by Lisa Jackson
Morwenna’s heart caved at the thought of poor Isa chanting and praying to the Great Mother, tossing herbs into the wind and scratching out runes for protection, for Morwenna’s protection, even as she was no doubt seeing her own death. Morwenna wrapped her arms around her waist, her fingers curling into fists, her nails cutting into her palms as she mutely renewed her oath to find Isa’s killer.
“The sentries last night heard her chanting out near the eel pond but thought nothing of it.” The soldier’s eyes beseeched hers. “It was her custom, m’lady. No amount of talking to her would make her stop.”
“I know. I sanctioned her actions,” Morwenna admitted, another jab of guilt jarring her. She’d allowed the old woman to practice her own form of religion despite everyone from the priest to the physician scoffing at Isa’s pagan ways. Father Daniel thought her work to be heresy; Nygyll considered her “hen scratching” and “baying at the moon” as religious nonsense. Even Sir Alexander had tried to dissuade Isa from her practice, but no one could convince her otherwise and Morwenna had seen no harm in letting her pray as she always had.
And it had cost Isa her life.
“Have you found no one who saw anything?” Morwenna asked, refusing to dwell on her mistake. ’Twas time for restitution. “The guards, did they not see anyone near Isa? Not hear her cry out? Not sense something amiss?”
“Nay, Lady, I told you—nothing.”
“What of the baker who may have been up early? Or the priest? Does not Father Daniel sometimes wake long before dawn?” As he shook his head, she felt a deep sense of despair wrap around her heart. She itched to do something, anything to help. “What of the monk in the south tower? Brother Thomas? Has anyone questioned him?”
“He rarely leaves his room.”
“So we think,” she said, “but who really knows what he does, especially at night?”
“Surely you don’t think he killed Isa.” Sir Lylle stared at her as if she’d gone mad.
“No, no! But I think he might have seen or heard something! Did no dog bark suddenly last night? A horse neigh nervously? Dwynn . . . did he not see anyone? He is forever lurking about! Or . . . or . . . or what about a new mother up with her young babe? Does not the master mason’s wife have a colicky babe? She may have been awake and could have heard something amiss, a noise or smell that was out of the ordinary.” She was suddenly angry again, her blood racing through her veins, her own impotence infuriating her. “And where the devil is everyone? Why are they all gone this day? The priest, the physician, the captain of the guard, the sheriff—all gone. Even Dwynn who is forever underfoot seems, despite all our guards, to have vanished!”
A new horrid thought came to her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, having trouble finding her voice. “You . . . you do not think that something has happened to them, that they all have suffered the same terrible fate as poor Isa?”
“Nay, Lady, you’re making too much of this.”
“Am I? I think not. Isa was slain last night, her throat slit in a W from ear to ear, and Carrick escaped. Now most of the people I trust are missing. Something evil is happening here, Sir Lylle; something vile and evil and hungry.” She swallowed hard, noticing that she finally had the soldier’s attention. She leaned over the desk and jabbed a finger at the worn wooden planks. “Someone in this keep knows something about the events of last night, Sir Lylle. We just have to find out who. Now, I suggest we should start with Brother Thomas, the sentries, the mason’s wife, and the baker. Who else is known to rise early—the hunters? The steward . . . aye, Alfrydd is always awake. It seems the man never rests.” She was thinking hard now, pacing in front of the desk and tapping her chin with a forefinger. “And who goes late to bed—the jailor, perhaps?” Her eyes narrowed as she turned and faced Sir Lylle. “Let us question them all again.”
His lips paled and his nostrils flared a bit for he was a proud man and obviously didn’t like his authority questioned. Nonetheless he nodded curtly. “As you wish.” He rounded the table just as the sound of hurried footsteps thundered up the stairs.
“Sir Lylle,” a voice shouted, and seconds later Sir Hywell pushed open the door. With him, being pulled by his arm, was a sullen lad whom Morwenna recognized as Kyrth the stableboy. The boy’s eyes were downcast and hay was stuck to his clothes and cap. “Kyrth, here, knows what happened last night,” Hywell announced triumphantly and then upon seeing Morwenna gave a quick nod. “M’lady.”
“What is it you saw?” Morwenna asked, and the boy, swiping his woolen hat from his head, leaving his hair standing on end, barely looked up.
“I was attacked.”
“Who attacked you?” she asked quickly.
He shook his head. “I know not. ’Twas dark and I was mucking out the stable, didn’t see him, but he had a knife to me neck, right here”—he touched a spot near his Adam’s apple with one grimy finger—“and . . . and he swore he’d cut my throat if I so much as said a word.”
“Tell me everything,” Morwenna said.
Haltingly Kyrth explained how he’d been bound and gagged and left in the stables. He’d been unable to move or cry out and hadn’t been discovered for hours. Whoever had trussed him up and left him had also stolen a horse, a big bay stallion named Rex.
“ ’Tis sorry, I am,” he was saying as another set of footsteps lumbered up the stairs. The stable master appeared in the doorway and upon spying Kyrth swore under his breath.
“ ’Tis your fault we lost a fine steed,” he accused, pointing a gnarly finger at the boy. “Christ Jesus, what were ye thinkin’, or do ye?” Red-faced and tight-lipped, he barely glanced at Morwenna. “I never could trust ye,” he spat, his thick eyebrows slamming together. “How could this have happened? By the Christ, Rex is a fine steed and now he’s been stolen!” He turned his worried eyes to Morwenna, and some of the wind seemed knocked out of his sails, his anger, now that he’d spewed at the boy, spent. “ ’Tis sorry, I am, m’lady.” He plucked his cap from his head as if finally remembering his manners. “This . . . this disgrace should never have happened.” He shook his big head slowly from side to side. “First the man escapes. Then Isa, poor woman, is slain . . . and now this.”
Morwenna’s eyes narrowed at the man’s speech. The sadness in his eyes was contrived. John had never trusted Isa, had often made fun of her ways, and here he was acting as if he mourned a woman he’d muttered was a “heretic, a damned witch,” over a cup of ale. He was just trying to save his position by blaming the boy and pretending to care about a woman he despised.
“We’ll find the horse,” Sir Lylle assured her, his long jaw hardening. “Along with the rider.”
“Good,” she said, though she didn’t believe him for a minute. It seemed everyone in the castle was inept and incompetent.
She’d already decided that it was best not to trust others with her own mission. Though she didn’t voice her mistake, she realized it was she who had refused to listen to Isa’s warnings. She’d allowed the self-proclaimed sorceress to do what she wanted—and that leniency may have cost Isa her life. Morwenna also knew she was the one person within the keep who had given Carrick his chance to escape, she who had insisted he not be jailed, or bound, or returned to Wybren under lock and key.
So it would be her task to locate him.
“Assuming Carrick stole the horse,” she said, and everyone in the room nodded slightly, “where do you think he’s gone?”
Kyrth shrugged. John didn’t venture an answer, and Sir Hywell snorted, “Who knows where the likes of him would be goin’?”
Sir Lylle thought a minute, a smug, nearly patronizing smile pinned to his lips. “Carrick is getting as far from here and Wybren as possible,” he said. “He took the strongest steed, one with great stamina. I would guess he would travel toward the sea, mayhap to a town where he could secure passage on a vessel leaving Wales.” His eyes thinned as he thought, his grin widened, and at that moment, Morwenna realized Sir Lylle was an idiot of the highest order. Though s
he knew Carrick to be a liar, a womanizer, and a cheat, deep in her heart she didn’t believe him to be a murderer. In the time she’d been with him, nothing had changed her opinion.
She thought that what he would want more than anything was to clear his name. And the only way he could do that was to return to Wybren. The opposite of what Sir Lylle thought.
And precisely where Morwenna planned to follow.
The castle loomed, a behemoth of a keep with rounded turrets, massive walls, and a wide moat that surrounded the hillock on which it stood. Red-and-gold standards snapped in the breeze, and as twilight was fast approaching, torches had been lit.
Wybren.
From atop his spent horse, he stared at the keep.
Zing! Like an arrow, a memory sizzled through his mind. He was in bed with a woman with flaxen hair. She glanced up at him and smiled, as if she had secrets he would never uncover, and then pulled his head to hers.
Alena.
He’d loved her once . . . or thought he had.
Zing!
Another memory, a sharp-edged picture of one of his brothers . . . which one he knew not . . . whipping a horse as it balked at jumping a rail. The frightened animal reared, blood at the corners of its mouth from the bit, lather forming on its dark coat.
As more splintered memories cut through his mind, he had no doubt that this was his home.
He remembered the apple tree in the orchard from which he’d fallen as a child, recalled a small shaggy-haired pony that had tossed him to the ground before he learned to ride, called up images of swordplay with weapons made of sticks before he was allowed to use a real blade of steel.
Zing!
A fleeting picture of his father—a big bear of a man—smelling of ale and sex as he stumbled up the stairs, heading to the door of the chamber he shared with his wife.
As for his mother, his memories of her were still dim. It seemed she was weak, her eyes always sad, her touch lifeless.
His father and mother had lived here in a cold state of marriage where they were formal to each other and treated their children distantly, through the service of wet nurses, nursemaids, teachers, and anyone who would keep them occupied. There had been grand balls and dark secrets and a childhood littered with fantasy and fun and despair.
Aye, this was the place he grew up. More fragments of memories rose to the surface of his consciousness: apple fights and catching frogs and having his ears boxed for stealing the priest’s chalice upon a dare . . .
Guilt twisted his insides as he stared up at the watch-towers. How had he survived? Why, with all the memories that assailed him, could he not remember who he was, or the horrendous night when most of the people he remembered in bits and pieces had died, caught in a fire from which there was no escape?
Because you were a part of it.
If you didn’t set the fire, then you aided someone who had and he double-crossed you. Elsewise, you would not have escaped. Only one person survived the blaze, one person who rode into the night wearing the ring of Wybren. One person who has been blamed for this tragedy.
You.
Carrick of Wybren.
His throat closed in on itself. It seemed certain. He had to be Carrick . . . and if so, he was a part of what had happened.
His eyes narrowed as rain began to fall.
One person knew the truth.
The answer to everything lay with Graydynn, Lord of Wybren.
“I’m coming, you miserable son of a dog,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He kneed his mount toward the main gate. “Be forewarned.”
The Redeemer slid noiselessly through the inner bailey of Wybren.
His home.
Where he belonged.
Fires from the huts of the potter and tanner and smith warmed the night, casting the glow of inviting patches of light. From the great hall he heard the sound of voices, even merriment, as soon the evening meal was to be served.
Rain misted from a near-dark sky, but the cold of winter didn’t settle in his bones. It was staved off by the thrill that pulsed through his blood, the anticipation of finally realizing his dream. ’Twas so close at hand.
He glanced upward, to the second story and the lord’s quarters. The keep had been rebuilt stronger and loftier than before, but if he closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, he could recall every detail of that night, the night he’d heard God’s voice. Even now he could still smell the scent of burning oil. He remembered the crackle of the flames as they’d moved hungrily under the doors to the rooms of those sleeping unaware.
Even now he felt a thrill just imagining the fire creeping through the rushes, surrounding the beds, igniting the drapes hanging from the canopies, crawling relentlessly through the linens to the slumbering sinners. That they had died in their own little hells was fitting. . . . More than fitting . . . ’twas sweet, sweet justice.
And redemption.
He smiled to himself, satisfied at a job well done . . . well, almost done.
Soon all that he had planned would be realized.
The mistake he’d made earlier, inadvertently not killing everyone he’d intended to in the blaze, would be rectified.
This night.
And all he had worked for would be his.
Including Morwenna of Calon.
Frustrated, he felt the same tremor of lust run through his body, the heat of desire. He tamped it down with an effort.
He would wait.
Finish what he’d started first.
Suffer a little more torture by not being able to touch her . . . yet. But soon, mayhap on the morrow, she would be his. He rubbed his hands upon his breeches, drying them, creating heat on his thighs.
Tomorrow.
His work would be complete.
And God would be pleased.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Halt! Who goes there?” The sentry’s voice boomed through the night, ricocheting off Wybren’s thick walls.
For a heartbeat, he froze upon his steed. But he’d already formed the lie, and it was easy enough to say, “My name is Odell. I come from Castle Calon with a message from Lady Morwenna for Lord Graydynn.” He spoke in a raspy tone, as much from his injuries as to alter his voice lest this guard remember him, for now he was certain he had lived here, grown up here as a son of Dafydd.
He’d hidden the small knife inside his sleeve and appeared unarmed. He wanted to say more, to start talking to convince the man, but held his tongue. If need be, he could pull his knife quickly and force the man to let him pass, but he didn’t want to cause any trouble, didn’t want anyone to see a commotion. No, he wanted to float into the keep as quietly as a soft breeze.
The guard held his torchlight aloft though a curtain of rain kept the flame low and helped disguise him. “Odell?” he repeated as if the name sounded strange.
“Aye. I came with m’lady from Penbrooke, where I worked in the service of Lord Kelan.”
“Ye seem familiar.”
“You were at Penbrooke?”
“Nay, never.” The guard shook his head.
“Then maybe we shared a cup of ale in Abergwynn or at the Cock and Bull near Twyll?”
“Nay, I think not but—”
Two horsemen approached from behind, and the sentry’s attention shifted for a second. The newcomers were loud and demanded to be allowed inside. “Hey, what’s the holdup here? C’mon, mate, we need a fire and a woman and a cup of ale to warm our bones! Belfar, is that you?”
The guardsman, standing in the illumination from his dying torch, scowled and muttered something unintelligible. He cast one last glance at the solitary rider. “You can pass,” he said. “Sir Henry will escort you to the lord.” He motioned toward the gatehouse. “Henry, you there, take this rider from Calon to see the baron.”
A man darted from the gatehouse.
Upon his worn steed, the rider’s heart was beating hard, and he hoped that the new man wouldn’t recognize him. Sooner or later someone would. He’d grown up her
e among these people, and surely they had heard that Carrick had been found near Calon, so he was pressing his luck if he met too many people. Fortunately most of the guards were mercenaries, men whose allegiance was paid for in gold and who often found a higher bidder for their services, many of whom were new to Wybren.
With one of Graydynn’s soldiers walking briskly beside him and carrying a small lantern, he rode through the gates and into the lower bailey.
In the dim, flickering light, as rain poured from the heavens, a barrage of memories hammered in his brain. He knew instinctively where the flock of sheep were penned. Though he couldn’t remember the name of the one who sheared the animals, he saw him in his mind’s eye, a spry little man with a balding head and a big belly. . . . Richard, aye, that had been his name, and he had a son, a red-haired lad with a gap between his teeth and who was deadly with a sling-shot.
The rider also recognized the farrier’s hut, where, this night, he caught a glimpse of the brawny man silhouetted in front of the fires of his forge. . . . Timothy was his name, and his wife, Mary, was a big woman with large breasts, who had flirted mercilessly with all the boys in the keep.
He swallowed hard as memory after memory assailed him and yet he attempted to keep his mind on his duty, to act as if he had not woken every day to the sounds and smells that were Wybren. He and the guard stopped at the stables, where a young lad, a page whom he didn’t recognize, took the reins of his horse. “I’ll see that the stableboy, ’e takes care of ’im. Feeds ’im, waters ’im, and brushes ’im,” the boy promised.
As the page led the big stallion to the overhang of the stable, another recollection came to mind, one of York, the stable master, a robust, bowlegged man who was always up at dawn, checking the animals and the stores of feed, calling each horse by name.
York’s daughter was Rebecca, a girl with doe eyes, an innocent smile, and an infectious laugh. Rebecca had been the first girl he’d ever kissed, just inside the stable door.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
