CHAPTER Ten
The embers of the fire had burned to naught when Trevin slipped quietly from beneath the covers. Gwynn rolled over and sighed softly. He froze, expecting her eyes to flutter open but she began breathing in a gentle rhythm again. His heart ached at the sight of her, asleep and innocent in his bed, her hair tangled and falling in red-brown ringlets over her smooth, bare shoulders. Thoughts of their recent loving—hot and wild and sinful—seared through his brain and it was all he could do not to take her into his arms again.
He’d only feigned sleep and as she’d snuggled against him, her naked body nestling to his, he’d struggled to stay awake and let her sleep, for he was determined to leave her.
He resisted the urge to bend down and kiss her forehead, or climb back into his bed and love her thoroughly again. But there was no time and before he left the keep, as was his custom, he had one more duty to accomplish.
Without donning his clothes he unlocked the door and slipped out of his chamber into the cold of the hallway. Quickly he ducked into another room where, without any noise, he threw on his tunic, breeches, mantle and boots. As quietly as a cat stalking prey he hurried down the dark stairs.
Outside, there was muted activity in the bailey. Armor, food staples, and tents were already packed into carts. Oxen were being yoked and some horses had been saddled and stood nervously waiting, their breaths fogging in the cold night air. Seven of Trevin’s most trusted men were riding with him while Sir Bently, who was still recovering from a nasty wound received on a hunt for a wild boar, would stay at the castle and keep his eyes on Gwynn. It was Bently’s distasteful duty to restrain the lady and keep her safely within Black Oak’s walls. Trevin didn’t envy the man his task.
Several of his men had collected near the stables, choosing their mounts and checking saddles, bridles, and weapons.
“All is nearly ready,” Sir Stephen said. He thumbed the edge of his sword to test its sharpness. The blade glistened pure silver in the moonlight.
“I will be but a moment.”
“Take yer time,” Sir York said, yawning. A big man with a blond beard and round belly, he was tightening the cinch of his mount’s saddle and was in no hurry to leave the comforts of the castle.
Trevin ducked behind the stables, through the outer bailey and motioned for the guard to open the gate. Rattling and clanging, the portcullis was raised. Trevin walked briskly up a well-worn path leading to the cemetery where pale white tombstones and wooden crosses marked the graves. His footsteps didn’t falter as he wound his way to Faith and baby Alison’s grave.
Pain tore at his heart and guilt, as always, blackened his soul. He knelt on the damp moss and grass and closed his eyes. How had he come to this? From thief to outlaw to ignoble baron? Half the people under his rule thought him a savior, the rest considered him a demon who had heartlessly stolen an old man’s castle, then killed him, and married his only daughter.
Pride kept his backbone stiff, fury clenched his fists, and remorse tightened his jaw.
He envisioned Faith as he’d last seen her, weary and in pain, still holding a babe that had been dead for two days. “Do not love another,” she’d begged, agony showing in her eyes. “Trevin, please do me not the dishonor.” She’d clutched at his arm, tears drizzling down her hollow cheeks. “I loved you. Dear God, how I loved you. Please…” She’d coughed and choked and he’d drawn her into the circle of his arms. “Vow to me, Trevin, that you’ll never love another woman. Swear it.”
“I swear. On my life, Faith. I will never love another.”
He’d believed those words. Had known deep in his heart that he wasn’t lying. But now, Gwynn of Rhydd had caused him to doubt all that he’d held true. He swallowed against a throat clogged with emotions he’d tried to bury.
“Forgive me,” he said, as if his dead wife and child could hear him. “I… I tried, and… I failed. Both of you.” His throat worked as he thought of his only daughter, born without taking a breath and the woman who had given her life to bear him an heir. “I am but a man, Faith,” and the admission tore at his soul, for he’d betrayed her and the vow he’d made. “I did love you, you know,” he said, glancing up at the moon and shaking his head at his own folly. “I just didn’t know it until you were taken from me.”
He thought of those dark days after her death, the loneliness and regret that had shredded his heart, the pain in his soul for the child who he would never swing in his arms or let ride upon his shoulders. He’d never known Alison, but he missed her sorely and it was her death that had led him on his quest to find his son. He would not lose another.
“I did not mean to lie to you,” he said to Faith. “I never meant to love another woman, I thought I was incapable, but…” He let his words drift away on the breeze. Did he love Gwynn? Was it possible? Or was he confusing love and lust?
Reaching into the pocket of his mantle, he found the small pouch he’d put there days before. He untied the little purse and shook its contents into his palm. The ruby ring winked darkly in the night. “Curse you,” he said, examining the jewel that he’d had with him all these years. Why? He’d told himself that he’d kept the ring for luck, that it was a symbol of his freedom for the coin and jewels Gwynn had given him so many years before. It had given him the means to ascend from lowly stable hand and thief to knight and eventually Lord of Black Oak Hall.
A station he regretted.
His fingers wrapped around the cold, heartless stone and wondered at the course of his destiny. “I miss you, Faith,” he admitted, for the first time, since her death. “But I cannot live a lie.”
So what was the truth? That he loved Lady Gwynn of Rhydd? His jaw hardened and he dropped the stone into his pouch. No. For the rest of his days he would love no one, not even the beautiful mistress of Castle Rhydd. Their lives seemed forever entwined because of Gareth, but he would not be foolish to lose his heart to the woman.
He slipped the pouch into his pocket and glanced at the black sky where the moon and stars shone bright. A breath of cold wind touched his cheeks. It was time. Renewed of purpose, he strode back to the castle. His new mount, Dark One, Sir Webb’s charger, was waiting impatiently for him, pawing the damp ground, sidestepping whenever anyone came close to him.
Trevin touched the horse’s quivering hide. With a grim smile he silently gave the signal for his small band to ride out, away from Black Oak Hall and toward Rhydd to find his son.
Casting one final glance over his shoulder to the keep where Gwynn was sleeping soundly, he felt another needle of guilt pricking deep into his soul. He’d tricked her, but then, hadn’t she schemed to do just the same to him? Hadn’t she been lurking in his chamber, eavesdropping on his plan to rescue Gareth? She deserved to be held captive for a few days.
After all, ‘twas for her own good.
“Shh!” Gareth whispered into Boon’s cocked ear. “’Tis soon we’ll both be able to feed our faces.” Forlornly the little pup whimpered. Gareth’s own stomach rumbled from lack of food and his legs ached from trudging for hours upon the deserted road. His last ride, on the back of a farmer’s wagon, had been long ago and not for the first time did Gareth give himself a hearty mental shake that he’d left old Muir’s horse back at the tavern. He’d been scared to the point of losing all the spit in his mouth and that explained why he’d run so fast and far.
It couldn’t be because he was a coward. Not him. Or was it so? Doubts crowded through his mind that was already filled with guilt and remorse. Oh, what a selfish brat he’d been. If given one more chance to make amends with a mother who had spent all her life caring for him, he would take it. He thought of the times he’d crossed her, lied to her, sneaked out of the castle, and scared her out of her wits.
But he’d make it up to her. He would. If he just got the chance.
He should have flung himself into the foray at the tavern and tried to save the magician. Instead he’d fled like a fearful old woman. Well, he’d surprise them all, he thought as he carried the pup toward Rhydd. He hoped to be within a mile of the castle by dawn, sleep most of the day away in a hiding spot near the creek, then sneak into the castle just as the sun was setting and the guard was changing. He had enough friends within the castle walls to protect him until he found a way to save the old man. Surely Tom would aid him, and Alfred, the hound master and… well, there were sure to be others. Aye, his plan would work and he would avenge himself. He had to.
“I’ll run old Ian through,” he boasted to the pup though he didn’t feel quite as sure of himself as he sounded. Even with a silver cast of moonglow, the forest was spooky. Leafless trees raised their spindly, crooked arms to the heavens and bracken and berry vines, lifeless and skeletal, hid all manner of creatures that he felt watching him with nervous eyes. As for killing a man, he’d done that once and felt not a speck of satisfaction for taking another’s life. ‘Twas not noble.
Again his stomach rumbled. Oh, to have a joint from one of Jack, the cook’s, fat pheasants, or a slice of sweet pie, or a sizzling sausage. Even pottage, which the peasants ate, would go far to easing the emptiness in Gareth’s belly.
“We’ll find something soon,” he told the dog and knew he’d have to rob a farmer’s henhouse once again for fresh eggs or chickens for poor Boon. Though Gareth had been able to pluck a few winter apples from the barren trees, the dog ate not the fruit and his ribs had begun to show. “When we get back to Rhydd, I promise you, you’ll have the finest scraps from the lord’s table.” The pup, as if understanding, wiggled against him.
The night was clear, the air brisk, the forest silent. Gareth wondered of his mother—what had happened to her? And the old magician, was he already dead or held fast in one of Rhydd’s dungeons? Trembling, Gareth pulled his mantle closer over his chest. He hoped there was still time to save Muir and for the first time in his twelve years, he wished he’d paid more attention and listened as his mother and old Idelle had cast spells or drawn runes in the mud. He could use all the help he could get, even if it came from pagan rites.
Soon he heard the rush of water and knew he was approaching the river that ran past the castle. His heartbeat quickened in time with the increased pace of his footsteps. Rhydd. ‘Twas odd how he felt about the castle in which he’d grown up. He’d enjoyed living there as the son of the baron, but now that he was no longer blood kin to Roderick, knowing that his mother had deceived everyone in the keep as well as Gareth, he felt a desire to return to his home and quieter days. Though he could not.
He reminded himself that he was banished. Being found anywhere near the curtain walls would spell certain death. Ian, whom he’d thought of as an uncle for all his life, was a cruel, heartless man; the thought of the black-hearted bastard being wed to his mother caused a foul taste to crawl up his throat. To rid himself of it, Gareth spat and Boon let out an excited yip.
“Nay! Hush!”
The trees gave way to brush and Gareth paused. Situated on a hill, looming dark and foreboding, stood Rhydd. A fortress. The keep of a cruel interloper. The only place Gareth had ever called home.
Tomorrow he would render his own personal attack against the current baron. He would sneak past the guards and—
He jumped as he felt the tip of a cold steel blade press against the back of his neck.
In surprise he dropped the dog.
Boon let out a disgruntled “woof” as he hit the ground.
Gareth nearly lost all the water in his bladder.
“Well, well, boy,” a nasty male voice intoned. “Who are ye, or should I guess? Don’t tell me now…”
Gareth reached for his dagger.
“I wouldn’t.” The point of the sword pricked Gareth’s skin. He froze. “That’s better. Now be a smart lad, will ye? There’s still a chance ye might live, Gareth of Rhydd, but, ‘tis a slim one, to be sure. I, for one, will not be wagerin’ on yer miserable hide.”
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Ian’s head reverberated with the infernal pounding. Too much wine. That was it, he’d drunk far too much wine.
“Lord Ian!” Again the horrid racket.
“Go away!” he grumbled.
“But, m’lord-”
“Hush, man!” Opening one eye slowly, Ian glared at the door to his chamber and tried to still the dull roar drumming through his brain. He wiped a hand over his face and stretched in his bed when he caught sight of the lovely wench lying, drunk, upon the covers beside him. Her skin was white and flawless, her hair a fine flaxen hue, her eyes—now closed—wide and blue, and she could ride a man half the night, but, by the saints, she wasn’t as smart as the tired old gong farmer and the ox he used to pull his cart of manure from the bailey. She hadn’t stirred throughout the racket.
The sentry wouldn’t give up. “Lord Ian, if you please-”
“Bloody hell, what is it?” Ian demanded as he climbed from the bed, threw on a black robe that had once been his brother’s, crossed the room in three swift, painful strides, and flung open the door.
“I hate to bother ye, me lord,” the rail-thin sentry apologized, his Adam’s apple working when he caught a glimpse of the girl on the bed. “’Tis the boy—Lady Gwynn’s son. One of the soldiers found him lurking in the woods and-”
“Where is he?” Ian demanded, his headache suddenly forgotten. He nearly smiled. Could it be that his luck had changed?
“Downstairs in the great hall-”
Ian wasn’t listening. He shoved the man out of his way and flew down the curved stairs though his legs still pained him and the robe billowed behind him like a mainsail in a brisk wind.
Finally!
The object of all of his wretched searching and nightmares had, indeed, been captured and now stood shivering in front of the fire. The new captive held onto a pathetic dog as if to life itself and flinched whenever one of the guards touched him or tried to get him to move.
“Leave me alone, ye dirty curs,” he growled, though Ian thought his bravado was forced. The boy was so scared he shook.
Nonetheless Gareth still seemed to have some fight left in him. All the better. Ian cinched the belt of his robe and couldn’t help grinning. “Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”
“’Twasn’t a cat, but an ass who hauled me in here,” Gareth shot back.
“Pretty harsh talk from the boy who killed the baron.”
The brat had the audacity to lift his head and hold Ian’s furious gaze with his own. Though the boy was dirty and skinny and held on to the damned dog as if he thought he could protect the wriggling little beast, the cocky little son of a bitch still acted as if he were lord of the castle.
“You’re in trouble, boy.”
Gareth didn’t reply.
Sir Webb and another soldier, a weasly looking man with bad skin, guarded their young charge with their swords drawn, as if they thought the urchin had a chance at besting them or outrunning them.
“Where did you find him?” Ian crossed his arms over his chest and circled the bane of his existence. Oh, ‘twas sweet pleasure to have finally caught another one of the traitors. First the magician, now the boy, next the thief? Or that Jezebel of a wife of his?
“Lurkin’ about in the forest, ‘e was, m’lord,” the scarred-faced soldier replied. “He seemed interested in that sorcerer, prob’ly came back to try and free ‘im.”
Gareth’s jaw tightened defiantly. Apparently the guard had guessed the boy’s intent.
“I figured ye’d want to see ‘im.”
“That I do.” Ian let himself have the satisfaction of a smile.
“What shall we do with him?” Sir Webb frowned at the boy as if Gareth had manifested himself as Lucifer.
“I’d say hang him in the morning, but that might not be wise.”
“You’d better kill me quick,” the whelp had the guts to say. His blue eyes flashed courageously and Ian couldn’t help but feel a tad of respect for him. “Elsewise I’ll hunt you down and run you through with your own sword!”
“Will you?” Ian laughed at the boy’s ridiculous sense of nobility. “I don’t think so.”
To prove his point, Gareth spit on the rushes at Ian’s feet.
“Bastard!” Webb backhanded the boy and sent him reeling against the wall. Gareth’s head snapped. His bones cracked. The pup gave out a pained yelp and fell to the floor. Paws scrabbling, he ran to a table and cowered beneath it.
Blood drizzled from one corner of Gareth’s mouth but he managed to stay on his feet as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Smiling, he spit again. This time the bloody wad landed on Webb’s boots.
The dark knight grabbed him by the collar. “Listen, ye thankless little brat,” Webb warned in a low whisper. “I’ll gladly kill your dog, then, after ye watch him die, I’ll tan his spotty hide and pick the meat from his bones.”
Gareth turned a sick green color.
“Believe me, I wouldn’t think twice about killin’ ye as well. ‘Twould do me heart good.”
Gareth blanched but he met the soldier’s harsh gaze with nary a glance away. “Rot in hell.”
“Nay, son, that be yer privilege.”
“Let him go,” Ian ordered.
Webb, after a second’s hesitation, released his grip on the boy.
Gareth stumbled backwards a step and wiped the blood from the side on his face with the back of his hand. If looks could indeed kill, Sir Webb would have keeled over on the spot.
Turning his harsh gaze upon Ian, the boy asked, “Where’s my mother?”
“Know you not?” Ian scowled. He’d hoped the boy would have information about where Gwynn was hiding.
“Nay, but I think you do.” His blue eyes simmered with hate and for an insane second, Ian of Rhydd, experienced dread. This boy was the son of the outlaw. “So tell me, ‘uncle,’ where is she?”
“’Tis a good question.” Ian’s eyes met Webb’s for a second and he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the black robe.
“He was alone,” Webb explained, his cohort nodding.
“Unfortunate.” Ian’s mind was already turning toward the future and how he would recover his wayward wife. “However, she’ll come looking for him.” He hooked a thumb in Gareth’s direction. “Just as this one crawled back here for the magician, the lady will come searching for her son.”
“Aye.” Webb licked his lips and grinned wickedly. “See, boy, ‘tis not so bad. You want to see your mother and she’ll return for you. You be the bait.”
But Ian’s thoughts weren’t finished. “McBain will no doubt join her,” he thought aloud, bile climbing up his throat as he considered the slippery thief who had lain with Gwynn so many years before. “For some reason, he seems to have decided to claim the lad.”
“Claim me?” Gareth repeated. “What mean you?” He dabbed at his bloody lip with the edge of his sleeve.
“Oh, did you not know?” Ian asked with feigned innocence. He was only too glad to give the lad the bad news.
“Know what?” The boy was wary.
“That you, pretender to the throne of Rhydd, were spawned by a common thief?”
The boy shook his head. “Nay-”
“Oh, ‘tis true.”
Horror dawned in the boy’s blue eyes as he put the hidden pieces of his life together. “But my mother—she would not have -” He shook his head and said with surprising calm, “I’ll listen to no more of your lies.”
“Think on it, lad.” Ian enjoyed watching the na?ve whelp’s features twist in disgust as he considered the means of his conception.
“And you thought you were of noble birth, eh?” Webb added with a snort. “As fer yer mother, who knows what happened? Either she’s a whoring slut who would spread her legs for the common man or she was compromised by the thief.”
“Liar!” Gareth lunged, flinging himself at the knight, but Webb was ready. With a hefty shove, he heaved the kid onto the table and pressed his weight onto the boy. “Come on again, lad. I’ll give ye more,” he promised.
Gareth rolled to his side, his head hung over the edge of the table. He retched violently, his entire body convulsing. Had he anything in his stomach, Ian was certain he would have vomited the vile mass onto the rushes. As it was he clutched his guts and fought tears of indignation. “Nay,” he said, over and over again. “Nay, nay, nay.”
Straightening, Webb laughed wickedly and Ian suppressed his own urge to grin from ear-to-ear. At last his plan was beginning to work.
“You’re a murderin’ bastard,” Gareth flung out recklessly.
“Careful, boy. Remember who was born with no sire,” Ian said, then turned to Webb. “Take him down to the dungeon and make sure that everyone in the castle knows that he’s being held until I decide when he’ll go to the gallows.”
Gareth paled.
“My pleasure.”
“Oh, and see that a messenger is sent—nay, a traitor who is wounded, would be better—to Black Oak Hall with the news that Gareth of Rhydd is imprisoned here and sentenced to die.” He slid the boy a glance. “That should send your mother running to save you, don’t you think?”
“Go to hell.”
Ian laughed. “You’ll be there long before I arrive.”
The lad straightened and sucked in his breath, but wouldn’t give Ian the satisfaction of begging for his life. Instead he glowered at the lord of the castle as if Ian were but a useless insect he would like to squash beneath his boots. “I be not dead yet.”
“Nor will you be until my wife returns.”
“She is not-”
“Oh, yes, son. She is married to me. Legally. And she’ll return. For you.”
Gareth’s eyes darkened in the same manner that did Trevin’s of Black Oak. “And she will save me.”
“Against all my men? I think not,” Ian said but felt a cold premonition of dread crawl up his backside nevertheless.
One corner of Gareth’s mouth lifted into a hard, determined smile, another reminder of the thief. “Think again, for you know, she will punish you a thousand times over if any harm comes to me, Boon, or Muir.”
“Oh, and how will she do so?”
“’Twill be a simple matter,” Gareth said, spitting blood onto the floor. “Remember, Lord Ian, she is more than a woman and much more than my mother.”
“Is she?” Ian asked, bored with the conversation. His headache was returning and he had many more hours in bed with the wench, though she was as dull as one of Father Anthony’s sermons. “We’ll see.”
“Aye, that you will.”
“Take him away. He speaks nonsense.” Ian stretched the muscles of his shoulders and considered a time when Gwynn would warm his bed. Oh, by the gods, then his revenge would be sweet.
“Be forewarned,” Gareth said boldly as two guards slipped gloved hands beneath his armpits, dragging him forward while a third rounded up his dog. “My mother will not stand for this.”
“What can she do about it?” Ian was tired of the boy’s veiled threats.
“You don’t want to know,” Gareth warned, craning his head so that he could meet Ian’s gaze. “But forget you not that she is a witch.”
Ian shook his head and felt a weary sadness for the boy who believed so passionately in his mother. “Nay, child, Lady Gwynn is nothing more than a whore and a cheap one at that.”
As soon as Gareth was out of earshot, Ian turned to Webb. “Now, see that one of the knights loyal to the lady, Sir Reynolds, mayhap… nay, Charles, Sir Charles would be the one. Make sure that he knows that Gareth is about to be hanged.”
“Tonight?”
“Aye,” Ian said, walking to his chair and staring into the dying coals of the fire. “Make a racket, talk about it, pretend that you are drunk, if it comes to that, but see that Charles awakes and hears the news. Then keep the castle gates open and follow him. ‘Tis my guess he will ride to Black Oak Hall.”
“You want me to sneak into the castle,” Webb said, his eyes lighting with a gleam of satisfaction.
“Nay. Follow him closely so that you see where he goes, then wound him so that the lady and thief understand that the boy’s plight is serious.”
“Gladly.”
Ian held up a hand. “But kill him not. He must get the message through.”
“Aye, my arrow flies true. I will be able to give him a mortal wound that will sap out his life slowly.”
“You were supposed to kill the boy before and make it look as if you were wounded yourself, yet you failed me.”
“’Twill not happen again,” Webb vowed, sliding his jaw to one side. “I rarely fail.”
“See that you don’t.”
Webb rubbed his beard, creating a scraping sound that irritated Ian. “Are you sure you do not want me to follow Charles and kill not only him but the others as well?”
Ian shook his head. “Death will come to those who deserve it,” he said, “but I want to face my wife and thief first.” His muscles tensed as he considered them together. They had been lovers in the past and, he suspected, were again. “My justice will be slow and damning,” he said, savoring the words. “Trevin of Black Oak will die knowing who it was that killed him.”
Gwynn stretched languidly on the bed, memories of making love to Trevin sill weaving in warm, sensual ribbons through her mind. Ah, ‘twas sweet heaven to lie with him. Smiling, she slowly opened her eyes and reached out a hand to touch his warm body, only to have her empty fingers stretch and touch the cold far side of the bed.
Her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright.
She was alone.
The bed was empty save for her.
Cold certainty settled into her heart, for she knew, as surely as the sun would rise again, that Trevin had duped her.
The fire had died and the lord of Black Oak’s chamber was cold as a cistern.
“Oh, for the love of Mary.” She pounded a fist against the covers, for she’d been played for a fool. He’d left Black Oak just as he’d planned. Without her.
“Thieving, black-hearted, son of a dog!” she muttered as if he could hear her. She threw off the blankets. While she’d been caught up in the rapture of making love to him, he’d used her, over and over again, until she, spent, had fallen asleep in his arms.
Oh, what a ninny she was. To forget her fears concerning Gareth, to wash away her worries of Ian, she’d let herself be caught in the sweet seduction of the outlaw. “Stupid, stupid, girl!” she chastised as, shivering, she flung on her clothes—well, Faith’s clothes—then quickly finger-combed her hair and used water from a basin placed near the now-cold grate to splash over her face. Angrily she shoved open the door to the corridor half expecting a guard to place himself in front of her and order her back into the room, but the hallway was empty.
Good. She’d not be held prisoner; not by any man and least of all by Trevin of Black Oak. The nerve of the man seducing her, luring her in to bed, then tempting her with sleep.
Was it any different from how you treated him in years long past?
Stomping her foot in frustration, she startled a cat that scurried out of her way. She was down the stairs in a matter of minutes and stopped in her own chamber where her boots and cloak were waiting. She didn’t have time to change into her own clothes, lying clean and dry upon the end of the bed, but she searched for her weapon, the dagger in which she placed so much trust and discovered it, along with her pouch filled with the herbs, berries, and roots she’d gathered for the casting of spells, missing.
“Curse and rot your wretched hide, Trevin McBain,” she muttered as she tossed her cloak over her head. Still lacing the mantle, she made her way downstairs and hoped beyond useless hope that she had misjudged him and that Trevin was still in the castle, that she had jumped to the wrong conclusion. Mayhap he was in treasury checking the keep’s records, or eating a midmorning meal in the great hall, or walking through the bailey discussing supplies or repairs or the selling of oxen with the steward.
Aye, and mayhap you be a simpleton!
In the great hall, pages were setting the tables onto their legs and dragging benches into place. The cook was shouting orders, and servants darted through the hallways and up the stairs.
Gwynn ignored them all and nearly ran into the priest near the courtyard door. “Oh, Father Paul,” she said, quickly crossing herself. “Could you tell me where Lord Trevin is?”
“The baron? Did he not tell you?” Paul’s graying eyebrows became one and his lips stretched over his gums. “I believe—yes, I’m sure that the steward told me—the baron was leaving this morn with a band of soldiers—his best. Was he not searching for your son?”
“Yes… yes, I think so,” she said, angry all over again, though she attempted to hide her true feelings. “He has already departed?”
“I know not,” the man admitted. “I only assumed-”
“Aye,” she said, turning to the door. There was a chance that she could catch up with him.
“We should pray for their safe return.”
“Of course.”
The priest brightened. “Good. I’ll see you in the chapel and there will be no more of this talk-” he fluttered his fingers nervously “-of devil worship.”
“What?”
He leaned closer to her, as if he expected the very walls to hear his next words. “There is no reason to deny it, m’lady. ‘Tis said that you practice the dark arts.”
“Nay,” she said quickly. “I am but a Christian woman, who prays to our Father as well as enjoys the gifts of the earth He gives us.” There was no reason to explain to this man of the cloth that her spells and runes were but another means of trying to save her son, that she would attempt anything, aye, even bargain with the devil himself, if, ‘twould keep Gareth from harm. “Peace be with you.” She reached for the handle of the door.
“Oh, there ye be, m’lady!” Hildy’s voice preceded the rustle of her skirts as she hurried down the stairs. “Good mornin’ to ye, Father Paul,” she added crossing herself with the speed of a lizard scurrying to the safety of tall grass. “Lord Trevin said that I am to be yer maid and I fear I’ve failed ye as I’ve been tendin’ to the dye vats this morn.” She held up her hands and showed that the flesh on one arm had turned a bright shade of blue. “I splashed a bit as I was turning’ the cloth and old Mary, she was passin’ by and told me to get back to me task. As if she can order anyone around,” Hildy sniffed. “She’s but a butcher’s wife and has not the skill or patience for the dying of wool.”
Gwynn had not time for the little maid’s prattle, but she was trapped.
“’Tis of no matter,” Father Paul said, waving away Hildy’s wounded pride with a flip of his pious wrist. “You must tend to your own business, which is, as you say, attending to the lady.”
“I need not a maid,” Gwynn argued as precious seconds ticked by.
“But Lord Trevin said-”
“I don’t care what he said,” Gwynn cut in.
“No, of course not, m’lady, I didn’t mean to say that-”
“Do not worry yourself.” Gwynn managed a smile for both priest and maid. “I will let you know when I need your services, until then you can go back to the dye vats or whatever other task is yours.”
Leaving Hildy standing with her mouth agape and the priest gently shaking his head as if he saw within the mistress of Rhydd the very vestige of evil, Gwynn gathered her skirts and made her way outside.
Sunlight danced over the bailey. Geese honked loudly, flapping their great wings as they scattered by a pond where boys were busy trying to catch toads. Other, older youths hauled sloshing buckets of water from the well to the kitchen while girls, giggling and laughing, collected eggs in baskets or gutted fish in a trough near the kitchen door.
“Hurry, ye wretched snails!” the cook hollered. “I can’t be boilin’ pottage without water, now, can I?”
Gwynn ducked down an alley behind the kitchen where the scents of smoke and drying herbs vied with the warm odors of baking bread and the sizzle of venison. Two women were separating milk from cream while another milked a cud-chewing spotted cow.
Around the corner she dashed, her heart in her throat, her eyes searching the bailey, but nowhere did she see Trevin. Face it, Gwynn, he used you. Pure and simple.
She passed the garden and spied the stables at the far side of the inner bailey.
“Hey! Not now!” the candlemaker yelled at boys lugging pails of animal fat into his hut. “By the gods I’ve got no more room fer it this morn… oh, put it in the corner and be off with ye.”
Clutching her cloak more tightly around her throat, she made her way to the stables where she surveyed the horses and with a sinking sensation realized that not only was Sir Webb’s charger missing, but the horse she’d ridden—Trevin’s steed—as well. Blast the man! He’d tricked her rather than the other way around as she’d planned. Well, she wouldn’t stand for it and as she eyed the horses in the stables and those who were penned in the outer bailey, she mentally chose which one she would steal, a fiery-tempered dappled animal who appeared sound and swift.
Now all she needed was a little help to make good her escape and that ‘twould be a simple matter.
But first she planned visits to the apothecary, the kitchen, the armorer, and finally the candle maker to replace the items Trevin had stripped from her. ‘Twould take a little time, but she would soon be off to find her son.
She rounded a corner and nearly ran over the hefty knight known as Bently. “Oh.”
“M’lady,” he said, favoring his right arm that was in a sling from some hunting injury. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Have you?” The worry lining his brow gave her pause. “What can I do for you?”
“’Tis my duty and my pleasure to be your personal guard.”
“My what?” she asked, smelling a trick.
Two youths—a boy and girl—rolled a hoop as they raced by. Laughing, they yelled and hollered as they ran past and a dog dashed yapping at their heels.
“Your guard, m’lady.”
“I need not someone to watch over me.” Quiet fury seeped through her veins.
“The baron, he asked me, to-”
“Do not trouble yourself, Sir Bently. As Lord Trevin must have told you I ruled a castle by myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me-” She bunched her skirts, but the man was persistent and wouldn’t be deterred.
“I cannot. ‘Tis my obligation to be with you and protect you.”
“While I’m inside the castle?” she asked, wanting to strangle the man who had so recently loved her.
“Aye.”
“And if I choose to go out?”
His gaze shifted away for a second before returning to hers. “The baron, he thinks it would be safer for you to stay inside.”
“Does he? But that’s impossible.”
“Nay, m’lady, ‘tis the way it must be.”
He actually had the decency to look sorry, but Gwynn, anger invading her blood, wasn’t fooled so easily this time. She sensed that Bently was a man who could not be moved. His mission was to see to her safety and she didn’t doubt that he intended to do just that. She had no option but to pretend to agree.
“Fine, Sir Bently, though I like it not. I will wait until the baron returns and take up my, what would you call it, not my imprisonment or captivity, surely-” the guard winced a little “-but maybe we’ll refer to it as Lord Trevin’s questionable hospitality.”
“Thank you,” he said and his eyes told her he didn’t believe her entirely.
She would have to be patient and time, she feared, was running short.
“’Tis nearly time for a meal and Cook’s outdone himself again.”
“Good.” She forced a smile though it pained her. “If I might change into a suitable dress-”
“Surely, Lady Gwynn.”
“But you’ll stand guard at my door?”
He was solemn as death. “Aye. As the lord ordered.”
“Then, Sir Bently, let us not tarry,” she said, sidestepping a puddle. She eyed the gate where the portcullis was open, but where soldiers watched those who entered and departed with ever-sharp eyes. Damn that black-hearted McBain! When she caught up with him, Gwynn silently pledged, he would rue the day he thought he could outsmart her.