singed goose into a large tub of cold water.
Dylis sniffed loudly. “If ye ask me, she’s still in love with ’im. I ’eard she was with Carrick afore the fire and ’e left ’er without a second thought.”
“For Alena, Lord Ryden of Heath’s sister.” Leah’s small eyes sparkled. “And a randy one she was, let me tell you. Almost as if she were a man. Had herself several lovers, including a commoner.” She giggled at that little tidbit of gossip.
“She were married to one of the brothers of Wybren, weren’t she?”
“Aye, but not Carrick. I can’t remember which one. . . . Wait a minute and I’ll call it up. Let’s see, there was Owen and Byron and . . . one more, I’m thinking.”
“Yes. Theron ’is name was,” the smaller woman said, nodding as she stuffed into sacks smaller feathers that would be used for bedding, the larger feathers set aside for arrows and writing quills. She was tightening the laces of a full bag when she happened to look up and lock gazes with Morwenna. Instantly she snapped her gossiping jaws shut.
“Aye, that’s it. Theron,” the toothless one said as if tasting the name. Despite the cold, sweat trickled from beneath her cap. “The cuckold.” Laughing so hard she snorted, Leah placed the singed, dipped goose into a basket and caught a warning glance from her friend. Finally she glanced up and, to her credit, turned a dozen shades of crimson. “Oh, m’lady,” she said, pretending she hadn’t been spreading rumors. “I did not see you.”
“Obviously,” Bryanna said, seething.
“Well, good mornin’ to you, to both of you.” Leah was busy wiping her hands on her apron.
“And to you, Leah.” Morwenna’s jaw grew tight. She thought of reprimanding the woman for her talk and then decided to hold her tongue. But Bryanna had no qualms about speaking her mind.
“Mayhap it would be best if you two paid more attention to your work and less to talking about the lady who rules this keep!” she warned. Anger radiating from her, Bryanna turned and marched stiffly toward the physician’s quarters.
“ ’Tis sorry I am,” Leah said quickly. “If I said anything to offend you, m’lady, please . . . forgive me.” Studying the muddy, feather-strewn ground at her feet, she looked absolutely miserable and completely contrite. If it was an act, it was a good one.
“Just be careful in the future,” Morwenna warned. She’d learned nothing more than that people liked to talk and embellish stories, glad ill-fate had occurred to someone other than themselves.
As she hurried on to the physician’s residence, Morwenna told herself to remain calm, to keep her anger under rein, but she had the feeling that time was wasting. Whoever had killed Isa was getting away, and Carrick, too, was escaping farther into the distance.
As soon as she had a chance to speak to the sheriff and captain of the guard she would leave, head up a search party herself, and ignore the arguments from both men that were certain to come her way. This was her castle; she was the leader. Two innocent people had been slain under her very nose; another, perhaps guilty of murder himself, had slipped through her fingers. ’Twas her duty to aid in the apprehension of both criminals.
Or just one man. Though unlikely, as you pointed out to Bryanna, ’tis not impossible that Carrick was somehow behind Isa’s and Sir Vernon’s deaths.
Following Bryanna, she continued toward the physician’s residence, a suite of two rooms that abutted the wall near the south tower. She caught up with her sister on the path only steps from Nygyll’s home, where a guard had been posted. Without any arguments, he allowed Morwenna and Bryanna entrance.
Inside, the rooms were dark, smelling of dried herbs that hung from the ceiling. The candles had burned out and the only illumination came from a single window. ’Twas enough.
Morwenna’s stomach slammed against her spine as she viewed Isa again. Stretched upon a heavy table that had been covered with a long sheet lay Isa, her cloak blood soaked, her skin pale as a November moon, her throat a jagged, open gap.
A cry escaped Bryanna’s throat as she spied her old nursemaid. “No, no . . . oh, God, no!” she whimpered before letting lose a keening wail that scraped the sides of Morwenna’s soul. “Oh, Isa . . . nay, nay, nay,” Bryanna whispered hoarsely, her eyes filling with fresh tears. She grabbed one of the dead woman’s hands in her own and fell to her knees. “Who did this to you?” she demanded, as if the dead woman could not only hear her but answer as well. Shaking her head, Bryanna echoed her sister’s words as she whispered, “I swear you will be avenged. Your death is not in vain. I shall not rest, Isa, not one second, until this vile murderer is caught and punished, his eviscerated carcass hanging for all to see!” She was sobbing and choking on her own tears, her hands massaging the old woman’s unmoving fingers. “I promise Mother Morrigu and all the gods and goddesses you trusted that justice will prevail.”
Morwenna’s insides twisted. She, too, felt Bryanna’s grief and despair for a woman who had tended to her, guided her, taught her, a woman who had been an integral part of her and her siblings’ lives for as long as Morwenna could remember. She glanced down at the shell of the woman she’d known and fought her own bitter tears.
“I—I would like to be alone with her,” Bryanna whispered, staring up at her sister with red-rimmed eyes.
“Of course.” Morwenna nodded. They both had much to consider, much to do. “I’ll be in the great hall.” Wrapping her cloak more tightly around her, she walked outside and knew her life had changed forever.
He pushed the horse hard. Sweat and lather covered the bay’s dark hide. They would have to rest, once he was assured that he was alone. By now, he was certain, he’d been discovered missing, and he closed his mind to the thought of Morwenna’s expression when she realized that he’d duped her. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw no one following, and yet he’d been plagued by the sensation that someone was close behind ever since he left Calon.
’Tis nothing! Just his own fear . . . and yet . . .
His fingers tightened around the reins and he glowered at the dark, menacing sky. The steed galloped onward, and at each fork in the road, the rider instinctively turned toward Wybren, where the answers to his identity lay. Somewhere in the thick stone walls he would find the truth, no matter how dire his past was.
And if you are Carrick?
A murderer?
“So be it,” he said to the wind and nudged his horse ever faster with his heels. He leaned forward, feeling the slap of his mount’s mane against his face as he guided the animal unerringly toward Wybren.
He rode through a forest of dry, brittle oak trees that rattled in the wind until he found the river and a place where there was no bridge, just a narrowing of the river’s chasm. Upon the shoreline, mashed deep into the mud, were hoofprints, proof that this was the spot known as Raven’s Crossing. This was where the daring, upon horseback, chose to reach the opposite bank.
The bay balked at the edge of the water.
“Come on,” the rider urged as his mount sidestepped and minced, tossing his great head, his dark eyes showing white. “ ’Twill be all right,” he soothed, though he knew not how deep or swift was the current. “Easy . . .” Slowly the horse entered the river, plunging his legs into a torrent of icy water that swirled and frothed.
Deeper and deeper they went, the water rising to the beast’s chest, the rider’s boots subme
rging. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he let out the reins, let the horse find his own way. He sensed the moment the animal began to swim, the eerie feeling of floating as the horse strained against the power of the current.
Nostrils above the surface, the bay swam forward, struggling against the surging water and all the while being pushed steadily downstream. Carrick’s breeches were wet, the hem of his mantle floating around him, the saddle nearly submerged. “That’s it,” he said, as he felt the jar of a hoof striking the bottom. “Come on, boy!”
In an instant the horse lunged forward, water cascading on either side as the bay strained, trying to gallop, his hooves sliding as Carrick held fast to the saddle pommel lest he be swept away.
With one mighty leap, the animal climbed upward, out of the frigid depths, fifty feet downriver from the crossing. He stopped to shake himself of the extra water and then walked eagerly forward to the trampled edge of the bank and the road leading upward through the forested hills.
To Wybren.
In a splinter of memory, the rider saw this road as it had been in spring, which year he did not know. His brothers had been with him, their faces but blurs. They had been riding together . . . but there was more than family comradery in the group as they traveled along this road; there was something in the air between them, something dark and sinister.
Shivering, the cold from the river seeping into his blood, causing his hands to shake as he held the reins, he tried to concentrate, to call up the memory.
Think, damn you!
But the glimmers that taunted and teased him swiftly fled.
Frustrated, he rode farther, passing few other travelers on the road. A minstrel troupe, an oxcart laden with stone, a farmer’s wagon driven by a boy, and two lone horsemen were all that he met.
The day wore on, clouds scuttling across the sky, the sun never managing to pierce the ever-moving veil. His teeth chattered and his fingers felt frozen over the reins, yet he scarcely noticed as he rode closer to Wybren. He saw an ancient, abandoned cathedral and a near-rotted bridge that seemed familiar and then passed a farm where pigs rooted for acorns beneath spindly oak trees.
Flashes of memory flirted with him, starting to form, only to dissipate before he could latch onto any clear image. Yet he sensed he was getting closer, felt that it was only a matter of time before he would recognize something and all that had been lost to him would be recalled.
He passed two boys riding in the opposite direction. They were racing along the road, yelling at each other, oblivious to the frigid weather, impending storm, or anyone else. Laughing, baiting each other, they thundered past, mud flinging from the hooves of their horses.
As they swept by, a vision formed behind his eyes. He was one of those hellions, riding without regard to anything except his own need to race headlong into the open sky. His laughter carried on the wind as the four of them . . . that was right, four brothers, raced their horses through spring green fields, carelessly disregarding anyone but themselves.
“I’ll get you!” one shouted. A challenge. He saw himself leaning far over his black horse’s shoulders, burying his face in the steed’s mane, feeling the stiff hairs slap his cheeks and tears gather in his eyes at the rush of wind. He was ahead and he wasn’t going to allow any of his brothers to win!
From the corner of his eye, he saw the nose of one of his brothers’ horses, the animal breathing hard, legs driving into the soft loam, so close he felt the steed’s warm breath.
“Go!” he yelled to his stallion, releasing the reins a little. He wouldn’t lose. Not again! “Go, go, go!” His horse sprang forward, but he couldn’t shake the other steed, and as the forest rose before them, he heard his brother’s laughter, an evil sound that crawled up his spine. Then there was a movement, a flash of a quick glove as the bastard leaned closer and slapped the black’s buttocks with a short whip.
His horse squealed. Flinched and bucked. He lurched forward. Lost his grip. Scrabbled for the reins that slapped at the ground and his mount’s forelegs. Fear shot through his blood. He was going to fall and be trampled.
He heard shouts.
His other two brothers!
The ones lagging behind on their slower horses. Surely they would avoid a collision somehow, guide their steeds out of way. His mount shied, stumbling and veering crazily to the right. Straight into the path of the two trailing racers.
Jesus, God, no!
Grasping the pommel in a death grip, he tried to push his body back into the saddle, to throw his weight onto the charging horse’s back, but gravity pulled hard and the saddle started to slip.
“Damn it, stop!” he yelled impotently. “Stop!”
The ground rushed up at him in a blur of lush grass being mashed by flying hooves. His arms ached, his back arched as the saddle slid lower and lower, stirrups beating against the horse’s sides.
He could hold on no longer!
And then . . . and then . . .
Nothing!
The memory was suddenly lost to him. As quickly as it had surfaced it retreated. Like a snake striking only to recoil. He was left with nothing more than the empty black void of his past once again.
He blinked hard as the first drops of rain fell from the sky, cold beads against his already frozen skin. The four boys in his memory—surely they were he and his brothers? And he would remember more. He was certain of it. The dam holding back the truth was cracking and soon it would all come back in a rush.
Renewed, he pushed his horse forward, urging the flagging beast along the muddy road. He knew he was getting closer to Wybren, felt a difference in the air. Memories tickled his brain, touching and receding. He spied a near-overgrown road leading through a thicket. He also remembered spotting a stag in the underbrush there while out hunting. With his brothers . . .
He took a breath, easing his tortured brain, picking slowly through the wreckage of his shattered recall.
But they hadn’t been searching for deer or game, he remembered. It had been early fall, leaves beginning to drop from the trees, the air crisp, the harvest reaped. . . . He again had been out riding, but this time he was alone and a golden moon had hung low in the sky.
He’d ridden wildly, anger firing his blood, the lust for vengeance seething darkly in his soul. Hatred had spurred him onward, the desire to kill and kill quickly thundering in his brain.
He’d been hell-bent to rid this world of an enemy. Now, as he pulled on the reins, stopping the bay short, he tried to recall whom he’d been chasing, whom he’d wanted to slay. But his enemy’s face was a blur, a distorted image.
Who would have caused him such fury? Goose bumps traveled up the backs of his arms as he realized it was someone close, someone he had trusted.
The memory bit at him. Just on the edge of recollection.
Who was it who had betrayed him?
Every muscle in his body tensed and a headache pounded behind his eyes. Who?
“Bloody hell,” he growled. As the rain began to sheet, another memory assailed him. No longer blurry, the image of his enemy formed: a tall, strong man with a black beard, a calculating grin, and eyes as blue as his own.
His heart pounded and his fingers twisted the reins as he pictured his cousin, the man who had always thought he’d been somehow cheated out of his lot in life, a man, he knew now, who would do anything to further his own ambition.
Graydynn!
Lord of Wybren.
A black rage stormed through his bloodstream.
Bile climbed up his throat, the bad, bitter taste of betrayal spreading into his mouth.
He leaned to one side and spat into the undergrowth.
’Twas time to face the enemy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Morwenna had no appetite as she sat at the raised table and surveyed the great hall, where soldiers and peasants were eating. When meals were served, there was usually a buzz of conversation, outbursts of laughter, and a sense of joviality, but not today. Everyone was subdued. Q
uiet as they ate from shared trenchers. Even the castle dogs seemed to notice the change in the air and their begging seemed less frantic, their eyes and ears straying toward the doors, as if they, too, expected to hear something, anything about the missing captive.
Morwenna barely touched her salmon pie or coddled eggs, and the gravy that covered her food soaked into the bread of her trencher. Nor did she have any interest in the bites of roasted eel and onions that were usually her favorite.
She wasn’t the only one whose appetite was missing. Bryanna had sat without saying a word throughout the meal. She hadn’t tried so much as one bite, not even tasting the almond pudding decorated with honeyed dates, the cook’s pride and joy. She’d sat white-faced and morose, and the instant the last dish had been served, she was on her feet, quick to leave the table. She had offered no excuses as she hurried though the great hall and upstairs to her private chamber.
Morwenna picked at the pudding but anything she ate seemed to curdle in her stomach. Her thoughts were both with Isa and the last terrified moments of her life, and with Carrick and how he’d somehow slid out of the bed she’d shared with him and slipped past the guard at the door. Had he bided his time, waiting until he was certain Sir James was dozing? Or had he just been fortunate enough to push the door open at the right moment so that no one in the keep, not the sentry at the bedroom door, nor anyone awake, nor the guard at the main door, would have seen him?
Was security in the keep so loose that anyone, including Carrick and Isa’s murderer, could come and go at will? Or were they all working together—a band of traitors and cutthroats who were not only undermining but rebelling against her authority? Hadn’t she felt it often enough? That unseen eyes were watching her? That there was a malevolent presence within the keep? Had not Isa herself warned her of just that kind of treason—omens of death and destruction?
And Isa was the one who had ultimately paid.
