“Mother.” Tye hobbled toward her.
“Tye.”
“How is your arm? ’Twas broken when I last saw you.”
“’Tis healing well. At least ’twas my left one and not my right.” Her features seemed haggard, and not just because of her injury or age. While imprisoned, she’d undoubtedly been deprived of the expensive herbal creams she liked to slather upon her skin to keep herself looking young. But in her amber eyes, he saw the same need that burned as hot as fire in his own soul: a desire to destroy de Lanceau.
“Veronique, we must hurry,” Braden urged.
“I know, Love.” She gestured to the mercenaries, who shoved Henry back against the stone wall. Sweat and blood ran down his face. He appeared dazed and about eighteen years old—if that. His blue eyes fixed on Tye. As Henry’s stare sharpened, anger contorted his features.
“Did he shout the alarm?” Tye asked Braden.
“Nay. The mercenaries stopped him before he could cry out.”
“Good.”
“Still, we need to get away from here, as soon as we can.”
“Agreed.” Tye hobbled to his mother. She met him partway, her strides still ripe with the sensuality that drew men to her like flies to sticky jam. Those lovers clearly included Braden; the man’s gaze drifted over her with undisguised lust.
“Are you all right?” she asked, embracing Tye with her good arm. She smelled of night air and musty wool.
“I am. You?” he said against her hair.
“Better now that I have found you.”
Tye’s arms tightened around her. He’d missed her, too. Shame gnawed at him as well. He shouldn’t have heeded the voice in his mind that, in his days alone in his cell, had whispered she’d abandoned him, left him to rot, because he’d failed her: He hadn’t managed to kill his sire in the battle at Waddesford Keep.
Had de Lanceau realized that such cruel thoughts would haunt Tye? Had he known that in isolation, Tye’s conscience would turn against him and fester until it drove him near mad?
The bastard.
As his mother drew out of Tye’s arms, questions swarmed in his mind: how she’d gotten free, how she’d managed to get a missive from the King that would fool de Lanceau’s guards; how she’d met Braden. Now, though, was not the time for such matters. “Braden is right,” Tye said. “We should leave.”
“We will. There is but one last detail to take care of.” Her right hand tightening on her dagger, she faced Henry.
“You…will not…get away,” the lad ground out.
Veronique tittered. “You will stop us?”
“’Tis…my duty…to Lord de Lanceau.” The fingers of his right arm, pinned by one of the mercenaries, curled, as though he longed to draw his sword, still belted at his waist.
“Driven by honor,” Veronique mocked. “Sorry, but you are going to die.”
Uncertainty flickered in Henry’s eyes. His head wobbled as she halted in front of him, but he bravely held her stare.
“First, I shall cut off your bollocks. Then your manhood.”
“W-what?’ Henry choked.
“Mother.” Tye couldn’t hold back a shudder.
“’Twill be a slow, painful death. How shocked de Lanceau will be when he finds you.” She smiled at the lad, who’d turned white with horror. Her attention slid greedily down the young man’s heaving chest to his groin, hidden by his chain-mail tunic.
“Nay!” he spluttered. “Please. I am…betrothed.”
“You will not be of much use to your future bride, will you?”
The lad whimpered.
Veronique laughed. “Is your betrothed pretty? Does she love you? Does her body weep for your touch?”
Tye had seen enough of his mother’s cruelty to know he didn’t want to watch her mutilate this man—especially when they needed to get away. “Mother.”
“I will be quick.”
“Nay!” Henry cried, struggling against his captors.
“Veronique,” Braden snapped.
“Hold,” Tye said, crossing to his mother’s side. When she arched her brows in irritation, he said, “I need a weapon. I will take his sword.”
Pinned by the mercenaries, Henry glowered as Tye unfastened the belt buckle and whipped away the blade nestled in its leather scabbard. Straightening, Tye held Henry’s gaze, a deliberate taunt. The lad spat in his face. Tye smothered a smile—he’d secretly hoped for such a reaction—wiped the slick mess from his cheek, then slammed his fist into Henry’s jaw. The lad went limp.
“Now, we leave,” Tye said, buckling on the belt.
Veronique frowned at Henry, collapsed in the mercenaries’ grasp. “You struck him on purpose.”
That’s right. I did.
“You did not want me having my way with him.”
Right again. I want to escape. Naught will stop me—especially not your perversions.
“He spat in my face. I could not ignore that insult. Now he cannot betray us. Not until he wakes,” Tye said. “By then, we will be long gone.”
With a disappointed huff, Veronique motioned to the mercenaries. They dropped Henry to the floor and strode to Braden.
“We will discuss your meddling later, Tye,” his mother muttered.
“Among other matters.” Tye flicked his gaze toward Braden. If Tye was going to trust the man, he needed to know exactly who he was and how he’d contribute to de Lanceau’s downfall.
Veronique walked ahead of Tye toward the others gathered by the doorway. As he followed, a metallic rasp came from behind him: the sound of a dagger being drawn.
Henry, you damned fool.
Tye spun to see the lad climbing to his feet, holding a knife. He must have pulled the weapon from inside his boot. Henry staggered forward, barely able to stand upright. Fresh blood trailed into the drying mess on his face.
Why hadn’t Henry stayed down on the ground? He couldn’t win this fight. Did he want to be slain?
“I will…stop you. For…his lordship.”
“You will die,” Tye warned. If the lad had any wits about him, he’d quit his foolhardy attempt to be a hero.
Determination gleamed in the young man’s eyes. The challenge, unmistakably direct, hummed in Tye’s blood, honing his anger to one focus: to kill. His hands flexed, readying for the fight.
Veronique giggled. “I will have my chance to cut you, after all.”
Henry lunged at Tye, raising the knife. “Whoreson! On…my honor…”
Tye whipped the sword from its scabbard. With a lethal growl, he brought the blade arcing down, severing Henry’s neck. The headless body toppled to the ground.
“Well done.” Veronique gloated. “Now, I will just—”
“We must leave, Mother. Now.” Several other prisoners had escaped their cells and, with jovial cheers, were unlocking the doors of other captives; if they ran for the dungeon door, Tye’s escape would be delayed.
“Tye is right.” Braden thrust the cloak at Tye. “Put this on. Act as though you are my prisoner until we get through the main gates.”
Ignoring his mother’s scowl, Tye sheathed his weapon, donned the cloak then headed out into the darkness behind Braden, escorted by the mercenaries with their swords pointed at him. The dirt of the bailey was rough and cool against his bare feet, but he didn’t care. He’d be wearing leather boots again soon enough. Drawing in a deep breath of the summer night air, he caught the scent of horses waiting nearby.
While Tye walked, he rolled his shoulders, easing the curious tension that had settled there. He’d slain many men in his lifetime, more than one of them named Henry. Few of the deaths haunted him.
Tonight’s killing wouldn’t haunt him, either.
Chapter Two
The great keep at Wode, Moydenshire, England
January, 1215
“Mother Mary!” With an irritated huff, Lady Claire Sevalliere lifted the lid of her wooden linen chest and shoved at the garments tumbling out. The chest had to shut. Otherwise she wouldn�
��t be able to travel when the men-at-arms who were to ride as her escort arrived at her chamber later that morning.
Today, she was leaving this grand fortress where she’d lived for the past five years. By the day’s end, she’d arrive at her new home: the castle of her widowed sixty-five-year-old Aunt Malvina.
Claire had only met the extremely pious lady, the sister of Claire’s deceased father, twice. Yet, they’d exchanged letters in the years since Claire’s parents had been killed in an accident on a muddy road one stormy spring afternoon.
That tragedy had left Claire and her younger sister, Johanna, orphaned. By the King’s command, Johanna had gone to live with a nobleman and his wife who’d been close friends of the Sevallieres. Claire had been made a ward of Lord and Lady Brackendale, relatives of Moydenshire’s famous lord Geoffrey de Lanceau.
In response to a recent letter from Claire, Aunt Malvina had been kind enough to offer her a place to live—a relief when a more recent tragedy had made the stone walls of Wode feel as though they were closing in upon Claire.
At nineteen years of age, she was ready to begin anew; to devote herself to the quiet life of a maiden who’d never marry, for her heart belonged now and evermore to Lord Henry Ridgeway, whom she’d loved and lost.
Fighting a pang of sadness, Claire buried her hands into the gleaming silk gowns, gauzy linen chemises, and embroidered leather shoes. Strands of curly blond hair tumbled over her face as she reshuffled the top garments then pressed down hard.
“You are losing that battle.”
Claire smiled. Straightening, she faced her chamber doorway. Her dearest friend, Lady Mary Westbrook, stood there, her arms folded over the bodice of her moss green gown. Mary was trying to hide a grin behind her hand, but her brown eyes danced with mirth.
“Which clothes do I leave behind? I sold all of the gowns I could part with. I donated the money to the nearby abbey, remember?” Claire looked back at the garments and fought an uncomfortable knot settling in her throat. She’d accumulated many lovely things since arriving at Wode. The Brackendales treated all of their wards as if they were their daughters. The flowing, pale blue wool gown with silver floral embroidery at the neckline, sleeves, and hem that she was wearing today had been a gift last winter. Lord Brackendale had died a few weeks ago, and all that Claire owned had become even more precious because of her fond memories of him.
She would just have to make the linen chest close. ’Twas the only answer. She set her hands atop the contents and pressed down again. “Holy.” Push. “Blessed.” Push. “Mother of God!” Push.
“Claire, you must stop swearing. If you curse like that in front of your aunt, she will faint from the horror.”
Guilt wove through Claire. “You are right. I shall remind myself every day to watch my tongue.”
“Good.”
In the midst of shifting the garments again, Claire paused. “Mary—”
“I am just trying to give you sound advice, as a loyal friend should.”
“Please do not worry. I do not plan to cause my aunt any trouble. In fact, I want to live a very quiet, solitary existence.”
Mary rolled her eyes, as though a quiet, solitary existence was so unlikely for Claire, ’twas not worth considering. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Fine.” Mary sniffled. She sounded close to tears.
Claire struggled against the tug on her heart and repositioned a pair of leather shoes wedged in the far corner of the chest. She’d never imagined leaving would be this difficult.
She heard the whisper of Mary’s gown, glimpsed her wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Claire couldn’t bear to acknowledge her best friend’s tears, because then she’d be crying, too.
Part of her insisted she was a witless fool to leave Wode. How would she manage without Mary’s friendship? How would she rein in her love of freedom to become as strictly pious as her aunt? This huge change, though, must surely be a good one. A life devoted to prayer and chastity would truly honor the young man who would have been her husband, if he hadn’t been killed while fulfilling his duty for Lord de Lanceau. Henry had died while trying to stop a dangerous prisoner from escaping his lordship’s dungeon. No other man she’d met—or would ever meet—could compare to her memories of her brave, beloved Henry.
“I am sorry. I do not mean to cry,” Mary said quietly. “I know this move is what you want.”
Claire straightened up from the linen chest. “’Tis what I must do.”
“So you have said. I only ask this because you are like a sister to me, and I want you to be happy…but are you certain?” Mary wiped her eyes again. “Are you really sure this new life is what Henry would want for you? You only met him on a few occasions. Forgive me, but ’tis hardly enough to get to know a man.”
Claire grinned as her first memory of Henry filled her mind. How vividly she saw sunshine brushing his blond, shoulder-length hair and lighting his blue eyes. “Oh, Mary, I will never forget that feast when he and I first met. Henry was so gallant that day, the way he apologized for bumping into me in the crowded bailey. He bowed, rose with my hand gently clasped in his, and smiled as though I was the most beautiful lady in all the land.”
“You are beautiful, Claire,” Mary said, envy in her voice. “You must know that, by the number of suitors you have turned away since Henry’s death.”
“Goodness, Mary, but you are far prettier than I.”
“Nay, I am not—”
“Besides,” Claire said, fighting the blush creeping into her cheeks, “physical beauty is not as important to me as what lies in a man’s heart. Although, Henry wasn’t just handsome, he had a beautiful soul, too.”
“I believe you are right. The day you walked together in Wode’s gardens? He acted like a knight from a romantic chanson.”
“And his letters,” Claire said wistfully. “Those I could never leave behind.”
“Do you remember how we shrieked aloud when we read his words, over and over?”
Claire giggled. “And then, there was the day he returned to Wode to speak with Lord Brackendale. Somehow, I knew Henry would ask me to marry him. Seeing him dismount from his horse in the bailey made my pulse flutter like a caged bird. The tender kiss he placed upon my cheek, I shall cherish always.”
A delighted sigh rushed from Mary. “That kiss sealed your love forever.”
“It did.” Claire’s fingers drifted to the middle of her left cheekbone where his lips had brushed her skin. The intimacy had been quick, light, but just for her. No kiss could ever compare to it. Since she’d never been kissed by a man before that moment, and would never be kissed again, she’d treasure it as the most perfect of kisses.
“One day,” Mary murmured, “I hope to have such a kiss.”
“You will. I am certain of it.”
Excitement gleamed in Mary’s eyes. “I will write to you as soon as it happens. I will tell you all about it in great detail. That would not be forbidden by your aunt, would it? I hope not.”
So do I, my dearest friend. Trying not to let doubt back into her mind, Claire shut the linen chest. No garments were poking out.
“Thank goodness,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirts. “Now—”
Shouting outside drew Claire’s gaze to the wooden shutters at her window. She’d closed them earlier, because of the morning breeze. Judging by the raised voices, something extraordinary was taking place in the bailey.
With Mary at her side, Claire hurried to throw the shutters wide.
Frigid air buffeted Claire. She hadn’t remembered the sky being such a dense pewter gray color earlier, but then, she’d been focused on packing her belongings.
Snowflakes swirled in through the iron grille across the window, as more urgent shouts carried up from the bailey.
“What is happening?” Mary asked.
“I am not sure.” Leaning farther into the embrasure, Claire peered out. Men, yelling to one another, were running along the snow-dusted
battlements, their weapons raised.
“Will it be safe to travel to your aunt’s castle? The roads might become covered with snow, and then the wheels of the cart—”
“Mary.”
“But—”
“Please,” Claire said desperately. “Hush!”
The voices outside were distorted by an icy gust of wind. Then, clear and distinct, came a man’s cry. “Attack! Attack! The keep is under attack!”
Spurring his horse to a gallop, his sword drawn, Tye raced down the snowy road toward Wode’s gatehouse, a score of hired mercenaries close behind him. Today, as Tye had learned from studying the keep’s routines over the past several weeks, the fortress was expecting deliveries from the village alewife and fishmonger. Judging by the lowered drawbridge and raised portcullis, the castle guards hadn’t anticipated an assault on this freezing, wintry morning.
Just as he’d planned.
Today, at last, he would take what he deserved.
He’d spent the past months moving from nearby town to nearby town, never in one place for very long—as his mother and Braden had done, and as King John had advised. Last summer, after receiving Veronique’s missive sent during the battle at Waddesford Keep, the King had secretly agreed to help her and Tye in any way possible, in exchange for information on de Lanceau’s activities in Moydenshire. If the clandestine agreement were discovered, however, the King would vehemently deny all knowledge of it and would claim a conspiracy within his London court.
King John was well aware of de Lanceau’s attempts to unite his peers against the crown with a Great Charter. While the sovereign didn’t dare arrest a lord as wealthy and well-connected as de Lanceau, he planned to use every bit of useful information to undermine de Lanceau’s efforts.
While Tye’s leg had healed, and while he’d watched and listened for the King, he’d toiled for shop owners, farmers, blacksmiths, and carpenters, trading his work for food and a place to sleep.
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