by Lisa Jackson
Smack!
His face smashed against the floor.
He tasted blood.
Within seconds his hands were lashed by thick rawhide cords, his arms forced against his body. A gag was thrust into his mouth and roughly tied. Hauled to his feet, he was nudged forward, down the steep winding staircase and into the great hall.
Blood ran into his eye from a gash on his head as he gazed at the room before him. A fire crackled in the grate and torchlights glowed, reflecting in the gold threads of the ornate tapestries draping the whitewashed walls. Huge wheels hung suspended on chains from the ceiling and upon the wheels, interlaced with antlers, burned hundreds of candles, causing the room to glimmer and sparkle.
As before.
His heart clutched.
As he looked at the raised dais.
He’d sat there. With his mother, father, and siblings.
His heart thudding, the shutters to his mind suddenly flew open.
In a jolt, the curtain lifted.
His life snapped back into his memory. He saw himself at the great table, his sister on one side of him, his wife on the other.
His breath swept in through the gag as every piece of his life fell into place.
In the span of a single heartbeat, he finally understood who he was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“M’lady!”
Morwenna and Brother Thomas had just reached the few steps leading to the main door of the great hall. She turned quickly and found Sir Hywell running toward her.
“Please, wait,” he said.
“What is it?” She tried not to snap, but she was tired and anxious to get at the task of finding the hidden doors and secret hallways within the keep—if indeed there were such things. On her way from the south tower she’d wondered more than once if the old monk was not quite in his right mind, if he could have created the idea of “hallways within hallways” in all those years of solitude. Still, it was something to do, to search for.
“There is a party of men outside the main gate and they want to speak to you.”
“Now?” she asked, glancing up at the dark sky. Though the rain had abated, the wind was cold as Satan’s breath, the night pitch dark, and the promise of more rain or sleet heavy in the rumbling clouds overhead.
“Aye, they have come with prisoners.”
“Prisoners? Who are these men?”
“I know not, but Sir Lylle has detained the two who have shown themselves. They claim there are more waiting in the woods with their prisoners.”
“What do I want with their prisoners?” she snapped and then stopped herself. “They have found Carrick? Or the killer?”
Sir Hywell shook his head. “Nay, m’lady, they claim they have Sir Alexander and the sheriff.”
“What!”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“As captives?” she demanded. “But why would anyone imprison the captain of the guard and Sir Payne?”
“I know not,” he admitted, and even in the darkness Morwenna read the confusion on his features.
“I’ll be right there.” She turned to the monk. “Brother Thomas, please, wait for me inside. You can warm yourself by the fire and I’ll be back. We can then start our search.”
“Mayhap I should return to my room.”
“Nay! Please . . . just give me a few minutes. I won’t be long,” she promised. “Sir Cowan,” she called to the guard at the door, “would you please see that Brother Thomas has a mazer of wine and ask the cook for some jellied eggs, or cheese, or a bit of smoked eel.”
“Please, do not go to any trouble.” But there was a glimmer in the monk’s eyes and she swore she heard his old stomach rumble.
“ ’Tis none,” she assured him quickly. She was in a hurry and she did not want to have to retrieve him yet again from the tower. “Come along.” She shepherded the man up the steps, delivering him to the door. “Sir Cowan will take care of you.” Over the monk’s bent shoulder, she met Sir Cowan’s eyes and silently insisted that he take charge of the man. “As I said, I’ll be back directly.”
Then she was off, following Hywell along the dark paths, feeling the night close in on her. Her pattens collected mud and the wind cut through her cloak as she made her way in the darkness and wondered who had the nerve, the outright audacity, to take Sir Alexander and Sir Payne captive.
You know who, Morwenna.
It can be no one else but Carrick.
“God’s teeth, I swear I’ll kill him with my own hands,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Pardon, m’lady?” Hywell said.
She shook her head and lied, “ ’Tis nothing.”
Firelight glowed from the windows of the gatehouse and most of the garrison was awake. Those who had dozed had been roused and the few who had been up playing dice and chess had abandoned their games. Some of the men had collected in a large chamber of the gatehouse; others were posted strategically on the wall walks.
Sir Hywell escorted her to the captain of the guard’s chamber, where a guard stood at the door. Inside, Sir Lylle and five knights surrounded two men she’d never seen before. The taller of the two had a brand upon his cheek, was missing a front tooth, and wore an air of indifference that bespoke a soullessness that Morwenna noted immediately. The mark on his cheek told her he’d already been branded a criminal, and his eyes were lizardlike and cold. The second man was three inches shorter and years younger, not more than a boy. His skin was unblemished, his hair a mop of red-brown strands. He held a cap in his hands and worried the brim, nervous as a mouse in a roomful of cats.
“These men insisted on seeing you, Lady Morwenna,” Sir Lylle said, and Morwenna met the taller man’s eyes. “They surrendered their weapons.”
Morwenna didn’t wait for introductions. “I understand you have two of my men, that you’re holding them hostage.” She advanced toward Lizard Eyes. “You are to release them both immediately.”
“That’s why we’re here,” he said. “To bargain for their release.”
“Bargain? Why would I bargain? Tell me, where are they?”
The branded man’s smile stretched to show off the gap between his teeth. “With Carrick of Wybren.”
She knew it! That lying underbelly of a snake! So angry she was almost shaking, she curled the fingers of one hand tight and said, “Then why is he not ‘bargaining’ with me? What kind of coward is he, and how is it you work for him? Why did he send you?”
“To ensure that he’s not falsely accused and arrested.”
“Falsely accused? He’s kidnapped two men and is worried about false charges?” She shook her head and slowly uncoiled her fist. “I’ll not deal with either of you. If Carrick wants to bargain for his life or his freedom, then he should do it himself.” She leveled her gaze at the taller man, and from the corner of her eye she saw the shorter one squirm. “You know, I should toss both of you into the dungeon, or better yet, the oubliette. We have one here at Calon.” The younger one was sweating now, biting at his lip. “And then I should just forget about you.”
“If any harm comes to us, then your men are as good as dead,” Lizard Eyes said.
“Then go. Tell Carrick that he’ll have to deal with me himself, and if any harm comes to Sir Alexander or the sheriff, I’ll see that he’s hunted down like the lying dog he is.” She glanced at Sir Lylle. “Do not return their weapons to them, but escort them out of the keep.” She turned her attention back to the taller man. “I expect to see Sir Alexander, Sir Payne, and any other free man in your . . . ‘custody’ by dawn. With or without Carrick.”
The branded man’s eyes narrowed even farther and his lips twitched beneath his scraggly beard. “I imagine you’ll see him and see him soon, m’lady,” he mocked. Abruptly he turned on his heel, nodded toward his cohort, and, as the men around her parted, left the gatehouse.
Two soldiers saw that the men were walked out of the keep. Only when she heard the gates creak closed and the portcullis grind do
wn did Morwenna breathe again.
“I don’t like this,” Sir Lylle said as the men went back to their posts. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced in front of the desk. “It feels wrong. As if it’s some kind of trap.”
“I don’t like it, either. I assume we have men following those two.”
“Aye, but the thugs will know it, too, will assume we’ve sent men after them. They will probably lead my men on a merry chase but I doubt they’ll lead us to Carrick or the captives.”
“Then we’ll just have to find them,” Morwenna said. “Whichever way the men go, even if they split up, we must track them all. And our men are not only to be looking for Alexander and Payne, but the physician and Father Daniel and whoever else is missing as well—including the two men we sent to search the town earlier.”
He nodded.
“It would seem that Carrick’s camp would be close if he was waiting for word of my decision from his men.”
“He may not even have made camp,” Lylle pointed out.
She agreed, her heart heavy when she thought of Alexander who, though he’d never voiced his feelings, had loved her silently. Then there was Payne and the distress of his loving wife.
“Mention this to no one; make your men swear to silence except to you and me. There is no reason to worry anyone in the keep until we know more.”
Again he nodded and she sighed loudly, a headache starting to pound behind her eyes. She started for the door. “Let me know the second you hear anything.” Pausing, she placed a hand on the doorframe and looked over her shoulder at the man who so feebly filled the captain of the guard’s shoes. Not only a smaller man than Sir Alexander, Sir Lylle was so much weaker. “Find them, Sir Lylle,” she ordered. “And report back to me immediately.”
“I’m not Carrick.”
His voice echoed through the great hall at Wybren as he managed to spit off his loosened gag.
The soldiers holding him and those who had gathered in the cavernous room turned, eyeing him suspiciously.
Imperious as ever, Graydynn laughed without an ounce of mirth in his voice. “Of course you’re—”
“Nay, Graydynn, I’m not and you know it,” he charged, his fury white-hot. “You recognized me.” With a quick hitch of his shoulders, he threw off the guards’ arms. “I’m Theron. Dafydd’s son. Carrick’s brother, aye, and I look like him, but I’m not Carrick.”
“Theron died in the fire,” Graydynn said, but his voice held less conviction as he studied the marks on Theron’s face, searching below what remained of his bruises and scratches, looking beneath his beard.
“I wasn’t in Wybren that night,” Theron insisted, memories of his past solidifying in his head. He stepped closer to Graydynn. “I left this keep when I discovered my wife in bed with another man, her lover, and no, the bastard wasn’t Carrick, either.” His lips barely moved as he spoke and everyone in the great hall became silent. “ ’Twas someone she’d known from Heath Castle, a man her brother Ryden had sent to watch over her.” Theron’s lips twisted at the irony of this, his wife’s ultimate betrayal. “I didn’t even know his name, but he was the one who died in the fire with my wife. He’s the one everyone assumed was me.”
“You’re lying!”
“Am I, Graydynn? Look at me. Look closely. All of us brothers, the sons of Myrnna and Dafydd—Byron, Carrick, Owen, and, yes, even I—looked so much alike we could fool those who didn’t know us well. Only Alyce, our sister, took after our mother; the rest of us were the image of our father. But you, Graydynn, you should realize the truth when it stares you in the face.”
“This is impossible,” Graydynn hissed over the murmurs of his men and the pop and crackle of the fire burning hot in the grate.
“Is it? Then how do I know that you stole wine from my father by bribing the cellarer?” he demanded, edging yet closer, smelling the scent of fear mixed with Graydynn’s sweat. “Because I did it with you. I was there. I think Wynn is still here, is he not? He can verify this.”
“Theron could have told you about the wine, Carrick,” Graydynn insisted. The tip of his tongue nervously licked his lips.
“Would I have told Carrick about the other secret you and I shared?”
“I know not what you’re saying.” But Graydynn’s nostrils flared a bit and there were doubts surfacing in his eyes.
“Sure you do, Graydynn. You remember.” Theron’s jaw was stone. “I caught you stealing Carrick’s knife, the one with the jeweled handle, remember? ’Twas summer . . . six years past and Carrick swore that if he ever found out who did it, he would cut off the culprit’s balls and stuff them down his throat!”
Graydynn visibly paled.
“I see you do recall that event. I assume you still have the knife.”
“You are Theron,” one of the soldiers said, stepping closer, his gaze scraping over the captive’s face. “I see it now.”
“And I remember you, Sir Benjamin,” Theron said to the thick-bodied man with a heavy red beard.
“Aye, and I know you, too,” another, smaller man, concurred. “I was in the service of your father for twenty years.”
“As was I.”
Other voices chimed in, agreeing. A laundress wiping her hands on her apron smiled through a sheen of tears. “Thank the Lord that you’re safe, Sir Theron. Thank the Lord!”
One man with thinning brown hair and eyes with crow’s-feet spreading from them stepped forward and stared at Theron long and hard. “You saved my life, or at least kept me from prison,” he said solemnly. “A man had accused me of stealing from the lord and you stepped forward in my defense. A week later the true thief was found.”
“You’re Liam,” Theron said, nodding. “Your wife, Katherine—nay, Katie, you call her—had twin sons a year ago.”
“Nearly two years past it is now,” the man said, a grin crawling across his face.
“By the saints, I thought you were dead!” another soldier yelled.
“My liege,” yet another called and fell to one knee. Several others followed, swearing their allegiance to the son of Dafydd, the rightful lord.
“Up! Up! All of you!” Graydynn commanded furiously, swinging his arms toward the ceiling as if willing his subjects to their collective feet. His sword was still in his hands and it cut a wide arc as he pointed toward the heavens. “This is . . . this is preposterous! This man is Carrick! A traitor! A murderer!”
“You lie!” Benjamin said and in one quick movement relieved Graydynn of his sword.
Theron narrowed his gaze on his cousin. “Have them cut me loose,” he ordered, but before the Lord of Wybren could respond, Benjamin, using Graydynn’s sword, sliced the bonds and cut the gag from his neck.
Liam rose from his knee. “ ’Tis sorry I am for my part in your capture, m’lord. I should have recognized you.”
“He’s not the lord here!” Rage and fear twisted Graydynn’s face. “Do not release him! Do not! We know not why he’s here.”
“He’s here because he belongs here!” one man shouted, and others yelled in agreement and held their weapons high.
“I came for the truth. I came to face you.” Theron’s voice was low as he tried and failed to control his own simmering fury. “And I came to avenge my family.” So angry he quivered inside, it was all he could do not to wring the bastard’s neck. “You killed everyone.”
“Nay.”
“You thought I was in the room with Alena, and you thought you murdered every last one of us, so that you could claim this barony as your own, as the rightful heir, the firstborn of my father’s brother. Only Carrick survived, and after he escaped, or did the dirty work for the two of you, you blamed the fire on him.”
“No, Theron . . .” Graydynn paled, hearing his own voice betray him and call him by name. “I . . . I had nothing to do with your family’s death.”
“Liar!” Theron shouted. “I know not how it worked between you and Carrick. Perhaps you two were partners. ’Tis no secret that Carrick despise
d our father, but what I don’t understand is why he would trust a snake like you.”
“I swear to you, I had nothing to do with the fire!”
“Prove it.”
“I don’t have to. I’m the lord here!”
“But you shouldn’t be. Not when one of Baron Dafydd’s sons is alive,” Benjamin pointed out, and suddenly a dozen sets of angry eyes were trained on Graydynn. The room went deathly quiet. Only the pop and hiss of the fire remained.
Sweat beaded upon Graydynn’s brow. “Listen,” he said and squared his shoulders, stiffened his spine. “You men—each and every one of you—have sworn your allegiance to me, have promised to lay down your lives for king and country. I am your lord, so take this man to the dungeon and lock him away or you’ll each be charged with treason.”
“We swore allegiance to the rightful heir of Wybren,” one man said, his lips tight.
“The king has recognized me as such.”
“But the king don’t know what you did.”
“I did nothing!” Panic strangled Graydynn’s words before he could compose himself. Anger took rein of his emotions. Fury radiated from him and a red vein throbbed at his temple. “If you do as I say, I’ll forget this bit of rebellion. If not, you will all be jailed. So understand me and understand me well. Take the prisoner away. Place him behind bars. I’ll decide what to do with him in the morn.”
“Wait!” A high-pitched voice cut through the room, and a soldier wrestling a smaller, wiry man entered from a side hallway. With another man’s help the soldier managed to subdue the captive.
Theron’s heart jolted as he recognized the man he’d seen lurking by the door to his room, the one he guessed from the gossip he’d overheard was Dwynn, the half-wit.
“I’m sorry, m’lord,” the soldier, red-faced and breathing hard, apologized to Graydynn, since he’d missed what had just happened. “After I called up to you to tell you about the spy, he bolted, and then got out a back door and halfway to the stables. We”—he gestured to the other sentry—“had to capture him again.” He cast his captive an angry glare. “Earlier I found him hiding near the well. I think he followed the other one here.” He pointed at Theron. He stopped then, his expression growing nearly comical in its confusion as he noticed Theron was neither bound nor held. “What’s going on here?”
