by Lara Adrian
The folk in the hall burst into effusive cheers and applause.
“Again!” came a collective shout from some of the women. “Sing it again!”
Griffin caught the troubadour's eye with a sidelong look of warning. “One more round of that maudlin tune,” he growled under his breath, “and you'll be wearing your lute around your neck.”
The bard blinked in startlement, swallowing hard. Then he took a careful step back. “P-perhaps a jauntier song instead,” he suggested to the crowd, dashing away as if he could not leave Griff's table fast enough.
He took the advice to heart, keeping to a repertoire of bawdy verse and soldiers' ballads, which blurred to a din of wordless background noise the deeper into his cups Griffin became. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, nor when precisely his forehead had dropped to the table, but through the haze of voices, smoke, and wine, he sensed he was no longer alone in his corner of the hall.
“Griffin of Droghallow.”
Without thinking, his mind too numbed with drink to react with any measure of caution, Griff lifted his head off the table. Through bleary, squinted eyes, he saw the torchlit outlines of two Hexford knights, their broad, mail-clad shoulders and gleaming weapons pinning him in where he sat. He should have known this was coming. He should have reached for his sword. He should have kicked away from the table, laced them both open before they knew what hit them, and ran.
Instead, he laughed.
“How'd you find me?” he drawled, his tongue thick and unwieldy in his mouth. “Did the good father tell you who I was, or did the lady?” He cursed then, and shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”
“Griffin of Droghallow,” repeated the larger of the duo. “It is our duty to inform you that you are under arrest for the crimes of kidnap and murder.”
“Come along peaceably now,” advised the second man. “You've nowhere left to go.”
Griff had to admit there was more than a bit of accuracy in that statement. He didn't have anywhere to go, not in that next instant, certainly. Perhaps not ever. God's truth, but he was almost relieved to be found out.
He exhaled a mirthless chuckle, then lifted his cup and drained it.
“Get up,” ordered the first guard. He stepped forward and made a grab for Griffin's arm.
Griff jerked away, shaking off the forcible assistance and pushing to his feet of his own accord. His glare seemed enough to keep both knights at bay, though he did not miss the fact that neither looked overly reluctant to run him through if they deemed it necessary. The two men parted to let him pass between them, then fell in at his sides, flanking him with swords at the ready.
They escorted him out of the hall, leading him past the gaping troubadour and the whispering folk, and down to the castle's underbelly. He made no move to resist, hardly flinching as he was brought to a barred cell and shoved inside, stripped of his weapons, the heavy iron slats firmly separating him from any hope of escape. But they need not have bothered with all of that. He wasn't thinking about self-preservation. He didn't particularly care about his own inevitable fate.
Surely the wine had something to do with his present state of apathy, but what truly kept Griff calm as the guards locked him in the cell and walked away was the thought that Isabel would be taken care of. What kept him sane as the lightless prison fell into black and utter silence was the idea that despite what was likely to happen to him now, Isabel was soon to be on her way to Montborne, safe from Dom under the sheltering arm of the church.
It was enough for him to know that she was protected. She was out of danger, better off without him. And that would have to be enough for him.
* * *
Isabel had thought she had felt like a fraud before, pretending to be married to Griffin and heavy with his child, but it was nothing compared to how she felt that next morning, bathed in rosewater and dressed in a beautiful gown of creamy white silk. Father Aldon had roused her just after dawn, sending in three serving girls to see to her toilette and informing her that he would await her belowstairs with the guards who would provide an added measure of protection for them on the road.
Isabel felt guilty that he was going to so much trouble on her behalf, but the old priest seemed happy enough to be escorting her from Hexford. Indeed, she thought, he seemed nearly giddy to have been given the task.
For her part, Isabel was anything but happy. She should have been grateful that she no longer had to run in fear from Dominic of Droghallow, that she would soon be at Montborne. She should have been appreciative of all Father Aldon was doing for her, not secretly wishing she had never involved him in her plight.
Not feeling with every beat of her heart that walking away from Griffin was to be the greatest regret of her life.
But it was too late to turn back now. Father Aldon was waiting. Her duty as Lady Montborne was waiting. Her life was waiting, and to second guess it in this final hour was only to delay the inevitable. There was nothing to be gained by it.
Isabel marshaled her courage as the maids helped her don a dark wool traveling cloak. It took all the strength she had to quit the chamber and descend the stairs, to exit the castle and step out into the bailey where the priest and her escorts stood. No fanfare marked her departure and for that she was grateful. Not even Lord and Lady Hexford had risen to see her off; all that greeted her as she slowly crossed the courtyard was Father Aldon's eager smile and the watchful gazes of the two knights who would ride with them, their mounts shifting on the damp ground and blowing steam into the dawning morn.
Foolishly, knowing it was futile, Isabel paused and made a quick scan of the bailey, looking about for some sign of Griffin. Hoping beyond all reason that she would see him.
But he was not there.
No. Of course, he wasn't. He would not have stayed. Not after their terrible conversation yesterday afternoon. Not after she pushed him away like she had. Not after she struck him.
Dear Lord, how she wished she could take it back. He had not deserved that humiliation; nothing he had said to her was untrue. And that was what had terrified her most of all. She could not deny that she felt nothing for Sebastian of Montborne; she had never so much as met him. But even if she had known the earl forever, Isabel knew he would pale next to Griffin.
Her heart would never belong to Sebastian because it already belonged to Griffin of Droghallow.
And now he was gone.
“My lady, if you will,” said Father Aldon in a commanding tone when her feet seemed unwilling to move. “We haven't all day.”
No sooner was Isabel seated on her mount did the priest give the order to open the gates. Her horse followed the others, setting off at a hard gallop down Hexford's motte, the relentless beat of thundering hooves filling her head and drowning out the sound of her breaking heart.
Chapter 17
The echoing tick of spurs on stone roused Griffin from a thick, drink-induced sleep. He did not bother to move when he heard the heavy door to the prison creak open, the blinding light of the guards' pitch torches searing his eyes as the duo of the night before stepped inside and faced him from the other side of the iron grate.
“Time to get up, cur,” one of them growled. “On your feet. Now.”
Griff levered himself off the floor, tossing a smirk at the knights. “And here I had just gotten comfortable.”
Neither guard seemed remotely amused by his sarcasm. The larger of the two unfastened a coil of rope from his baldric and approached the cell. “Step forward. Put your hands together and stick them between the bars.”
Griff presented himself as requested, chuckling when the guards jerked his arms farther out and quickly bound him at the wrists. Once tied, they shoved him back into the cell and unlocked the grate. The two knights seized him, one at each elbow. “Are we going somewhere, boys?”
“You are,” answered the big one with a sneer as they walked him out of the prison and began the trek up the dark, dank stairs. “I wager you'll be off to th
e hangman later this morn.”
“Aye,” added the second. “After ye fetch a pretty purse for m'lord Hexford, that is. Five thousand marks ought to see you swing good and long on the gibbet.”
Griffin's head was clearing quickly, but he wasn't quite sure he heard this last comment aright. “Five thousand,” he considered aloud as the guards brought him out of the castle. “Dom must be desperate to see me dead if he's upped my bounty to that rich sum.”
The knights exchanged a look of wry amusement, leading him to where his horse and two others waited, saddled for travel. “Droghallow will have the pleasure of hanging ye, but someone else was just as eager to see it done,” said one of them.
“Indeed,” his companion chuckled. “Ye should feel right honored, cur. The prince himself has offered his own silver for yer head.”
“Oh? I thought Lackland was in London,” Griff said, a queasy feeling begin to churn in his gut.
“Derbyshire as of late,” corrected the guard. “Father Aldon rides to see him as we speak.”
Christ's bones, Griff thought, panic rising to his throat and nearly cutting off his breath.
Isabel.
She was walking into a trap!
Griff's mind was racing, blood pounding, body numb with dread as the guards pushed him up onto his mount. One man had his horse's lead; the other was already swinging up onto the destrier behind and checking his tack. “Open the gates,” the man ordered and the portcullis cranked upward.
“Not so cocksure suddenly, are ye?” scoffed the knight holding his reins.
Griff stared down at him in furious contempt, all the while trying the bonds at his wrists and calculating how quickly he might be able to reach the dagger he kept in his saddlebag. But the rope held tight. Once he set off with the guards, his chances of escape would only further diminish.
He had to get out of there now. He had to reach Isabel before Aldon delivered her directly into Lackland's hands. His mind latching onto an idea, he shot a covert glance over his shoulder then leaned forward to speak to the knight standing below. “Mayhap you and I could strike our own deal,” he suggested conspiratorially.
The man sneered but his eyes narrowed in consideration. “What sort of deal?”
His hands looped around the pommel of his saddle, Griff waited patiently as the knight drew in. His foot slipped out of the stirrup without the man's notice.
“I'm listening, cur,” growled the guard.
“Closer,” Griff instructed. “Unless you want your friend to hear.”
The knight advanced until he stood directly below. “Very well. Let's have this deal.”
Griffin smiled. “Here's my offer,” he said finally. “Give me a blade to cut these ropes from my wrists, and I won't kill you when I make my escape.”
“What?” the knight choked. “You're mad!”
It was all the warning Griffin afforded him. Pressing back, using the pommel as a lever, he bent his leg and planted his boot squarely in the knight's face. The blow sent the guard sprawling backward.
“Christ Jesus!” shouted the other at Griffin's back.
But the alarm went up too late. Griff kicked his destrier into action, his urgent yell propelling the beast into a full gallop. The gray shot out of the open gates and down the motte, speeding at Griff's command toward the edge of the surrounding forest like an arrow. Griffin could only hold on for his life, trusting his mount to understand his guidance, maneuvering the destrier with only the nudge and pressure of his knees and thighs.
In the distance behind him, Griffin could hear a number of Hexford's guards spill into the woods. They were gaining on him. He would never get to Isabel before they caught up to him; his only hope was to lose them. Griff slowed his mount slightly and looked over his shoulder.
“There he is!” called one of his pursuers. “This way, men!”
Griff turned off the path he meant to follow and instead plunged deeper into the thicket, pleased to hear the knights follow soon after. He dodged low-hanging boughs and jumped fallen logs, keeping himself just far enough ahead that he would be seen intermittently but not caught. A short distance before him, he spied a crevice wedged between a broken ledge of granite. Riding toward it, he called his mount to a halt and leapt off, his jump cushioned by the blanket of moss and loamy ground of the forest floor. A soft command and a meaningful elbow to the gray's flank sent it trotting away from him while Griff ran for the cover of the rocks. He scarcely had time to conceal himself before the Hexford knights thundered into the area, some drawing up, others cantering on blindly.
“I swear I saw him ride through here,” someone said.
“Well, he won't get far now that he's off the path.”
“Ahead!” another shouted, pointing in the direction Griff had sent his destrier. “I just saw the bastard’s mount up ahead!”
Griffin breathed a sigh of relief as the men resumed their chase. He waited until he no longer heard their riding gear, then cautiously came out of his hiding place. Hands tied before him, he could only pray that the knights would not return, for he had no real means of defending himself. Running low to the ground, careful to keep his head down, his eyes and ears trained for signs of attack, Griffin negotiated his way through the bracken and thorny underbrush.
He wasn’t sure how the last Hexford guard caught up to him.
One moment he was coming around a thick pine, the next he had a sword point biting into the muscle bunched tightly between his shoulder blades.
“Turn around, cur, or I'll run ye through where ye stand.”
Griff slowly obeyed, pivoting to confront this inconvenient obstacle. The uglier half of his gaoler duo glared at him from behind his weapon, his nose fat and bloodied from Griffin's assault, eyes burning with malice.
“I don't suppose you're here because you've reconsidered my offer,” Griff drawled.
The knight jerked his head in the direction of his waiting mount. “Try anything foolish and ye're as good as dead.”
Griffin didn't bother to point out that if Dom or the prince had their way, he was already good as dead. Instead, he walked toward the guard's roan stallion, wondering if the man would be stupid enough to trust putting him on the beast. He wasn't. Keeping the blade leveled on his prisoner, the Hexford knight grabbed a length of rope from his saddle and shook it out. “Loop this around yer hands and let the ends fall to the ground,” he ordered Griffin.
“My deal still stands,” Griff told him as he picked up the rope tether and did as instructed. “Cut me loose, and I'll let you live.”
The knight chuckled. “Ye must take me for God's own fool, cur.”
Griff shrugged, staring hard, watching, waiting as the guard took a careful step forward and bent to retrieve the rope. Then he sprang. One swift kick knocked the sword out of the knight's hand. A lunge and a quick twist brought his arms down over the man's head, locking him in a lethal embrace. The soldier coughed, choked, writhed to get free, but Griff held tight.
“P-please . . . Don't--”
“You had your chance,” Griffin told him, long past mercy.
Using the combined strength of his linked hands, he squeezed his arm around the guard's neck, cutting off precious air. The knight clawed at him in futile struggle. He sputtered, gurgled, then, finally, went utterly limp. Griffin released him to retrieve a dagger that was sheathed on the man's belt. He maneuvered the thin blade into place and sliced through the bonds at his wrists, then grabbed up the knight's sword and mount as well.
With the rest of the Hexford guards gone some time in the opposite direction, Griff headed back toward the path and sped off, determined to catch up to Isabel and the duplicitous Father Aldon.
* * *
The sun was nearly at its zenith before Father Aldon finally called for the first rest. They had traveled all morn, a dogged trek that carried them some leagues away from Hexford, following a westbound course of the priest's own design. Though Isabel welcomed the reprieve from her saddle's hard seat, the
longer they tarried at their refreshment and rest, the more anxious she became. She was exhausted and emotionally drained, simply eager to be done with the journey. Eager to be done with all of this.
She had spent the past few hours trying to convince herself that she had made the right decision, that parting company with Griffin was the best thing to do for both of them. The safest, most sensible solution. Indeed, it was the only solution. For if her heart ached for losing him now, what might it have done if they had completed the trip to Montborne together then faced the inevitability of parting? She did not think she could have borne that brand of pain.
As it was, she could hardly keep her thoughts from straying to Griffin, to wondering where he had gone after they spoke so heatedly, and as well, what he would do now that he was no longer burdened with her. She tried to busy herself with thoughts of Montborne, thoughts of Maura and their reunion that was soon to come. But none of that, not even Father Aldon's studious, queerly condemning stare could dissuade her mind from returning to thoughts of Griffin. She could not stop herself from missing him.
“You should eat something, my lady,” the priest said, those silvery eyes watching her like a falcon sizing up a field mouse. “I daresay you look a trifle pallid.”
“I am merely . . . tired,” Isabel answered, searching for a word that would explain her prolonged sullenness.
“Very well, eat or rest,” he told her with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Whatever will put some color back into your cheeks.”
At that moment, one of their armed escorts from Hexford strode up to where Isabel and the priest sat. “The horses will need an hour or so before we continue on to Derby, Father. The weather looks clear, so if all goes well we should reach the shire before nightfall.”
