“You are dismissed,” Bran told his men as he swung up onto his own mount, taking Phoebe’s lead rein. “I’ve no more need of you tonight.”
Rackley mumbled into his beard but didn’t dispute the order. The young guard, though, looked dubious. “Are you certain, milord? The little wench throws a mean punch. And the lady shan’t be pleased if aught goes amiss.”
“I have my orders,” Bran insisted. “Lady Celia has plans for them.”
“Yes I do, my son,” a female voice called from the gate.
I froze, unable to draw breath as the woman’s throaty laugh drifted through the night. I shot a questioning look at Bran, but his face was inscrutable as he stared at her silhouette, backlit by torchlight.
When the riders clacked into the courtyard, the last of my hope floated away with the whirling snowflakes. First came the burly Flint. Bran’s jaw tightened at the sight of him, but the man only shrugged as if to say, Sorry, mate, you don’t pay the bills.
Though she was much older than she’d been in the photo I’d seen in the library, I had no trouble recognizing her.
Celia Alvarez. The elegant features had coarsened from that of the pretty young girl. But she was still lovely, with a heart-shaped face and high forehead. When she saw me, her wide mouth stretched into a satisfied smile.
She chuckled at my expression, a throaty sensual sound that crawled down my spine like a centipede.
“I wondered, you know”—she spoke in a heavy Spanish accent—“what you would look like now.” My knuckles whitened on the pommel as she shrugged and moved closer, so that her knee grazed mine. “My son’s pictures do not do you justice.”
Bran moved his horse to my other side. They hemmed me in, and I felt the familiar tightening begin to swell in my chest.
“You were right,” she said to Bran. “She is pretty.”
“Mother,” Bran started, but someone called out, cutting him off.
“Lady Celia.” My head whipped around at the familiar voice. “May we get on with this? I have other duties to attend.”
I hadn’t even noticed him, all my attention focused on my mother’s enemy.
Thomas Becket pursed his lips as he looked me over. “I have a cell ready for her.”
“Cell?” Bran asked.
“Yes.” Celia clapped her hands, delighted. “Sarah’s daughter shall go with the good father.” She gestured at Phoebe, who was glaring hard at her over the gag. “I had thought to let Moira’s granddaughter go. Then I remembered years ago overhearing her warn her son away from me. So I believe they shall both suffer.”
“Milady,” Becket interjected, “I have no time for this. I want the girl taken into custody. Now. I must return to His Grace.”
Celia’s dark eyes flew to his face. “You will get me the Jews’ stone, yes?”
“Yes, but the king—”
“No excuses,” she snapped. “That was our arrangement when I came to you all those months ago. I gave you the gold to finance your rise, did I not? And I told you of the holy visions, yes? That you would become powerful. The king’s right hand? That if you get me this stone, you will rise as high as the king himself. And are these things not coming to pass?”
Thomas Becket blanched. “Yes, milady,” he mumbled. “You did. They . . . they have.”
“Then take the girl,” Celia said. “And get me the stone.” Her upper lip peeled back from white teeth. “Or go back to being nothing but a lowly priest. A nothing. The son of a petty knight.”
I tried to catch Bran’s gaze, but he was staring down at his horse’s mane, frowning. As Celia turned away from Becket, her eyes rolled to the sky in contempt.
She hates him, I realized. She’s just using his greed to get to the Nonius Stone.
I swallowed down the shards of fear and straightened in my saddle. As a plan began to coil out before me, Celia raised a hand.
“Guards,” she called. “You may dice for the little redhead. Whoever wins can take her. Do what you will. Pass her around if you wish. I care not. The other will enjoy the hospitality of the good father’s prison cell.”
Chapter 31
EVERY CELL IN MY BODY TIGHTENED. FOCUS, WALTON. For God’s sake, focus. Figure this out.
The clamor in my head quieted. I opened my eyes to see the calculated paths of escape forming before me in brilliant neon swoops. I discarded one after the other, until only one route remained.
Celia walked her horse over to whisper with Flint. The guards crouched near the front steps, throwing dice against the cobbles. The dice rattled as they hit the stone. The younger guard groaned and let Phoebe’s reins dangle to the ground.
The bearded one chuckled. “Mine.”
“Hope, you have to believe me.” Bran’s whisper brushed against, but didn’t penetrate, my concentration. “I didn’t know about Becket.”
My eyes caught Phoebe’s, and I mouthed, Hold on.
With one finger, I tapped the high front of my own saddle. Phoebe nodded, and her tied hands moved to grip the squared-off section.