And it was he, Griffin, who slayed that good man, killing for the first time. He had been physically sick with the act, knowing that he had just murdered a man whose only crime was acting out of courage and honor to come to the aid of someone he loved. The sacrifice had been such a waste; it had not spared his wife from Dom in the end.
So often Griff wished that he had turned his blade on Dom instead. But he hadn’t, and he’d spent the rest of his years at Droghallow regretting that failure. Because of his pledge to Sir Robert, he stayed at Droghallow, carrying out his tasks as head of the guard in a state of emotional numbness, an apathy that had thoroughly consumed him … until the day he was reunited with Isabel. She made him feel again. She made him hope. Being with her made him better somehow.
Looking at the blood that stained his hands and tunic from her wound—blood spilled because of her own courage and honor—he could not help acknowledging how completely he was failing her. No more, he vowed. She had trusted in him once. She had believed in him. He meant to prove to her that she could do so again. Her sacrifice would not be for naught.
Griffin eyed her bandaged arm with a judicious eye. The wound was going to require another dressing in a few hours and he had no wine left to clean it. He had a source of fresh water; somewhere outside the cavern, a stream rushed and gurgled. But they needed wine and they needed food, for Isabel’s injury would surely delay them from traveling for a couple of days. He would be damned if he would let her weather the discomfort of hunger along with her other pains. As soon as night fell, he would venture out and find a town where he could get them some supplies.
Isabel was still sleeping when Griffin ducked out of the cave some hours later. He drew the hood of his mantle up over his head and mounted up, breathing in the cold night air and letting the crisp chill of autumn fill his lungs. With a nudge to his destrier’s sides, he guided the roan toward the edge of the night-dark woods and onto a hard-packed strip of road.
The beast’s hooves clopped at an easy canter, adding a strange counter beat to the faintly tenor sounds of chanting coming from somewhere in the distance. Smoke from a scattering of hearth fires wafted on the late evening breeze as Griff spurred the horse up an incline, the crest overlooking a village nestled in the valley below. Torchlight glowed from a handful of crude domiciles and a large, thatch-roofed tavern inn situated on a small rise near the elbow of the main road.
Griff clucked his tongue at the destrier and headed down.
At least a dozen horses stood tethered outside the public house, some of them clearly knights’ mounts, others the bulky, swaybacked beasts belonging to mercenaries and men of lesser means who had come to drink or lodge for the night. Griff swung down from the saddle and added the Hexford roan to the rest of the waiting mounts, then walked toward the noise-filled tavern. The door to the establishment flew open as he approached and a drunken farmer stumbled out into the night, mumbling a hail to Griffin and staggering to the edge of the building, where he then untied his hose and proceeded to relieve himself. Griff kept his head low as he grabbed the open door and stepped inside the inn, the smell of smoke and tallow, sweat and ale, assailing his nostrils as the warped oak panel creaked closed behind him.
The innkeeper nodded a greeting at Griffin as a serving wench trundled past with six filled tankards in her hands. She slid him an appreciative sidelong glance. “Be right with ye, deary,” she purred through a sparsely toothed grin.
Assessing his surroundings with a warrior’s eye for trouble, Griff took up an empty space at the end of the pub’s counter. The common men standing nearby paid him little mind as he strode past them to claim the vacant spot, all of them too engrossed in conversation and drink to care that he had joined their little group uninvited. Griff did not much notice his tablemates either; his gaze was fixed on a clutch of soldiers who occupied the back of the tavern—a motley assemblage of knights and rootless warriors. The group was loud, deep into their cups, trading war stories and playing at dice, the lot of them restless with an undercurrent of feral aggression that often hung about fighting men imbued with too much ale and idle time.
Griffin did not miss the fact that more than one pair of eyes stared through the haze of the busy room to glance in his direction. He kept his gaze trained on them, his hand sliding under his mantle to rest surreptitiously upon the pommel of his sword. The serving wench came around a moment later, leaning her bosom across the scarred counter to inquire after his order.
“I could use some food and drink for the road,” Griff said, handing her his empty wineskin.
“Passing through, are ye, love?”
“That’s right.”
“What a shame,” she remarked, her gaze lingering overlong. “And I warrant ’tis not the best night for travel, either. There’s brigands on the prowl, from what I hear. See those men over there?” She indicated the crowd of soldiers at the back of the tavern. “They say a murderer is loose in Derbyshire and now two knights and a local priest have gone missing.”
“Is that so?” Griffin replied, schooling his expression to one of suitable concern. “My thanks for the warning. I shall keep an eye out for danger on the road as I go.”
“Mayhap ye’ll be wanting to wait out the morn instead,” she suggested. “I’ve got a pallet in the back I could let ye have. If ye don’t mind sharing it with me, that is.”
“A tempting offer,” Griff lied pleasantly, “but I cannot delay.”
“Pity,” she sighed, heaving a shrug and tossing him a disappointed pout. “Can I bring ye a cup of ale while ye wait on yer food, love?”
Griff nodded. Although he had no mind to drink, he supposed he would blend in more readily from behind the rim of a tankard. He paid the woman when she returned, his attention more focused on the knot of armed men across the room. They had evidently decided he was of no particular consequence; the noisy group had since returned to their talk and gaming, affording him no more regard than anyone else in the crowded public room.
Only a few sober heads lifted when the tavern door opened a moment later, ushering in a draft of cold night air that set the table lanterns to wavering and stirring the meager scattering of old rushes that littered the earthen floor. Griff cast a glance over his shoulder to where four men now entered the establishment: a nobleman flanked by three knights who bore the standard and colors he knew all too well.
Dominic of Droghallow paused just past the threshold and stripped off his riding gloves, tucking them into the leather strap of his baldric. His dark head pivoted slowly, eyes narrow as he scanned the packed tavern.
The innkeeper nodded to the new arrivals. “Good eve, m’lord. Gentlemen.”
Dom ignored the greeting and strode forward to lean his elbow against the tavern counter. Continuing his appraisal of the inn’s patrons, he hooked the edge of his mantle around the hilt of his sheathed sword and motioned to one of his guards. “Check the back rooms.” The knight and another advanced toward the rear of the establishment while Dom waited at the bar in arrogant, watchful silence.
“Can I help ye with something, m’lord?” the tavern keeper inquired.
“I am looking for an outlaw knight and the lady he has abducted from her betrothed. They were last spotted in the area just outside Derbyshire.”
From where he sat in the corner of the busy room, Griffin hunched down, hanging his head over his cup of ale and grateful for the deep shadows of his mantle’s cowl.
“This man is dangerous,” Dom continued, his voice rising over the ruckus of conversation and gaming. When the noise scarcely lessened, the earl of Droghallow’s tone turned shrill with impatience. “This man I seek is a murderer and a traitor to the crown. Anyone with information regarding his whereabouts will be handsomely rewarded.”
“How handsomely?” someone shouted from the back of the room where the knights were seated.
“Aye,” another chimed. “What are ye willin’ to pay fer this bride thief, ’lord?”
“Ten thousand silver ma
rks.”
Dom’s answer hung in the air like the haze of smoke that filled the rafters of the tavern. Dice games ceased; conversations halted midsentence. One of the men seated at Griffin’s side hissed an oath of astonishment, a reaction Griff himself was inclined to share. Ten thousand marks was a fortune in silver, more wealth than any of these men might hope to see in a lifetime, himself included. Time had never been on his side in this risky venture, but it was fast becoming his worst enemy. Dom and the scheming prince seemed intent to rouse the entire county of Derbyshire to apprehend them.
Griffin was hugely relieved to see the serving wench headed his way at last, a parcel of wrapped viands tucked under her arm. She brought a foamy tankard to one table then passed the place where Dom stood, having since launched into detailed descriptions of both Griffin and his lady hostage, right down to the crescent scar on Griff’s chin, a mark left by Dom’s careless blade when they were boys.
“The miscreant will be hard to miss,” Dominic was telling his rapt audience. “He is taller than most, and deadlier. Should he be located, I advise you to take all necessary precautions in his capture. I care not whether he is delivered to me dead or alive.”
“There ye are,” the tavern wench said as she set the wineskin and bundle of foodstuffs down before Griffin. “I packed ye some venison and cheese and a loaf of dark bread. It should keep ye fed for a couple of days on the road.”
“My thanks,” Griff murmured, retrieving a handful of coins from his purse. He put them on the counter to avoid further interaction, but the saucy woman would not be so easily dismissed. She gathered up the coins then leaned over his shoulder, her face beside his.
“Ye sure ye won’t change yer mind about stayin’ the night, love?”
“Mayhap another time,” Griff drawled.
He felt something change in her demeanor, sensed a sudden air of startlement about the woman even before she drew back and sucked in a quick breath. He turned his head slightly and met her wide-eyed gaze, realizing his mistake a moment too late. She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time, her focus rooted on his mouth—at the falcate scar that cut into his chin and betrayed him as the criminal in question.
Griffin waited in tense dread for her to cry out in alarm. He would stand no chance of escape with so many men assembled in the small tavern—a score of warriors and at least as many common men fueled with ale and now this most recent promise of unfathomable wealth. He stared at the woman who now held his fate in her work-worn hands.
“Please,” he whispered nearly inaudibly and gave a small shake of his head.
The tavern wench swallowed hard and took a step away from him, her eyes never leaving his face. Though she said nothing, her expression was blanched, pale, as if she stared into the visage of the devil himself. Her hands trembled and she wiped them on her apron, nervously fisting her fingers into the soiled square of white linen.
“Willa!” the innkeeper called, his harsh shout making her jump to attention. He gestured toward Dominic, who was watching as his dispatched guards returned from the back rooms emptyhanded. “Bring this fine gentleman refreshment before he perishes, why don’t ye?”
With one lingering look at Griffin, the serving woman hurried away to carry out the order. Griff, meanwhile, took the opportunity to gather his things and move from his place at the counter. Though Willa had not called attention to him right away, he did not plan to tarry long enough for her to change her mind. While she waddled back to the bar, Griffin pulled his hood a little lower on his head and took three prudent steps toward the tavern door.
Dom’s blade whisked out of its scabbard with a rasp of warning before coming to rest squarely in Griffin’s path, stopping him in his tracks.
“No one quits this place tonight without my leave.”
Griff paused, every muscle going tense inside him. Instinctively, beneath the cover of his cloak, his hand crept down to grip the hilt of his sword. Fighting his way out of there would be a futile effort, but one he intended to make nevertheless. Or die trying.
“Remove your hood and turn around, man,” Dom ordered.
Griffin noted the subtle advance of two Droghallow guards, saw his chances of escape begin to dwindle down to nothing. The door was within arm’s reach, but trapped on the other side of Dom’s bare blade, it may well have been a league away.
“I said, turn around,” Dom repeated, a brittle, wary edge to his voice.
Griff drew in a steadying breath and prepared himself for the bloody fight that was sure to follow. Hand clenched on his sword, he pivoted his head to the side and raised his eyes to look upon his foster brother, the man who now wanted him dead and might well succeed.
But Dom did not have a chance to peer into the shadows that concealed Griffin’s face from view. Before the earl could demand to see who stood before him, Willa burst forth with a sloshing tankard of ale. She stumbled as if pushed from behind, her squawk of alarm drawing Dominic’s attention away from Griff for one crucial moment. Pitching forward, the serving wench reached out to grab one of Dom’s knights in an effort to steady herself, while the cup of ale in her other hand went flying, its contents projecting out in an amber arc that doused a startled Dominic from head to toe.
“You clumsy idiot!” he cried, wiping at the dripping mess that soaked his silk tunic and fine leather boots.
In the momentary chaos that followed, Griff sidled for the door, pausing only long enough to see Willa scramble up to wipe at the earl’s fine clothing with her apron. Through a string of apologies for her carelessness, she met Griff’s glance over Dom’s shoulder and shot him a knowing wink before the Droghallow guards seized her and pulled her off of their sputtering, outraged lord.
Griffin dashed out of the smoky tavern and into the cool, dark night, his package of wine and foodstuffs tucked securely under his arm. He untethered his mount and leapt into the saddle, spurring the beast into a gallop and sending a mental word of thanks to the unlikely ally named Willa who had just saved him from a date with certain death.
Dominic of Droghallow was so infuriated he could hardly see straight. His guards had finally managed to disentangle him from the witless woman who had drenched him in ale, then proceeded to further soil him by attempting to wipe him down with her filthy apron. He had a mind to throttle the wench for her clumsiness, however, he had other more pressing matters to attend. The tavern keeper rushed forward to assist, but Dom dismissed him with an impatient flick of his wrist, then turned his attention back to the cloaked man he had stopped at the door.
The man who was no longer there.
“Where is he?” he demanded of his guards. “The man in the hooded cloak. Which one of you let him go?”
The knights said nothing, offering no excuse save the exchange of sheepish looks that sent Dom into a further rage. Cursing vividly, he shoved them out of his way and lunged out the open tavern door, skidding to a halt under the slim awning of the building’s thatched roof. A gust of cold wind swooped down from the black night sky and buffeted him, snatching up the edges of his mantle and whipping it about his legs.
Dom peered into the darkness, scenting treachery ripe in the air, but seeing nothing to substantiate his suspicions. Nothing but a sliver of moonlight peeking through the heavy cover of night clouds and a ribbon of empty road stretching out in both directions.
The two soldiers came out of the tavern on his heels, weapons at the ready.
“Where were the both of you when I could have used your help?” he drawled sarcastically. He gave an arrogant sniff and brushed at his wet sleeve. “Fetch my mount. I’ve had my fill of Derbyshire; I’m heading back to Droghallow. The rest of you shall remain here on search until Griffin and the Montborne woman are found and taken in. I don’t want to see any of you before then, understand?”
The knights nodded obediently and raced off to gather their lord’s mount. Dominic brought his hands up and pressed his fingers to his temples, willing away a headache that was beginning to poun
d behind his eyelids. His dealings with John Lackland were making him sorely tired; his constant aggravation was making him edgy, making him jump at phantoms. He was sick to death of thinking about Griffin, sick of contemplating the grim future that lay ahead of him if he failed the prince in this traitorous scheme.
There would be time enough to fret over his troublesome foster brother once the bastard was captured, he reasoned. Let his men and the bounty hunters of Derbyshire deal with apprehending him. Dom was on to more appealing pursuits that awaited him elsewhere, pursuits he was eager to resume in his bed with Felice at Droghallow.
Chapter Twenty-one
A queer and total darkness surrounded Isabel even after she opened her eyes. For some time, she had been hearing the constant drip of water echoing from somewhere beyond her conscious mind, the intermittent plerk, plerk, nagging her toward wakefulness. She did not know where she was. It was a cool, musty place, ripe with the tang of moss and damp stone.
Was it a cell? she wondered through her dazed senses. Had Father Aldon taken her to Derbyshire and Prince John after all?
Too weak to summon any measure of panic for what might have become of her, Isabel blinked into the crowding darkness and tried to make sense of where she was, of what had happened. Her head felt light, fuzzy; her mouth was thick and parched. Her limbs were too heavy to move under the pressing weight of her mantle. The hard cold surface upon which she lay had given her an ache in her back, but the discomfort paled next to the fiery pain that burned at her shoulder.
Suddenly the day’s events came speeding back to her, almost as swift as the bolt that had ripped through the afternoon sky on Father Aldon’s command. She remembered the bowman’s shout that Griffin was in his sights. She remembered her terror, her desperation to thwart the horrible prospect of Griffin being harmed. She remembered hearing the arrow fly, remembered steering her horse into its path. She remembered being struck from behind as if by lightning, remembered Griffin’s cry of alarm. She remembered falling, falling …
White Lion's Lady Page 18
