Steeling herself against rising worry, she reminded herself the kidnappers had demanded a ransom of silver, not gold. While she didn’t know for certain, she suspected Brant hadn’t told them of the cup; he likely aimed to keep it and any more riches he discovered for himself.
Greed had vanquished Brant’s loyalties to his fellow criminals. If he had informed them of such a treasure, ’twould not still be in his possession. The abductors would have seized it—or killed him to possess it.
Unless he’d told them of the goblet, as well as more gold to be found, and they were in on his scheme to find it. Through his arrangement with her, Brant might be working on behalf of them all to locate the riches.
Which meant his only motive for his bold, passionate, magical kisses was to seduce his way into her confidence, to make her trust him with the secrets of the gold. That way, she’d willingly lead him to the treasure.
Would he . . . could he . . . be so ruthless?
’Twas entirely possible. The man was a rogue.
Why, of all idiocy, did the notion of him manipulating her hurt so much?
Tamping down her resentment, Faye struggled to refocus her thoughts. The plot she imagined could well be true, but she had no evidence Brant was a fortune seeker for anyone but himself.
Moreover, she didn’t know his exact relationship to the kidnappers. He’d seemed shocked to learn Angeline was a child. Such a vital misunderstanding implied that he wasn’t involved in organizing the kidnapping—as he’d told her—and that he hadn’t seen the little girl with her abductors. Would he not have done, if he were part of the scheme? At the very least, he would have known Angeline was a child.
Also, his efforts to convince her that Angeline was well, and unharmed, showed concern for the little girl’s welfare.
Only the most foolish, smitten fool would be swayed by a knave’s compassion, a voice inside her cautioned. His attentiveness could be merely a ploy to furrow his way deeper into your trust, because he sensed your reluctance to share what you knew about the gold.
True. Still, his reactions at the lake had seemed spontaneous, rather than rehearsed. In those moments, he’d seemed . . . genuine.
Shifting in the saddle, she glanced over her shoulder. Far behind her glimmered the river. There was no dark figure, his cloak whipping about him, thundering down the road behind her.
Facing forward again, she sighed. Brant must have accepted that their arrangement had ended. Realizing she wouldn’t be swayed, he’d thus chosen not to pursue her.
With a gentle tug on the reins, she slowed her horse to a canter. On the faint breeze, she caught the acrid smell of wood smoke. Not far ahead, smoke-encircled cottages lined the roadside. She approached the outer fringes of the village.
Whether her suspicions about Brant were right or wrong didn’t matter. She’d told him where the goblet was found, and given him the gold. She never had to see him again.
Even if he returned uninvited to her chamber.
Even if he threatened to say he was her lover.
If he were so bold as to visit Caldstowe Keep again and confront her, she would make good her threat to scream, and he would face the consequences.
As Faye headed toward the village, she fought the unwelcome heaviness stealing through her, the weight of new responsibility. Her quest to rescue Angeline might be more difficult working alone. Yet, she wasn’t without wits or resources.
Especially if she went to Torr.
A dangerous notion, especially when the kidnappers had told her not to tell anyone. However, if she explained the situation to Torr, and told him how important it was to keep it secret, the abductors would never know.
Being Angeline’s father, did he not deserve to be aware of the kidnappers’ demands? Was she wise to keep what she knew from him, when he must be gravely concerned?
Looking up from her mare’s neck, she recognized the familiar part of the road. Instinct had brought her to the place where she always felt welcome. Wispy smoke rose from the wattle-and-daub cottage enclosed by an uneven wooden fence. The stoked fire told her Greya was home, as did the painted sign depicting a bunch of rosemary that hung from the lowest branch of the hazelnut tree.
Grasping the little lamb, Faye drew her horse to a halt and dismounted. Patting her mare’s neck, she led her through the gate made from wooden sticks bound together, then closed it behind them, taking care to secure the latch.
She headed to the thatch-roofed shelter, where chickens nested in wooden boxes stuffed with straw and a sway-backed cow chewed cud. After tethering the mare to one of the posts, Faye crossed to the wooden door and knocked.
The panel creaked open. From the muted shadows inside, Greya smiled.
“Lady Rivellaux.” She drew the door open wider. “I knew ’twas you.”
A smile tugged at Faye’s lips. “Somehow, you always know.”
“I do, for you—” Greya’s motherly smile faltered. “What happened to your cheek? Let me have a look.” Stepping back, the old woman motioned Faye in. Today, Greya wore her silver gray hair, the hue of winter sunshine grazing a cold lake, braided and pinned around her head. Her tresses glimmered in the light of candles clustered on a nearby wall shelf.
For a moment, Faye hesitated. In all the morning’s commotion, she’d forgotten about her injury. While she was glad of Greya’s willingness to inspect the wound, she didn’t wish to explain how she got it.
“Come,” Greya insisted. “Please. Before all the fire’s warmth leaves the cottage.”
Faye nodded. She couldn’t very well leave now, could she? The bruised part of her soul reminded her she was exactly where she wanted to be. She stepped over the threshold.
Greya closed the door. The breeze rustled bunches of lavender, rosemary, dill, and other herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling. The drying herbs gave the cottage’s interior a comforting fragrance, a scent Faye always associated with Greya. Faye breathed in deep, and felt some of the morning’s strain slip out of her.
An oak table stretched across half of the room. By the fire in the center of the dirt floor, an ancient, orange tabby raised his head from where he lay curled up in a blanket tucked into a woven basket. Blinking his golden eyes, he stared at Faye—a very direct look, akin to a greeting.
“Hello, Merlin,” Faye murmured.
Her strides smooth and elegant despite her many years, Greya came to her. “Now, milady, what did you do to your cheek?”
“I . . . fell from my mare.”
The old woman tsked. “It looks painful.” Guiding Faye toward the table, Greya said, “Sit, milady. I will fetch you an herbal infusion, then find my best ointment.”
“Thank you.”
Greya raised a slender, protesting hand. “I am glad to be of help. You do not look well. I hope you do not mind me saying so, milady, but you look quite wretched.”
Faye laughed, despite the weariness pressing upon her. “Oh, nay.”
Gliding over to the fire and carrying a small iron pot, Greya chuckled, a sound like dried leaves scraping over frosty ground. “Tell me what happened.”
Faye rubbed her chapped lips together. How she longed to confide in Greya all that had transpired over the last few difficult days. But she couldn’t. If she told, the kind-hearted woman would feel compelled to help. A word or two to the wrong person could put her in grave danger, as well as Angeline. A risk Faye wouldn’t take.
With stiff fingers, she unfastened her mantle, keeping her gaze on her hands rather than Greya. “I was thrown from my horse the day of the storm. I hoped to come visit you, but the tempest overtook me. The thunder frightened my mare and she galloped off.” Faye dropped onto the bench at the table, fighting the compulsion to look up and meet the healer’s gaze. “I spent the night in the storm’s wrath, waiting till the weather cleared. Torr’s men found me the next morn and escorted me back to Caldstowe.”
“You spent the whole night alone in the storm?” Greya sou
nded aghast.
In truth, I lay in a tavern room, in the care of a handsome, arrogant knave.
Somehow, Faye managed a soft “Mmm.”
Shaking her head, Greya hung the cauldron over the flame. Reaching up, she snapped dried leaves from the herbs hanging overhead, muttering to herself as she went along. “—a little of this. Aye, a bit of that.” She dropped the handful into the pot, then stirred. A piquant scent wafted from the fire.
Faye leaned her cheek on her hand. “’Tis a lovely smell.”
“’Twill be ready in a moment.” After one more stir, Greya set her wooden spoon aside. She crossed to a small cupboard, withdrew a glazed, earthenware pot, and came to Faye’s side. As the old woman removed the wooden lid, the soothing scents of lavender and comfrey enveloped Faye.
“Is aught else bothering you?” Greya asked, her voice gentled by worry.
Faye bit her lip. The little lamb, clasped between her palms, scratched her skin. If only she could share her turmoil with the old woman, her closest friend. Without Greya’s comfort, Faye didn’t know how she would have survived the despair of losing her babe. What a blessed relief ’twould be to release her pent-up emotions.
She could not.
Must not.
Faye forced a lie, hating each false word. “I am . . . weary after my ordeal in the storm.”
“Of course.” Greya tilted Faye’s face with tender, skilled hands. With light touches, she massaged the ointment into Faye’s cheek. Then, with a satisfied nod, she set the lid back on the pot. “Take the rest with you, if you like. ’Tis good for curing all manner of injuries”—her voice dropped to murmur—“except, I fear, a wounded heart.”
Tears burned Faye’s eyes. Raising her head, she looked at Greya. The old woman’s mouth formed a compassionate line. She squeezed Faye’s clasped hands.
Tears spilled down Faye’s cheeks. “Oh, Greya.”
“I know how much you miss your babe.” The healer settled on the bench beside Faye. “She will always be with you, though, milady. As close as your own whisper.” She tapped wrinkled fingers to her chest. “Here.”
Faye managed a jerky nod.
“There, now.” Greya patted Faye’s hands. So smooth, her palms. Like the softest linen. “’Tis no wonder you are upset, with Lady Lorvais dying not long ago. I know what close friends you were. And little Angeline, without a mother now.” Greya paused before exhaling a troubled sigh. “No doubt what has happened to that sweet child is worrying you as well.”
Faye sucked in a breath. “Greya—”
“A friend at Caldstowe told me Angeline is missing. There are rumors she has been kidnapped.”
“A-aye.” With trembling hands, Faye wiped her face. Freed from her grasp, the lamb tipped over to lie on the table in a little puddle of water.
“What have you there?” Greya’s eyes widened. “’Tis Angeline’s?”
“I believe so.”
The old woman picked up the soggy toy. “Why, ’tis filthy. And wet. Where—”
“I found it at the river.”
“River? What were you doing there, so early this icy morn?”
Faye’s mouth went dry. The effort of holding back the truth became almost unbearable. She struggled to contrive a reasonable explanation that wouldn’t lead to more awkward questions. “I had difficulty sleeping and needed a morning walk. Elayne, Angeline and I oft went to the river. I rode there and . . .”
“You found the lamb during your walk.”
Not quite the truth, but near enough. Faye nodded.
Greya set the lamb back on the table. How stark it looked against the worn oak. After a silence, she said, “’Tis probably not Angeline’s. That child did not go anywhere without her lamb, and the man in the village has made many ewes with lambs over the years. Most likely, it belongs to one of the villagers’ children, lost when the women stopped there to wash clothes.”
Faye’s conversation with Brant nudged its way into her thoughts. With an irritated clamp of her jaw, she forced it away.
“A terrible crime, to abduct a child,” the old woman said. “I cannot imagine. Angeline must be terrified.”
Faye rested her hands on the table. Entwining her fingers, she said, “I will find her.”
“You, milady?” Greya clucked her tongue. “’Tis not your responsibility. ’Tis Lord Lorvais’s. He is ruler of this land and Angeline’s father.”
“True. Yet, I made a vow to Elayne as she lay dying. I promised to watch over Angeline, to protect her.” Her voice quavered. “I will not fail Elayne, especially in aught so important.”
“Oh, milady. Lady Lorvais could not have meant protecting Angeline from kidnappers.”
“Still—”
“You place too great a burden upon yourself.”
Faye wiped her eyes, then looked up at Greya. “How can I not do all within my power to help Angeline? She . . . needs me.”
A thoughtfulness shadowed Greya’s gaze as she rose from the bench. Steam wisped up from the pot over the fire. After stirring it several times, she fetched a mug and poured the liquid, then set the infusion on the table. “Careful. ’Tis hot.”
“Thank you,” Faye murmured.
Greya slipped down onto the opposite bench. Tucking stray, silvery hair back behind her ear, she asked, “How is Lord Lorvais, after all that has happened?”
Faye thought back to her earlier conversation with Torr. “As well as can be expected.”
“I imagine all the strain has made his affliction worse.”
“I believe so. He was drinking from his flask this morn.”
Greya shook her head. “I remember when he came to me for more of his herbal draft, when his other healer was ill.” A worried frown knit her brow. “’Twas a strange brew. Not light and healing, but dark and sinister. A potion with the power to enslave.”
Blowing on the infusion to cool it, Faye hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“Some herbs, such as Wormwood, should be used only when there is no alternative, for they can cause a”—she waved her hand, as if searching for the right word—“craving. A hunger that becomes stronger and stronger. This need has the power to destroy.”
“’Tis the only remedy that eases his discomfort.”
Greya pursed her lips as she looked down at the table. “So he said. I told him I never used such herbs and thus could not duplicate his draft. He seemed displeased. When I offered to make him a different tonic, he refused and strode out. He has not come back to me, so”—she shrugged—“I assume he found another healer to aid him.”
A high-pitched brrrttt announced Merlin. He leapt up onto the bench beside Greya, agile despite his age. Purring, he rubbed his furry face against her arm. With an affectionate smile, she scratched between his ears.
“Always after attention,” she said with teasing gruffness. “Just like a man.”
Faye laughed. The cat rubbed his face on her sleeve again, then gently nipped her.
“Merlin! Cease.”
“Merlin,” Faye said. “Did you name him after King Arthur’s sorcerer?”
“I did. Has a lovely sound to it, does it not?”
“What do you know of King Arthur?”
A little grin touched the healer’s lips. “He was the greatest of the Celtic rulers. He defeated the Saxons in battle after battle—a warrior of legendary victories—until he was killed at Camlann by a man named Mordred. Many believe he was Arthur’s own son.”
“Camlann is not very far from Caldstowe,” Faye said, sipping the infusion that tasted strongly of mint.
Nodding, Greya stroked her hand down Merlin’s silky back. “Some folk do not believe King Arthur died. There are legends he and his most trusted knights lie asleep somewhere in England’s hills. When they are needed, they will awaken to battle the enemies who threaten our lands. Once again, they will lead us to victory.”
A cold shiver trailed down Faye’s spine. She carefully set
down the mug. “’Tis impossible. How could men live for hundreds of years?”
“As I said, ’tis a legend. One of a great many.” She continued to stroke Merlin, while he blinked at her with bright, golden eyes. “There may be some truth in the old tales. Many are merely stories to entertain on bleak winter nights.”
Faye trailed her finger over the mug’s shiny glaze. “If . . . just if . . . King Arthur were still alive, in a slumber, where might he be?”
“There are many deep hills and caves in our lands. Some close to Caldstowe.” Greya scratched under Merlin’s chin. “A few of the villagers believe he lies in a secret cave very close to this village.”
Medieval Rogues Page 45
