She gasped. “That explains why, at times, she was so . . . wild.”
“What do you mean?” Brant asked.
Faye’s eyes shone with tears. “She became frantic. I could scarce get the elixir in her mouth, she was so distraught.”
Wild. Frantic. Distraught. As Royce had seemed that night months ago.
An eerie hum rang in Brant’s ears, even as Torr said, “Elayne hated me. She even concealed a dagger in the bedding and tried to stab me.” He grinned. “I took the knife away and did not underestimate her again.”
“How could you be so cruel?” Tears streamed down Faye’s cheeks. “Just to find the treasure?”
“The riches are a legend.” Torr’s eyes gleamed. “I am not the first man to want King Arthur’s hoard. So did Brant’s brother.”
Torr spat the word “brother” like the coarsest oath. The ringing in Brant’s ears intensified, matching his boiling anger. “Royce did not seek the treasure out of greed. He wanted only the satisfaction of finding what had eluded others for centuries.”
“You lie. His desires were the same as any other man’s.” Torr’s gaze slid to Angeline, now sitting up, rubbing her eyes. Hatred contorted his face.
Foreboding skittered across Brant’s soul. As torchlight hit the little girl’s face more fully, he drew a sharp breath. Her features mirrored Elayne’s beauty. Yet, he also caught a striking resemblance to . . .
God above!
“I want the journal, Faye,” Torr growled, taking a step closer, “and the chalice.”
“Not until you tell me why you believe Elayne betrayed you. Because she would not let you have the cup?”
Brant’s head swam. If his suspicions were correct . . . “There is another reason.”
Torr’s gaze narrowed. He strode to Angeline, reached down, and yanked the little girl to her feet. Cringing, she began to cry.
Val growled. Barking, he darted around Torr’s legs.
“Please!” Faye shrieked. “She is your child.”
“Take a good look at the sniveling whelp,” Torr roared. “Does she resemble me? Does she?”
Faye flung up helpless hands. “She is your daughter!”
The loathing in Torr’s gaze answered Brant’s suspicions. His fingers flexing around the sword, he eased forward. “Torr is not Angeline’s father.”
“What?”
“She is . . . my brother’s child.”
Chapter Twenty
As the words Brant had spoken aloud registered in his consciousness, so did another realization. “Angeline is my niece.”
Shock, blended with humility, washed through him. His niece.
His responsibility, by blood.
Her face wet with tears, Faye stepped nearer to Torr. “Release Angeline’s arm. Please. She is not responsible for what happened between you and Elayne.”
Teeth bared, Val crouched, preparing to leap at Torr. He spat at the little dog. He didn’t let go of Angeline.
“Faye is right.” Brant moved to stand beside Faye. “Angeline is an innocent in this wretched mess. What I do not understand is how Royce and Elayne—”
“—fornicated?” Torr snorted. “Do you not know how a babe is conceived?”
“Elayne wed you at Waverbury, two sennights before you, Royce, and I departed for crusade. Royce and I attended the celebrations.”
“She married me and coupled with Royce not long after.” Torr’s angry face turned scarlet. “I found them together. ’Twas not the first time she had lain with him.”
Brant barely restrained a stunned oath. He’d known of Royce’s desire for Elayne, an attraction his brother had felt from the very first time he’d met her years ago. She had encouraged his attentions each time they’d met. Brant hadn’t known, however, of Royce’s affair with her, or that he’d committed adultery.
“She married me,” Torr went on, “because of my wealth. But she loved your brother.” His arm shook. When his fingers tightened on Angeline’s arm, she wailed. “Shut up,” he bellowed, “you pathetic—”
“Please,” Faye cried. “She is frightened.”
“Torr,” Brant snapped, anxious to draw Torr’s attention before he injured Angeline. “Are you certain she is Royce’s child?”
“Look at her! When I do, I see him.” Torr’s whole body trembled. “Elayne spurned me after our wedding night. Deceitful bitch! We argued over Royce and the way she spoke to other men. After that, she refused to lie with me.”
“Did Royce know about the child?”
“How could he? Even I did not know of the babe until I returned from crusade. One look at her, though, and I knew she was his daughter.” A muscle bunched in his jaw before his harsh gaze slid to Faye. “And you. Another betrayal, that you chose Meslarches over me.”
Her throat moved with a swallow. “Torr—”
“’Twas supposed to be a simple arrangement. You were to meet Brant, not be able to pay the ransom demand, and after a few days, beg me for help. I thought for certain you would realize only I had the means to help you. I would ride out with my men and return home with Angeline. A victory you would admire, Faye.”
“Oh, God!”
“You would revere me as a hero and come to trust me. One day, you would confide in me about the gold cup. I would ask to see it . . . hold it . . . Then, ’twould become mine.”
Brant scowled. “Using Royce’s journal, you intended to find the rest of the treasure. You would become the richest man in England.”
Torr’s lips slid into a wicked grin. “I would be hailed as the lord who defeated one of the greatest of all legends, not only now, but centuries from now. I would claim King Arthur’s riches. I would be . . . immortal.”
“By fulfilling Royce’s dream,” Brant grated between his teeth.
“I claimed his dream for my own.”
“Never!”
Laughing, Torr groped in his leather bag. “Ah, but I did. Months ago.”
The ringing, sharper than before, echoed again in Brant’s ears. His breath wedged in his lungs, trapped by a sudden, gut-wrenching revelation. He watched Torr drink, then lower the flask from his mouth.
“You . . . drugged Royce. That is why he was so agitated, rambling . . .”
Torr dragged a shaking hand over his mouth.
“Tell me the truth.” Brant screamed, raising his sword. “Tell me!”
Sneering, Torr said, “He deserved to die.”
A brutal shudder wrenched through Brant. “How—?”
“I put the drug in his wine. The drink on crusade was so foul, he never noticed. While we sat by the fire, I told him I had discovered a mortifying secret—that you and Elayne were secretly lovers. She wanted no man but you.”
“A lie!”
“How distraught he became. He stormed into your tent—”
Brant barely heard Faye’s shocked cry over his own roar. He barreled toward Torr.
Torr lunged.
Their swords connected with an ear-splitting clang. The impact jarred through Brant’s arm, reviving memories of Saracen sands, the sweat and blood of battle, and . . . Royce’s death.
A senseless killing.
A murder Torr had planned.
Rage pounded in Brant’s temple. The surrounding cavern became a sea of red. “You bastard!” he roared, half sobbed. “Bastard!”
Torr struck again. “Now, I will kill you, Meslarches.”
Slashing out with his sword, Brant caught Torr’s leg.
Torr hissed. Blood stained the woolen fabric of his hose. Teeth bared, he lunged again, a deeper thrust that drew him further from the cavern entrance.
Sharpening his gaze, Brant lunged at Torr, then stepped back several paces. Grinning, greedy, Torr followed. “Running from me?” he goaded. “You will not get away.”
“Kill me, then,” Brant taunted.
Torr leapt forward. Slashed out. The strike caught Brant’s arm, slicing his tunic to bare f
lesh. He grunted at the stinging pain. Blood formed a crimson stain on his sleeve.
Through a haze of anguished fury, he heard Faye scream.
He dared a quick glance at her. She knelt beside Angeline, her arms around the huge-eyed little girl. How poignantly beautiful they looked.
Faye, my treasure. I love you.
She would be a good mother to Angeline.
As he looked back at Torr, Brant’s eyes burned. He clenched his jaw. “Go, Faye,” he commanded. “Take Angeline and run. Do not look back.”
***
When the clash of swords rang out again, Faye pushed to her feet. She shuddered, hating to watch the deadly combat. Somehow, though, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
Brant had deliberately lured Torr from the cave entrance so that she and Angeline could escape. The heroic ploy would likely cost him his life. The thought of him dying in this dank cave, suffering in his last moments—
“Faye,” Brant shouted again. “Go!”
At her feet, Angeline sobbed. Reaching down, Faye helped the little girl to stand. Her gaze looked more focused now.
Angeline slid her small, cold fingers into Faye’s. “Scared,” she whimpered, her tiny body trembling.
“So am I, my lamb,” Faye said. Yet, fear would only hinder her in what must be done. She mustn’t lose the opportunity provided by Brant’s bravery. Swallowing hard, she said, “Come with me.”
Holding tight to Angeline’s hand, Faye hurried toward the cavern entrance. Light flickered in the passage. Caution shrilled inside her as she peered in. Guards’ shadows played on the stone walls. Too many to count.
Armed sentries stood only a few yards away. Her gaze locked with that of a dark-haired sentry. Frowning, he stepped toward her, as though to grab her.
With a startled cry, Faye drew Angeline back. Scooping the little girl into her arms, she murmured, “Hold tight to me. I will not let you go.”
Listening for sounds of pursuit, staying close to the water-streaked cavern wall, she slipped and skidded her way past the dead Celtic man and his comrades. Locked in battle, sweat streaking their faces, Torr and Brant didn’t notice her. Scampering in frantic circles around the men, barking, Val paused to look at her, his tongue hanging from his mouth.
Shifting Angeline to one hip, she stepped onto the lower stone ledges she’d traversed before. Instead of climbing up, she ventured into the shallow, frigid water trickling down into the pool where the guard’s head lay partly submerged, vacant eyes gazing up to the ceiling.
The torchlight scarcely reached this part of the cavern. Slick with algae, the rock beneath her feet was almost black. With precarious steps, Faye started across.
Water splashed beside her. She looked down to see Val.
“Help me find a way out,” she said to the little dog, wondering, as she spoke the words, if Brant had commanded Val to accompany them.
Oh, Brant. Tears threatened again. She pressed on.
Swords clanged, then squealed. One of the men groaned.
Faye shuddered. If she looked back and saw Brant crumpled on the ground . . .
Angeline squirmed against her. “Scared!”
Shifting the child’s weight to ease discomfort in her arm and shoulder, Faye left the water and headed for a dry mound of rock. She set the little girl down. “Stay here. I will look for a way out.”
The child’s mouth quivered.
“I will be right back. I promise.”
Val scooted up beside Angeline. He nuzzled her hand. A cautious smile touched the little girl’s mouth, and she stretched out her fingers to pat Val’s side.
Faye picked her way over the rocks, straining to see in the murky shadows. The darkness grew so thick, she could no longer see. With a dismayed sigh, she turned back.
Angeline no longer sat on the rock.
She hurried back to where she’d left the child. The little girl huddled behind a larger rock, Val beside her. Faye stroked Angeline’s hair.
“Out?” Angeline asked.
“Nay. We will have to get past the guards.”
How? Oh, God, how?
Despair gnawed at Faye, threatening to destroy the last of her courage. Yet, as metal clanged again, she shoved to her feet and drew Angeline up beside her. Steadying the little girl, they started back through the water. Val raced ahead of them, remarkably agile despite the slickness of the rock.
“Ha!” Torr roared, lunging at Brant. The tip of Torr’s sword slashed across Brant’s belly. A mortal wound.
“Brant!” Faye screamed.
He wavered and staggered back. Blood streaked his tunic, matching the crimson on his sleeve.
“Brant!” She hefted Angeline into her arms. Pressing the little girl’s face against her neck to block her view, Faye hurried forward.
“You are a dead man, Meslarches.”
By Torr’s feet, Val barked, then spun to look at his master.
Straightening, Brant fingered hair out of his eyes. Grimacing, he lifted up the edge of his slashed tunic to withdraw a battered object from his garments: the journal, severed almost in half. As he held it aloft, sliced parchment pages fell to the rocks.
Only a thin scratch marked his stomach.
“Spared by the journal,” Brant said with a grin.
A sob broke from Faye.
Torr’s face twisted on a furious scream. Terror shot through her as, with both hands, he raised his sword, clearly intending to slay Brant while his weapon was lowered.
Val growled and hunched against the ground.
Eyes widening, Brant reclaimed his grip on his sword.
Torr’s blade flashed in the torchlight. The sword plummeted toward Brant.
Val leapt forward, sinking his teeth into Torr’s leg.
“Ow!” Torr yelled. His sword wavered. He kicked out at Val, still clamped to his leg. The little dog refused to let go.
Losing his balance, Torr staggered backward. A grisly crunch echoed. He’d stepped on the body of the Celtic man.
Faye choked down a horrified cry.
Val dropped to the ground and scampered away. Looking down, Torr squinted, as though trying to identify what he saw.
His eyes widened. Wiggling his foot, he tried to shake off the rotting cloth that had fallen over his boot. The fabric disintegrated, leaving pale bone fingers. The skeletal hand appeared to be reaching for him.
Torr screamed again. Clutching his head, his expression feverish, he glanced at Brant. At the journal pages scattered by Brant’s feet. “Nay!” he shrieked, bolting forward.
Faye sucked in a sharp breath. She turned, as Brant’s sword soared in a glinting arc.
A thud. Another scream, this time, of sheer agony.
Angeline shuddered in Faye’s arms. Shielding the little girl’s gaze, Faye glanced at the men. Looking dazed, Torr clutched the stump of his left arm. Blood streamed down over his chain mail and splattered on the torn pages.
“That is for all you have done to Faye,” Brant said.
Drawing back, Torr’s stunned gaze flew to Faye. Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. “I loved you,” he cried. “I loved you.”
“Nay,” she said quietly. “I do not believe you did.”
Trembling, muttering under his breath, Torr looked away, as if to accept defeat.
Then, with a roar, he ran toward her, raising his sword.
Faye shrieked.
Torr’s face contorted with malice. He was going to kill her.
Oh, God! Angeline!
Faye darted sideways. Not fast enough.
Oh, God!
Brant’s blade glinted again.
Thud.
Torr froze. Astonishment tautened his features. He wavered like a drunkard. Staggered back. “Nay,” he choked out, gaping down at the wound on his thigh.
His boot heel caught on a projecting rock. He crashed to the ground before rolling over and over, dragging with him bits of parchment. He
came to rest at the pool’s edge.
“Meslarches!” he screamed, writhing in the water.
Medieval Rogues Page 62
