CHAPTER Eleven
“Why did you not tell me?” a voice in his dreams asked.
Muir snorted and turned over, then felt young fingers gripping his shoulders and digging into his old muscles.
“Wake up, would you?”
Muir stirred, his body aching. Who was bothering him? Slowly he opened his good eye to stare into the face of Gareth of Rhydd. His heart stopped for a second. By the gods, would nothing go as it should? “What the devil are ye doin’ here?”
“A better question would be how did a magician let himself get caught and thrown into a dungeon?” the lad asked, eyeing his surroundings and shaking his head at the dark, dank interior of the prison.
“There are some things, boy, ye do not know about my magic,” Muir grumbled.
“There seem to be things you do not know. It appears to get you into more trouble than it rids you of.”
Muir stretched and felt his spine pop. Ach, what he would give for a pint. “Have ye not heard that patience is a virtue?”
“Patience?” the boy repeated, kicking at the filthy straw and sending an old piece of bone scuttling across the floor. “How can anyone be patient while rotting away in a prison?” He turned suspicious eyes on the old man and added, “Asides, magician, you lied to me.”
“I tell only what is true.”
“Then who is my father?”
Muir opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Is he Trevin of Black Oak?”
So the truth was out and the cursed prophesy was starting to reveal itself.
“Hey, quiet down!” the guard grumbled from the chair where he had been dozing. Other prisoners glared at Gareth from their cells, but said not a word as the argument continued.
“Can you not speak, eh?” Gareth whispered. He paced from one end of the small cell to the other. “Why did you not tell me that the thief and…”
“Killer? Is that what’s troubling ye, boy. Listen to me, Lord Trevin murdered not anyone including Dryw of Black Oak. Hear not idle gossip, Gareth, lest you become the subject of wagging tongues.”
“Oh, and you be a good one to talk.” Gareth flung his hands upward as if in supplication. “You lied.”
“To protect you.”
“Little good it did.”
“Because you returned,” Muir guessed.
“Aye, I was an idiot.”
Muir liked the boy despite all his impudence. “So ye came back to save me, did ye?”
“Yeah, as I said, a fool I be.”
“And an insolent pup who is feeling sorry for himself.”
Gareth sniffed and rubbed his nose with his dirty arm. There was blood on his chin and anger burning bright in his eyes. “They have Boon, too. Sir Webb plans to kill him.”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Peter. Sir Webb won’t harm the pup,” Muir said, seeing that the boy was truly disturbed. “As for us, we’ll be free soon enough.” He cleared his throat and fastened his good eye on the sentry. “Fear not, for I will get us out of here.”
Gareth rolled his eyes. “Oh, so now that I am here, you can suddenly make iron bars bend and stone walls disappear.”
“Aye, in a manner of speaking.” Muir couldn’t help but smile as he thought of the little knife still tucked into his secret pocket. “Truth to tell,” he boasted, “I can do even better.”
“Can you now?” the boy scoffed, clearly disbelieving.
“Have a little faith, Gareth. We will be out of here afore too long.”
“One minute is too long.” Clearly the boy had no trust and Muir, despite his bold words, didn’t blame him.
“’Twill be me ‘ead if Mary finds out I went against the lord’s wishes.” Hildy placed a basket of eggs on the edge of the bed in Gwynn’s chamber.
“By bringing me these?” Gwynn asked, raising an eyebrow. She had no time for the maid with her silly superstitions. Sir Bently had been her shadow and she had to find a way to detain him as she carried out her plan.
“Not the eggs, m’lady.” Hildy quickly scanned the room with her eyes as if she expected to find someone, mayhap one of her ghosts, to be hiding in the corners. Satisfied that she and Gwynn were truly alone, the girl lifted a few speckled eggs from the basket and moved the linen liner. Hidden beneath the cloth were the herbs and dagger that had been taken from Gwynn’s chamber. “I thought ye might need these… fer the spell.”
Gwynn was surprised at the simple lass’s ingenuity.
Proudly Hildy lifted her chin. “Lord Trevin, he ordered all yer weapons taken and Mary—ye know which she is, the fat ‘un who s’psed to be ‘elpin’ ‘er ‘usband with the butcherin’ but she’s got ‘er big nose in everyone’s business, that she does—thinks she can tell us all what to do. Well, anyway, she told me to take away anything of yours that might ‘ave to do with the devil and the castin’ of spells. Was after me like a ‘ound on a wounded rabbit, so to get her off me back, I stole yer things, gave them to Mary, then, when she wasn’t lookin’, swiped ‘em back again.”
Gwynn couldn’t believe her good luck. “Won’t she ask you for them?”
Hildy grinned. “Not fer a while. She thinks me a silly girl without a brain in me noggin and I, I lets her think whatever she wants. ‘Tis easier that way. Right now she suspects her own boy Elwin of doin’ the deed. ‘E’s a mean one, Elwin is, always givin’ ‘er trouble.”
“I see,” Gwynn said, less interested in the snits of the peasants and servants than she was of her own plight.
“’Tis important that ye get rid of the curse on this keep and I wasn’t about to let old Mary thwart ye.”
“Good thinking,” Gwynn said, but her own thoughts were running ahead to her escape. If Hildy were more clever than she first guessed, Gwynn would have to tread cautiously. “Now, with these things you’ve returned to me and a few more I bartered from the apothecary and candle maker, I think I’ve got all I need. But, we have to have privacy and, ‘tis best for the kind of spell you want cast to be done in the forest.”
“The woods?”
“Aye. ‘Tis more likely Morrigu and Owein Ap Urien will hear us if we be in the solace of the forest, especially if we are close to water.” She lowered her eyes and added a small lie to enlist Hildy’s help. “Asides, you told me of the ghosts that walk the walls of Black Oak. We needs to be far from the castle walls if we are to keep the ghosts from interfering with our spells.”
“Oh.” Hildy nodded and bit her lower lip, as if she believed every word. “But if Lord Trevin’s finds out that I helped ye…”
“Do not worry about him. I will see to the baron. You only needs worry about Sir Bently, Mary, and the rest of the servants who might notice my leaving. I have a plan.”
“A plan?” Hildy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
How much could she trust this girl? After all, despite her worries for her unborn child, Hildy was loyal to Black Oak. But time was fleeting by and Gwynn had to hurry if she were to catch up to Trevin.
“If I am to save your babe and the unborn of others in the castle, I must cast my spell while the ghosts and demons of this castle sleep, while the sun is high.”
Hildy nodded her head but didn’t seem convinced.
“Lifting a curse is not an easy task.”
“Nay, I s’pose not.”
“So I will need your help while I steal one of the baron’s horses.”
Hildy’s mouth rounded and her eyes widened. Again, she glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Oh, no. ‘Tis one thing to dupe Mary about a few ‘erbs and weapons that weren’t ‘ers to begin with, but steal from Baron Trevin… I cannot.”
“’Twill save his castle from the dark powers you say reside here.”
“I know…” Hildy rubbed her lips nervously with the tips of her fingers. “But-”
“And ‘twill save your child.”
Again the girl hesitated and her forehead wrinkled. Absently she touched her flat abdomen. “Could… could ye also ask that a man fall in love with me and give me babe a name?”
“Which man?”
“Why the babe’s father. Sir ‘Enry.”
Henry? The young knight with shaggy brown hair and sad, distrustful eyes. He was Hildy’s lover? Gwynn had seen him only once and thought him a pitiful excuse for a knight, couldn’t understand Trevin’s faith in the boy, but now, she had no time to argue. “Consider it done,” Gwynn agreed impatiently, “as long as you allow me the time to get away from Sir Bently.”
“And steal a horse. Oh, m’lady, ‘tis mad ye be.”
Gwynn ignored Hildy’s worries. “Are you with me?”
The girl hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Good.” Gwynn breathed a sigh of relief. She was anxious to get on with her plan for as the minutes passed, Trevin was getting farther from this castle in the search for their child.
One way or another, she intended to join him.
“We’ll camp here for the night,” Trevin swung off Dark One at the edge of a river that cut swiftly through the deep hills. A clearing at the edge of the forest would provide room for the tents as well as accommodate the ox cart. His horse waded into the shallows, lowered his head, and drank.
The men who rode with him dismounted while Sir York, driving the lumbering spotted ox, found a place to leave the cart. As he unharnessed the beast, Trevin watched his men work together. Ralph and Henry would take their bows and quivers in the search for fresh meat. Stephen and York would set up camp. Winston would tend to the horses while Nelson stood guard and Gerald scouted the road between the camp and Rhydd.
Everything was in place, so why did he feel so restless, as if something were amiss? His muscles were tense, his teeth on edge, but there was no cause for his worries. The supplies were plenty, the weapons strong, the animals and men healthy and yet… he felt anxious and sensed that there was danger. Mayhap that was why he had not shared his plans with his men.
Or mayhap it’s the Mistress of Rhydd who vexes you. He plucked a reed from the water’s edge and chewed upon it as he watched the men moving quickly about their tasks, but he was distracted with memories of Gwynn lying warm and naked in his arms.
Deciding that he was borrowing trouble, he helped in pitching the tents and watering and feeding the ox and horse and pushed all wayward thoughts of Gwynn aside.
Henry, the least capable of the lot, returned with three rabbits, which they skinned and gutted, then roasted over the fire. Gerald hadn’t returned by the time the meat was roasted and again Trevin, as they sat near the fire and picked at the meat, felt a niggle of distress. He sliced a loaf of bread all the while searching the shadows, listening over the roar of the river for the sound of hooves.
“He should be back,” Ralph said, as if reading Trevin’s thoughts. A thoughtful man, he was prone to worrying. “Gerald. What takes him so long?” He bit into a shank of rabbit.
“Mayhap he ran into Ian’s men,” York remarked.
“Nay, he’ll be here.” Stephen skewered a piece of meat with the tip of his knife, then slid it between his teeth. “Have patience.”
“On this fool’s mission?” Henry scoffed. He shook his shaggy head and watched sparks rise to the heavens. “If ye ask me we all be lucky to be alive.”
“Well, nobody’s askin’,” York said and several men chuckled.
Henry raised a pious eyebrow. “Wait and see,” he warned softly. “I go now to pray.”
“Good. Take yer time.” York shook his head as Henry ducked into the woods. “’E takes his life far too seriously.”
“He’s young,” Trevin said.
“And green. Why ‘e comes with us… ah, well, m’lord, ‘tis your battle.”
Trevin shook his head and took the jug. “Nay, ‘tis all our fight. We all have reason to distrust Rhydd and the baron who rules there.”
“Amen,” York agreed.
“Aye. To Ian’s death!” Winston muttered. “He and that dog of his, Sir Webb.”
Ralph snorted. “Death to them all.”
Trevin lifted the jug to his lips and swallowed. The hearty ale seared a path down his throat to settle like fire in his belly. He passed the jug to Ralph, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The men as they joked and grumbled, laughed and continued to pass the jug. Henry returned and several others took their leave to relieve themselves. There was a bit of discord, but they seemed well-suited.
“I’ll take first watch,” Trevin said when the jug was empty, bellies filled, and the fire burned low.
“Nay, m’lord, ‘tis my duty,” Nelson insisted.
Trevin agreed but slept uneasily, tossing and turning on his pallet, worrying for Gwynn and Gareth and wondering if he was able to help them. Near dawn he heard the hoofbeats, hard and steady, pounding through the forest.
“Who goes-” Nelson demanded as Trevin stepped out of his tent.
Breathing hard, lathered and covered in mud, Gerald’s horse raced into the camp only to skid to a stop. “’Tis bad news I bear,” Gerald said as he swung from his saddle and Nelson grabbed the reins of his charger. “Trouble on the road.” He was gasping for breath, his face splattered with dirt.
“What trouble?” Trevin demanded.
“I was on my way to Castle Rhydd when I spied a knight, his tunic stained scarlet with blood, riding the opposite direction, toward Black Oak. An arrow was lodged deep in his shoulder and another in the beast’s flank. I called to him, but he heard me not and clung to the saddle for fear of toppling over. I know not who he is but he wore the colors of Rhydd and was kicking the horse like a wild man, so that animal would continue to run.”
Trevin scowled. “And then?”
“I rode back here as fast as the horse could run. I know not what happened, m’lord, but I fear we may be walking into a trap.”
The worries that had been with Trevin since the onset of his mission turned darker and more dangerous. They were but one day’s ride to Rhydd, and two days to Black Oak. He rubbed the tension from his muscles as the sun began to rise. “Stay here,’ he told the small band of men. “Wait for me, I’ll be back and we’ll continue our journey.”
“Where are you going?” Stephen asked, rubbing his eyes as he stretched out of one of the tents.
Trevin had walked to the line where the horses were tied and found the reins of Dark One. “I know not, but I’ll be back.”
“And if you’re not?” Henry asked, his dark eyes suspicious.
“Return to Black Oak in three days. Until then, wait.” He threw the saddle on his stallion’s back, then sent up a prayer for Gwynn and Gareth’s safety. Fear threatened his soul, but he pushed it far away.
Neither Gwynn nor her son would come to harm. He would see to it.
And what if you fail? his mind teased as he tightened the cinch, then climbed astride. He wouldn’t. He would save his son and the woman who bore him or die trying.
“Y’re sure this was your father’s best horse?” Orwin, the stable master of Black Oak, was short and squat, an ox of a man with dull little eyes sunk deep into his head and arms as big as hams. The beast in question was running in circles on a tether that Orwin held in one meaty hand. With his other he snapped a whip and the horse clipped from a walk into a trot.
A boy of about six or seven watched the horse being put through his paces and nodded at the question. “Aye, this one, Paddy, he be a good horse. Pulled me dad’s wagon, he did.”
Hildy and Gwynn approached, staying close to the stables and away from the bite of the whip and the blast of wind that blew across the short grass of the bailey and brought the first clouds of the day. Gwynn was at her wit’s end. It had been two days since Trevin had left and there had been not a chance for her to escape, nor the means.
“You know, yer mother, she’s supposed to give the baron the best animal ye’ve got for heriot,” Orwin said.
“’Tis a bad tax, me ma says.”
“But the law.”
The boy, pigeon-toed and plain, nodded, though Gwynn decided he knew nothing of taxes or laws or heriot. All he understood was that his dad was gone and now the lord, the thieving, murdering lord of Black Oak, was taking his mother’s best horse. Gwynn felt more than a second’s misgiving. The boy’s mother was right. Heriot was a bad tax.
“Paddy here-” the lad said, motioning to the sickly looking nag “-was me dad’s mount.”
“Humph.” Orwin, turning and keeping the leash taut, clucked and the animal reluctantly increased his stride into an uneven canter. “I’ll have to see the rest of his horses. There, ye be, ye old nag.” He slowed the animal to a walk and finally to a full stop. With practiced hands he examined the horse, running fingers along the gelding’s back, then carefully prying open his mouth. “Tell yer ma I’ll be needin’ to speak with her. If this gelding-” he took his fingers from the horse’s maw and hooked his thumb toward the sorry-looking nag “-is the best, as ye say, ‘tis a pitiful herd ye have.
With a shrug, the lad took the reins of his horse’s bridle and climbed astride his bowed back.
“Now, m’lady, sorry fer the wait.” Orwin wiped his hands on his soiled breeches. “How can I be of service?” His smile exposed crowded, yellow teeth.
“I need a horse.” Gwynn decided to be firm and insistent. Though she intended to steal an animal if necessary, she’d try to first to coax one from the stable master.
“Do ye?” Stains from sweat darkened the green of his tunic and though it was a breezy afternoon, perspiration dotted his upper lip and ran along the edge of his jaw. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady, but Lord Trevin himself told me you were to stay within the castle walls.”
She’d anticipated this, but Trevin’s orders boiled her blood just the same. “So I’ve heard, but ‘tis foolish for me to stay. If it’s the horse you’re worried about, I’m a good horseman. I’ll take care of the baron’s steed.”
“’Tis not the horse that concerns me, m’lady. The lord, he said-”
“I’m not his prisoner,” Gwynn cut in swiftly. She was tired of excuses to hold her at Black Oak. She’d been polite and hadn’t wanted to offend Sir Bently, James the steward, the priest, or anyone else who tried to make her at home at the keep, but the truth of the matter was, she could stay no longer. “I may come and go as I please.”
“Nay, nay, I know that. The baron, he was clear about that, said you were his guest.” Both of his eyebrows raised, as if they were one. “Said that Sir Bently and Hildy, here, were to see after ye.”
“And a good job they’re doing.” Gwynn agreed. “Now, if I may have a saddle, bridle, and the gray horse…”
The man was used to taking orders, but was still unsure. “Baron Trevin, he told me that ye’d try to… well, leave the castle.”
Gwynn lifted her chin and stared down her nose at the man. “As well I should. If I were a prisoner, would I not be locked away in my room or a dungeon?”
“Aye.”
“And did not baron tell everyone to see to my needs?”
“Yes, but the lord, he was afeared for your safety. Said that there were men at Rhydd who would want to do ye harm.”
“How can they harm me if they be at Rhydd?” She smiled beguilingly though she had to grit her teeth. Who was this man—this stable master—to tell her whether or not she could leave the castle? Even while she was married she could leave the castle? Even while she was married she could do as she pleased. Because your husband was held hostage. Nonetheless, she had been her own overseer for the past thirteen years and wasn’t about to let some servant determine her fate. Soon enough, when she had to face Ian again, her destiny might change, but not before. She held her head a fraction higher and was about to order the man to prepare her mount when the sound of hoofbeats pounded through the bailey.
A trumpet blared.
“Open the gates, for Christ’s sakes,” a guard ordered to the gatekeeper.
“But ‘e bears the colors of Rhydd-”
Gwynn’s head snapped up. Her heart turned to stone.
“For the mercy of the lord, open ‘em. ‘E’s wounded, e is!” the guard cried. The portcullis rattled open and a horse and rider flew into the outer bailey.
“Who’s that?” Hildy asked as she turned. “Oh, m’God, ‘e’s bleedin’, ‘e is.”
“Oh, no!” Dread cast its horrid net over Gwynn’s soul. She recognized the rider as Sir Charles, the one man in whom she would have entrusted her son’s life. Blood poured from a wound in his shoulder and his horse, lathered and wet with sweat, stumbled. The shaft of an arrow protruded from one flank and a dark purple stain ran in a hideous rivulet down the animal’s back leg.
“Sweet Jesus!” Gwynn whispered, then more loudly, “Charles!” She sprinted across the bailey, her skirts flapping behind her, her slippers sinking into the soft, wet loam. “Get the physician,” she ordered Hildy. “And… and my herbs. Now!”
“But, m’lady, d’ya think-”
“I said, ‘Now!’”
Charles’s normally robust skin was pale as death and his left arm didn’t move. Blood crusted on his tunic. He toppled from the saddle and into Gwynn’s arms. “Sir Charles,” she whispered as she lay him on the damp ground. “Oh, nay, nay!” He barely breathed and his eyes, as he stared at her were like glass. “Charles, listen to me, I know you can hear me. You are here at Black Oak Hall and safe. Do not let go. Hang on, please… Charles… Charles?”
“L-Lady Gwynn?” he asked, his voice a rasp.
“’Tis I.”
Charles had been with her for as long as she’d been mistress of Rhydd. He’d stood at her side and spent long hours with Gareth, teaching him how to use a bow and arrow or hoist a sword or read the sky for the weather. He’d been her champion as well as her friend. She couldn’t lose him. Wouldn’t.
“Listen, for ‘tis news I bear…” He coughed, his chest rattling, pain causing his face to blanch, his features to twist in agony. Though he looked at her, she was certain he was sightless.
“Shh. Save your strength.”
He coughed again as peasants and servants hurried forward. Mary’s harsh voice barked orders. “Give ‘im room, would ye? Lousy clods! Make way. And someone—you, Orwin, do something with that poor ‘orse, would ye?”
“Where is the physician?” Gwynn nearly screamed as clouds covered the sun.
“’Tis Gareth,” the wounded solider said, clutching at her arm desperately.
“Gareth?” Her blood ran cold.
“Aye… at Rhydd… in the dungeon…”
“No, Charles. You are mistaken, ‘tis the pain speaking,” she argued, though she had no reason to doubt him. “Gareth… Gareth… is safe!” How would you know?
“M’lady, ‘tis true. He… he will be hanged.”
“Oh, God.” Fear gripped her insides and she could barely breathe. She wanted to tell him he was lying, but could not.
“He… he is w-with the old one… the magician… I had to tell… to tell you, but I was discovered by Sir Webb. ‘Twas… his arrow that wounded me… another that found the stallion…” His voice faded with the rising wind.
“Charles! Charles!” Scared to the very pit of her soul, she held him close, felt his blood flowing onto her dress as thunder rumbled over the land. “You must not let go!” Dear God, save this man and save my boy. Do not let him die!
Vestments catching in the wind, Father Paul ran through the crowd and upon spying the dying man, fell to his knees. “Our Father who art in heaven…”
“I found ‘im not!” Hildy pushed her way through the throng. “The physician be not in his quarters and no one in the castle knows were ‘e’s hidin’. A bloomin’ fool, ‘e is, if ye ask me.” Breathless, she handed the basket of eggs, now cracked and running, to Gwynn.
Though she wanted to give up, to fall into a puddle of tears and lift her fist to the heavens in frustration, Gwynn gritted her teeth and managed to gather her courage. Someone had to see to the wounded knight and then to free Gareth. “Sir Charles is to be taken to the great hall—the solar,” she ordered and two men whom she’d never seen before stepped forward and began to gather the wounded knight into their arms. “Careful. Please.” To Hildy, she added, “I will need hot water and clean towels, candles, and red string.”
“Aye,” the lass said as the two men carefully carried a moaning Sir Charles into the keep. “You,” she whirled on Sir Bently. “If you plan to follow me, make yourself useful. See that the horse is attended to and watch for any more wounded.” Grimly she added, “Charles may be but the first.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
The stable master urged the fallen stallion to his feet.
“Ah, ‘e’s a beaut,” Orwin said, more interested in the new addition to Black Oak’s stables than the plight of the soldier.
Gwynn, mindless of the crowd that had gathered and the first drops of rain beginning to fall, pushed her way through the curious people to the great hall. She thought of Gareth in Rhydd’s dungeon. Dear God, keep him alive, please. And if that magician is worth anything, may he cast a spell and find a way to escape.
Where is Trevin? Did he know of Gareth’s plight? Her heart ached, but she could not worry, not until she was certain Sir Charles was being tended to.
In the solar Sir Charles was stretched upon a table, the life forces seeping from him with every second. He had lost conscious thought and when Gwynn leaned close to his ear and whispered his name, he didn’t move.
“’Twill be all right,” she assured him, though she doubted her own words. “Rest easy, Sir Charles.” Father Paul entered and shook his head. “Do not lose faith,” she reprimanded him crossly. “We’ll not be hearing last rites.”
With the help of two women, Gwynn stripped Charles of his tunic and saw the gash, a fresh, gaping wound that sliced through his skin and flesh that was scarred from battles that were waged in the protection of Rhydd and the mistress of the keep. Guilt pricked at Gwynn’s soul. How much pain had this proud man endured while protecting Castle Rhydd as well as her honor?
“’Tis deep,” one of the woman said, gently touching the wound and shaking her head.
“’Twill be fine.” Gwynn swabbed the cleaved skin clean of blood and dirt.
“’Tis mortal,” the second ore argued with a sad cluck of her tongue.
“We know that not. Come, no more of this talk. We must stitch him.” Gwynn had seen to wounds before and though Charles’s cut was severe, he was a strong man. While the priest crossed himself and, closing his eyes, knelt in a far corner and prayed for Charles’s soul, Gwynn washed the wound with the hot water and towels Hildy had carried into the chamber, then began stitching.
“’Tis too late, I fear,” the girl said, but Gwynn would not listen to Hildy’s concerns. Carefully, she sewed Charles’s muscle, sinew, and skin together, then washed her hands.
“You may want to leave now,” she said to the priest as she reached into her basket.
“Why… oh, nay,” Father Paul said when he saw her withdraw her knife and candles. “You will not call up the spirits in this house, m’lady.”
“I will do what I must.” She leveled a glare at the man of the cloth and he sighed, imploring her with worried eyes.
When she refused to give in, he let out another long-suffering sigh and fingered his rosary. “I’ll pray for your soul.”
“As I will pray for yours.”
While the ashen-faced priest and the woman within the solar looked on, Gwynn lit candles and dusted the air with herbs for healing. Softly she chanted a spell, then tossed bits of apple, rose, and wild cherry onto the flames of the tapers and the fire burning on the hearth. “Save this good-hearted man,” she asked, twisting knots in a red cord and tying it carefully around Charles’s shoulder.
“Please, Lady Gwynn, do not use the dark powers here!” Father Paul beseeched again.
“I only asked for help.”
“But use of the dark arts is forbidden. Please, I beg of you again, do not blacken this Christian keep.”
“I seek help wherever I can find it,” Gwynn snapped and laid her hands upon Charles’s chest. Closing her mind to the priest’s request, she concentrated only on healing, on letting her energy flow from her palms into the source of his pain. In her mind’s eye she saw the wound from within, felt the heat and cold where Sir Charles ached.
When her energy started to fade, she said, “I bid you well, Sir Charles.”
He did not move, but she sensed the lifeblood that had been flowing out of him was staunched. Her legs were weak, her body drained as she pocketed her dagger and herbs. While the priest dropped to his knees near the window and the women tended to the wounded soldier, Gwynn slipped through the open door.
On the stairway she met the physician, taking the steps two at a time and breathing hard. “The patient?” he asked.
“Is alive. In the solar.” She pointed the way and leaned against the cool stone walls of the stairway as candles flickered in a dim, honey-colored light. There was nothing more that she could do for Sir Charles, brave knight that he was.
But she could help her son. Before Ian had the boy hanged.
Thank God fate had given her a new opportunity to escape.
While the keep was still abuzz with Sir Charles’s arrival and Orwin was trying to save the wounded charger, Gwynn planned to leave Black Oak and ride to Rhydd. Sir Bently was busy elsewhere and Hildy, too, was no longer attached to her.
She thought of Trevin, but decided to stay as far away from the outlaw as she could. Not only could her heart not be trusted whenever he was around, but he had seduced her, then imprisoned her in this very keep.
Her willful heart ached for she feared she would never see him again, but there was no time to be lost. Nay, she must ride to Rhydd alone. Once within the keep she would throw herself onto Ian’s mercy. Bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back. She could endure anything, even sharing Ian’s bed, if he would but let Gareth go free.
“Be with me,” she prayed, needing strength.
Her first concern was to find a horse. The gray came quickly to mind, but Gwynn wouldn’t be picky as long as the animal was fleet and sure. As she hastened down the remaining steps, she sent up another prayer for Gareth’s safety and her own ability to steal one of Trevin’s horses. That thought warmed the cockles of her heart.
No one accosted her as she made her way through the great hall and opened the door.
Outside the day had turned to night with the cover of clouds. Rain pelted from the sky and slanted with the harsh fury of the wind. Girls hastily tried to take down laundry that had been strung near the herb garden. Boys hunched their shoulders against the wind and rain as they drove sheep into the pens at the far end of the inner bailey while Gwynn, ducking through the shadows, hurried past.
In the stables, Orwin was tending to the wounded horse, talking more gently than Gwynn would have guessed. Several boys who helped him with the herd were caring for the other palfrey’s, chargers, and jennets in the stables and there was no chance she could take one of them without being caught.
Her heart plummeted as she backed away from the stables and squinted through the storm. At the corner of the mason’s hut she stopped short as she spied not one, but two horses tied to iron rings at the farrier’s shop. The smith was at the forge, his back to the animals and before Gwynn thought twice she strode boldly forward. Her hands fumbled slightly but she managed to untie the bridle of a dun-colored gelding. His black mane and tail caught in the wind, his ears pricked up as she approached. He let out a soft nicker as Gwynn, without the aid of a saddle, swung across the animal’s wet back.
The farrier didn’t look up from his work.
Heart pounding, Gwynn pulled her cloak and hood more closely about her face and though one guard shouted at her as she rode through the gate and under the portcullis, she ignored him.
“Halt there, you!” he yelled.
“Hey! Wait! Was that the lady?” Sir Bently’s voice rang from the western watchtower.
“Oh, for the bloody love of Christ!” the guard yelled.
“If that be here, the baron ‘e’ll skin us alive!” Bently sounded frantic and Gwynn experienced a pang of guilt that she immediately pushed aside. “Move!” Gwynn ordered, leaning forward. “Run like the wind!”
The horse responded. His strides lengthened. His hooves pounded the road. Through the rain he ran, passing travelers, oxcarts, and wagons. Flinging mud with his hooves, neck stretched forward, he galloped, the wind forcing Gwynn’s hood off her face, catching in her hair and causing her cloak to stream behind her like a banner. “Run,” she ordered the horse. Would the soldiers follow? Oh, Lord, she hoped not, for not only would she be trying to outrace the knights of Black Oak, but she could be leading them straight into the waiting arm of Rhydd. Even now Ian’s soldiers could be on this very road. “Run! Run! Run!”
If she were smart, she would take to the little-used paths and trails winding through the fields and hills that separated the two castles. She could use the forest as cover and still, if she rode day and night, be able to reach Rhydd sometime the day after the morrow, albeit not before dusk. Not that it mattered. She had no plot to save her son other than offering herself and her undying loyalty to Ian and though the thought galled her, she swallowed back her foolish pride. ‘Twas worth the sacrifice if only Gareth were allowed to live.
And what of Trevin?
“Black-hearted bastard,” she growled as the rutted road, empty and scattered with puddles, stretched into the forest. How could she have been so duped by his lovemaking? At the thought she felt a tug on her heart and an answering pull deep in her womb. How could he love her so thoroughly, then heartlessly leave and hold her hostage in his own keep? Oh, when she got her hands on him, she would place them around his thick neck and… and what? Strangle him? Shake some sense into him? Or kiss him until both their knees were weak?
She had been foolish to give herself to him, to have lain in his arms, dozing and waking over and over again to the warm inspiration of his kiss and the scorch of his naked skin upon hers.
True, he had been her only lover. Oh, she’d slept with her first husband, shared his bed, and wondered at his cold nuzzlings.
Despite her vocal dismay and arguments, her father had bargained with Roderick of Rhydd, much as he would have negotiated the sale of a prized destrier.
She’d left her home and on the day of the wedding her husband had informed her that he expected her to bear him many sons. That night and for several weeks thereafter she’d shared his bed, attempted to submit to the foul act, and was subjected to Rodericks’s passionless kiss and cold hands. Aye, he’d mounted her, but never had his member held an erection, never had he been able to penetrate her. He’d blamed her, forced her to do despicable deeds that had failed to make him hard.
On the day he’d left to do battle, he’d tried again, insisting that she shame herself by kneeling like a dog so he could take her from behind. She’d suffered the indignity only to feel him fail yet again. He’d slapped her hard across the bare buttocks, then left, telling her that should she not deliver him the heirs he wanted, she would regret it.
His meaning had been clear. He had two dead wives who had foolishly not borne him children.
‘Twas no surprise when Idelle, in Gwynn’s chamber thirteen years before, had revealed that she wasn’t with child and yet she wouldn’t believe it. ‘Twas only luck and Trevin’s mercenary streak that had brought him to her chamber. ‘Twas that first afternoon when she’d lost her virginity to a thief that she’d learned of lovemaking and had yearned, over the years, for more.
Trevin, blast him, hadn’t disappointed her. If anything, his touch, now that he was a full-grown man, stoked the fires of her passion more readily than before. Despite her anger, she knew that she would never feel for another man the intensity, the lust, damn it, the love, she felt for him.
‘Twas her very private secret. No one, especially not the thief-baron himself, would ever know the feelings buried deep in her wayward heart.
Through the rain she rode, never seeing a sentry or knight from either castle.
Sometime during the knight, when her fingers were frozen around the reins and her legs numb from the ride, the clouds parted and the showers that had followed her like a hex evaporated into the darkening sky.
Jewel-like stars were flung across the black heavens and a lazy crescent moon hung low in the sky, offering some meager silvery light.
Her horse was tired, lather and mud darkening his gold coat, and she, too, felt a weariness settle deep in her bones. Though the urge to ride onward, to keep going until she was at the very battlements of Rhydd, was strong, she had no choice but to rest.
“’Tis good you’ve been,” she said, stroking the horse’s thick neck as she reined him to a walk.
At the edge of a stream, she dismounted, letting the horse drink as she washed her face and hands. Her back ached, her legs wobbled from hours in the saddle and yet she opened her pouch and tossed dust into the air for Gareth’s safety.
“Now for you, Hildy,” she said, as if the girl were with her. Carefully she drew runes in the creek bed, then cast a spell that she hoped would dispel the curse Hildy was certain had been leveled against Black Oak Hall. The girl was silly, of course, but worried for her unborn child.
“Be with them all,” she prayed to a God who had seldom listened to her as she led her horse to a tiny glade where winter grass offered him some food. Once he was tethered to a young sapling, she found her own shelter under the spreading branches of a long-needled pine tree.
The ground was dry, old needles offering some cushion against the hard earth. Pulling her cloak about her, she ignored the pangs of hunger in her stomach and the foolish longing she felt for Trevin. She had only to think of their last night together to remember the way her skin tingled at his touch, the warm possession of his mouth molding to her lips, the heady sensation of strong male muscles pressed urgently to hers.
“Stop it,” she mumbled. She needed to sleep, to prepare for the next day when she would have to face Ian of Rhydd. Her husband. That thought rankled her sourly, but she was reminded of Gareth and her heart turned to ice. He could not die! She would do anything - anything - to save him.
She had no time to think of the lying bastard who had loved her so thoroughly, then left her without a word.
Slumber came easily. She was listening to the jangle of her horse’s bridle as she plucked at grass, the sigh of wind through the branches overhead and the croak of a solitary frog when consciousness gave way to dreams.
Only much later as an exposed root poked into her back and she shifted did she hear another sound—the crackle of a stick being broken and soft tread of boots. Fear shot through her blood. Instantly awake, she seized the dagger from its sheath.
“So, the lady awakes,” a familiar male voice said.
Her heart jolted.
Trevin of Black Oak, damn his lying hide, strode out of the shadows. Tall and imposing, he crossed his arms over his chest and glowered down at her. “Why is it, woman, that I’m not surprised you disobeyed me?”