CHAPTER Thirteen
“Trust you the atilliator?” Webb asked as they strode across the bailey. Fog was settling over the river and blanketing the castle in its filmy mist.
Ian slid a glance at the dark knight. “Did I not say that I trust no one?”
“’Tis wise.”
Though life in the castle seemed to go on as usual, there was an undercurrent of disloyalty, as dark and murky as a whirlpool, that Ian sensed swirled maliciously along the paths and alleys of Rhydd. ‘Twas nothing he could see, just a feeling that there were those that would like nothing better than to slit his throat.
But who?
The gong farmer was mucking out the stables and nodded as they passed. “Good day, m’lord,” he said, smiling widely as if he didn’t know that he reeked of manure, as if he were innocent of anything close to treason.
Sheep bleated from the pens. A pig squealed in protest as the butcher’s son managed to get a rope around its thick neck. Hammers rang loudly. The wheelwright mended a cartwheel and the carpenter shored up a truss supporting the roof over the roosts of the game birds that were kept alive until the cook needed them.
They nodded, said a quick, “M’lord,” in greeting and went about their tasks as if nothing were wrong. Were they loyal, or just good actors? He didn’t know. But he’d find out. One way or another.
With Webb beside him, Ian strode past the armorer’s hut where the burly man was sharpening swords upon his whetstone. The screech of metal upon whirling stone screamed through the bailey.
As he finished each weapon, the armorer passed it to his son who polished the sharpened blades until they gleamed bright and deadly. Both man and son nodded to Ian, but did not meet his eyes. ‘Twas a bad sign. Very bad. “Look hard at those two,” Ian whispered to Webb. Was the sword maker loyal to him or to his Judas of a wife?
Ever since Gwynn’s escape Ian had felt distrustful, dangerous eyes upon him and glacial stares from those who questioned his reign. Even among the servants in the kitchen and laundry there was a quiet, though ever-present dissension, a current of disloyalty that seemed to slither along the walls and hide in the shadowy corners of the castle, pooling and turning, waiting insidiously so that it could, when he least expected it, destroy him.
‘Twas unsettling and he slept not only with his sword at his side, but a hidden blade beneath his pillow. He heartened himself with the knowledge that all the ill will would dissipate once Gwynn was returned and took her rightful place at his side, the mistress of Rhydd.
If she did.
The door to the atilliator’s hut was open and inside, upon pegs, were broken crossbows in various need of repair. The room was small and close. Parr, the man responsible for making crossbows, was a tiny man whose small stature belied his strength.
“Ah, m’lord, ‘tis glad I be that ye came to see the fallen warrior,” he said, nodding and rubbing the knotty fingers of one hand with the other. Paid well for his skills, it seemed unlikely that he would betray the lord, but Ian withheld judgment as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Sir Keenan lay on the table. A dirty blanket had been tossed over him, but beneath the old rag, he was pale as death and quivering, his eyes wide, spittle sliding from one corner of his mouth. “Nay… nay… oh, Christ Jesus…”
The physician, aged and stooped over, was peering into Keenan’s glazed eyes and shaking his head. “He is near gone, m’lord.”
“Well, do something. I needs speak with him.”
“’Tis naught to do but force water over his lips and wait.” The shriveled man clucked his tongue and frowned, his forehead drawn in worried furrows. “Sir Keenan? The lord, Ian of Rhydd, he is here and needs a word with you.”
“Nay… no… no…” he continued to whisper through blue lips.
Ian had seen enough. “Keenan! What the devil happened to you?”
The man didn’t glance in the lord’s direction, just stared at the dusty beams over his head though, Ian suspected, he saw a vision known only to his eyes.
“Keenan, wake up!”
Still he shivered and shook and didn’t answer.
“He has cuts and bruises and this-” The physician’s balding pate wrinkled as he lifted the blanket to show the soldier’s chest where three large, even gashes ripped through his skin. The blood was dried, the wounds festering. “Mayhap a bear, or wolverine or other beast.”
Webb slid his sword from his hilt. “There are ways to make him speak.”
“Nay. He is lost. Put that away!” He motioned to Webb’s weapon. Though patience had never been one of Ian’s virtues and his temper was near the breaking point, he knew that Keenan would not awaken with a blade at this throat. To the physician, he said, “As soon as he wakes, send for me—no, better yet, move him into the great hall and keep a guard with him. I’m to be called immediately when he stirs.”
“Aye,” the physician agreed, “but I fear-”
“Where was he found?” Ian was in no mood for excuses or explanations.
“A mile away from the castle, wandering around in circles.”
Ian sighed. “We will learn nothing more here. We must wait until Sir Keenan awakens.”
“If he awakens,” Sir Webb clarified and Ian’s foul mood was only worsened. ‘Twas as if the devil himself was his enemy rather than a mortal man—nay, a lowly thief. Have faith, he silently told himself as he returned to the great hall. ‘Twas only a matter of time. Sooner or later Trevin would return and then, by God, Ian would be ready for him.
“We’ll split into two groups.” Trevin, fingering his dagger, squatted near the fire where two ducks and a rabbit were roasting on a spit. Fat dripped and sizzled on the coals, flames sparked and flared, and smoke curled upward through the leafless branches of the trees to the winter-blue sky.
His band of soldiers, eight men in all, gathered around him, and gave Gwynn a wide berth. She’d noticed their elevated eyebrows when Trevin brought her to the camp, caught glimpses of shared glances and expressions ranging from amusement to disapproval as Trevin explained that she’d tricked Sir Bently and escaped the gates of Black Oak.
“The first group will be led by you, Gerald. Take Henry, York, Winston, and Nelson.” With his knife, Trevin motioned to each of the men. “You will be the decoy party and will lead Ian’s soldiers on a wild goose chase away from the castle.”
“Ye will not be with us?” Henry asked, obviously confused.
“Nay.”
“Then why will they follow us?”
“Because they will believe I am with you. You cannot let Ian’s soldiers get too close because one of you will be riding my horse—the steed that belonged to Sir Webb—and as you will all be wearing helmets, it should not be difficult to lure them away from the castle. They will think I am the rider upon Dark One.
“What if they do not follow?” Winston asked, pondering the situation and twisting the end of his mustache.
“Believe that above all, Webb will want his horse. ‘Twas a bitter humiliation to lose such a steed and Webb is a prideful man. Now, once Ian’s army has left Rhydd and given chase to you, the rest of us will enter the castle.”
“Including the lady?” Sir Henry wasn’t happy at the thought.
“Aye. She will be with me.” Trevin’s gaze locked with that of the younger man to quell any further arguments. “But we will need further deception,” he said to the group at large. “One of you must dress as a woman.”
All motion stopped. Sir Winston’s fingers held firm to the end of his mustache.
Henry had been scratching his head. His hand stayed atop his crown.
Nelson had been picking his nails with his knife and cut himself at Trevin’s words. “I must’ve heard ye wrong, me lord?” he said, sucking the blood from the pad of his thumb.
York had been whittling and the curls of pine wood dropping from his knife halted.
“I mean it. Ian’s men will be looking for Gwynn so one of you will don her cloak.”
“Nay.” Henry shook his head. “I ain’t dressin’ up like no lass, you can count on it. Come now, m’lord, ye must be joshin’ us.”
“’Tis no joke.”
“Oh, me sweet mum!” Henry rolled his eyes to the heavens as if his dead mother could hear him.
All of Trevin’s trusted men raised their eyes to stare at Gwynn with a mixture of awe and disgust. She wrapped her arms around herself as eight pairs of eyes appraised her mantle which was a deep blue—nearly black—and trimmed with white fur. ‘Twas distinctive, to be sure, and the new baron of Rhydd had seen it often enough.
“Won’t they think you kept her at Black Oak Hall rather than risk her getting wounded or seized?” Nelson asked.
“They could,” Trevin agreed, then one side of his mouth lifted in his crooked, devilish smile. “But Ian knows her well. He would expect her to escape from my capture just as she slipped through his fingers and the very gates of Rhydd. A woman who hid herself in a coffin to escape will do anything on her quest.”
“A coffin?” Henry was horrified, his face white as a new moon.
“’Twas empty, eh?” Ralph asked.
Gwynn’s voice was strong. “Nay, Sir Ralph, I hid beneath a corpse of another woman.”
Henry jumped to his feet as if he’d been bit. “Ach! A dead woman? Mother of Mary.” He shuddered, then, as if sensing the others thought him a coward, he cleared his throat and calmed a bit. “’Tis… ‘tis clever ye be, m’lady.”
“Thank you, Sir Henry.” She didn’t believe him for an instant.
Trevin swallowed a smile. “So. ‘Twould make sense to think that Lord Ian will be looking for his wife.”
At the word wife, Gwynn cringed. How could she be married to one man and love another? This past night, beneath the pine trees, she’d made love to Trevin time and time again, quivering in anticipation of his touch, reveling in the ecstasy of his embrace, crying out his name as the night birds cooed and dawn crept over the eastern hills.
Now, she looked away from the censure in his eyes and pretended interest in the charred meat sizzling over the fire. Using one of Trevin’s gloves to keep from burning her fingers, she lifted the spit from the flames. Upon a flat stone, she cut the birds and rabbit into quarters, then let the men use their knives and hands to claim pieces of the small feast.
“’Twill not be that bad,” he told his men as they settled back on their haunches or upon rocks or roots from the surrounding trees. “The lady’s cloak is large enough that one of you could throw it over your own clothes and use the hood to hide your face.”
“But what of our helmets?”
Trevin’s jaw tightened at Henry’s questions. “He who wears the cloak goes without his helmet.”
“Ahh.”
This was the man who had got Hildy with child? Gwynn wondered. Between the two of them, did they have but one working brain? Gwynn held her tongue but thought the girl was better off without such a mindless self-serving man as a husband. Why Trevin had chosen him to come on this journey was a mystery to her for the soldier—not much more than a boy—was willful, stubborn, prideful, and dim. A bad combination in Gwynn’s estimation.
She picked at her joint of rabbit as the men, eating and passing a jug of ale around the fire, discussed at length how they planned to thwart Rhydd’s soldiers. As the hours passed and the ale flowed, each soldier in the group retold his own story, why he held a personal grudge against Ian or Roderick or Rhydd.
Nelson’s nose flared as if he smelled a foul odor when he told the story of his sister, who, at a tender age, had been raped by Sir Webb. York’s tale wasn’t any better. His entire village had been pillaged by Ian and a band of Rhydd’s soldiers long ago, while Roderick was still alive. A few years back, Henry as a youth had been spying upon one of Ian’s men as he’d cheated at a game of chance. When Henry had been foolish enough to speak up, the cheat had lost his wager and his pride. Later he’d taken the time to beat Henry and leave him for dead.
And so it went. Each of Trevin’s men was not only on a mission for his lord, but was also seeking his own personal brand of revenge.
At least they were dedicated to their cause, Gwynn thought, though she was anxious to be off. Trevin had explained that they were to wait and arrive near the gates of Rhydd as the sun was setting and twilight made seeing difficult. As the fire dimmed and the ale wore off, Trevin kicked dust onto the coals. He spoke in a whisper to Stephen and Gerald, the leaders of the two groups of soldiers and though Gwynn strained to hear what he was saying, no words reached her. Stephen nodded and picked at a glistening amber flow of pitch that ran down one of the fir trees that ringed the clearing. Squinting hard, Gerald scratched at the stubble of his beard.
When they finished discussing whatever it was that was so private, Trevin cleared his throat as he spoke to the rest of the men, “There is something you should all know about me and the lady,” he confided.
Gwynn’s head snapped up. What now? Her eyes met Trevin’s and she knew in an instant that he intended to tell them the truth of Gareth’s conception. No. Not now.
“The boys we are trying to save, Gareth-”
“Nay, Lord Trevin,” she cut in, then crossed the short distance between them. Desperate to keep their secret, she touched his arm. “’Tis not the time.”
“’Tis long overdue.” He drew his arm away from her fingers and eyed each man in turn. Gwynn braced herself and pride kept her chin lifted through she felt the slow warmth of humiliation crawl up the back of her neck to color her cheeks.
The forest was strangely silent. Pale sunlight dappled the ground. “The boy who we are trying to save, Gareth of Rhydd, is my son.”
No one moved for a second. Henry’s Adam’s apple worked and he avoided Gwynn’s eyes.
Trevin pocketed his knife. “The lady and I knew each other long ago and I allowed Gareth to be claimed by Lord Roderick. ‘Twas a lie. One I have oft hated and one I should have renounced long ago, but Lady Gwynn and I struck a bargain and thought it best that Gareth know not who sired him.”
Ralph let out a soft whistle.
Winston kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot.
Stephen grinned as if pleased.
Gwynn wished the earth would open and swallow her, so that she would not have to suffer this embarrassment. Surely all the men would realize that Gareth was conceived while she was married to another and though her vows to the other man were not her choice, though her father had sold her like a prized rooster, she had sworn before church and state that she would be Roderick of Rhydd’s bride and as such be forever faithful to him. No one here would understand her reasons.
Trevin’s band of soldiers was uncomfortable. York fidgeted. Nelson cleared his throat. Others shifted and looked away. Only Sir Stephen raised his eyes to search Gwynn’s face.
“I, for one, pledge my life to find the lord’s boy and keep him safe.” He stood and flung his sword into the soft ground. The blade stuck. “’Tis my honor to do so.”
“Mine as well,” Gerald agreed. He jabbed his sword into the earth. “I will not rest until the baron’s boy is returned to him and the lady.”
“Aye!” Winston’s sword joined the others, as did Ralph’s, Nelson’s, and York’s.
Only Henry appeared to have misgivings. He eyed Gwynn and chewed on the side of his lip. His hand sweated enough that he had to rub it on his tunic. “I-I, too, pledge, myself to ye, Lord Trevin,” he said, swallowing with difficulty as all eyes were upon him.
“But you are troubled.”
“Aye.” He nodded and puffed out his chest. “’Tis the lady, m’lord. I like not riding with a woman to do battle, I trust them not.”
Trevin’s smile was cold as death. “I assure you, Lady Gwynn can ride as well as any of you. Her aim with a bow and arrow is equal to most soldiers’.”
Sir Henry’s expression said it all. He didn’t believe her capable of anything other than spinning, embroidery, or bearing children.
They had no time for this. Gareth’s life was dependent upon this motley group of soldiers, including Sir Henry. “Mayhap the knight would like a demonstration,” she said, keeping her anger under control, though, in truth, she would have loved to slap the upstart. “Sir York. May I borrow your quiver and bow?”
“Nay, nay, ‘tis not necessary,” Henry said. “’Tis not that I doubt the lady’s accuracy with a weapon but… but…”
“Say it, man, we have not all day!” Trevin said.
“’Tis said she’s a witch, m’lord.” His eyes were round with worry.
“What?” Trevin asked.
“Aye, that she practices magic and the dark arts, and calls upon demons and… prays not to our Father.” Quickly, he crossed himself, as if he expected Gwynn to level a curse upon him and send him to the pearly gates this very instant.
“Did not Muir also call up the spirits?” Trevin asked.
“Only when they came from a cup of ale.”
At this some of the men tittered.
“’Tis true,” Gwynn said, stepping closer to Henry and smiling coldly. She was tired of the young knight’s whining. “I am a witch.” ‘Twas time to teach the fool a lesson.
Trevin muttered something about stupid, hard-headed women under his breath. “Please, m’lady, do not-”
“But he’s only heard the truth and if he returns to Black Oak he will learn that I worked my magic trying to save poor Sir Charles from a mortal wound. He will also know that I stopped outside of the castle walls and tried to remove a curse that some of the people within Black Oak’s walls believe has been leveled against the keep. Aye, Sir Henry, I scribble runes in the sand. I chant spells and pray to the Holy Father in the hope that someone, whether it be Morrigu or Mary, is listening and will help me in my quest to save my son.”
“But-” Henry licked his lips. “’Tis a sin.”
“Enough of this!” Trevin hissed.
Gwynn wasn’t deterred, she stood close enough to the young knight to smell his sweat. “I have never yet cast a spell to harm anyone, but you surely test and vex me Henry of Black Oak, and if you do not help Lord Trevin and me in our quest for our son, I might be tempted to try out a few spells known to cause warts to form, or an eternal itching to consume a man’s body or…” She paused as if to think and noticed that all the knights had become deathly quiet as they stared at her with worried, skeptical eyes. “There is one that causes a man’s cock to shrivel and become useless for all his days. Let me see, I will need the wishbone of a drake…” She reached toward the burned, picked-over carcass of one of the birds.
Sir Henry gasped and not for the first time Gwynn wondered how this simpleton had become a knight. Stupid, easily goaded, and without courage this boy/man was surely unworthy of his title.
“Here we are,” she said, lifting the bone in question and holding it close to the lad. “Now with a little thistle and Saint John’s Wort and-”
“Nay!” Henry seemed about to lose control of his bladder.
“Enough of this teasing,” Trevin cut in. “We have serious business to attend to.” He sent Gwynn a glare that would slice to the core of a lesser woman’s heart. “You, lady, will stop your silly incantations and Henry, you will accept that Lady Gwynn will ride with us and ride well. You are to defend her, to protect her, to honor her, and most of all allow her to use her weapons, whatever they be.”
“But if she starts callin’ the spirits and-”
“Whatever they be,” Trevin repeated, his voice ringing through the surrounding hills. “Now, do you all understand our task?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“Yea.”
“As ye wish.”
They were all in agreement, it seemed, and even Henry nodded and pledged himself to the duty at hand. Trevin eyed Gwynn and she, though her back was stiff as a flagpole, acquiesced.
“’Tis nothing I want more than to free my son,” she said.
“Good. Let us break camp. Sir Gerald and his men will lead the soldiers off through the woods and to the north. After the commotion has died a bit, we will enter by way of a peddler’s cart.”
“You have this wagon?”
“Aye.” Trevin and Stephen exchanged a quick, mysterious glance that bothered Gwynn. “Bought and paid for. ‘Tis waiting for us.” He kicked more dust over the coals and, satisfied that the fire was extinguished, motioned for all his men to pick up their weapons. “Let us be off!”
The peddler’s cart wasn’t much to look upon. Mud-caked the spoked wheels and the few wares displayed had seen better years. Tin and silver trinkets, dusty furs, and bolts of cloth that had begun to fade were some of the items for sale.
The donkey harnessed to the wagon had a dull, winter-shaggy coat and listless eyes that surveyed Trevin’s band of men without any interest. Ears turned backward, one back hoof cocked, he dozed in the afternoon breeze.
“Whatever you paid for this, ‘twas too much,” Gwynn whispered to Trevin as she pulled on the reins of her horse and surveyed the rig.
“Ah, m’lord, I had about given up on ye.” The owner of the wagon was a rotund man with a girth as wide as the cart’s wheel. His tiny mustache and pointed little beard appeared out of place over his thick jowls and he reminded Gwynn of a hog with his tiny sunken eyes and short nose.
She changed her mind when he grinned, showing off perfect teeth and those tiny eyes glimmered with merriment as he gazed upon Gwynn. “M’lady,” he said, taking off his hat and bowing so low as to nearly sweep the ground with one hand. “Me name is Fitch and ‘tis my pleasure to meet ye.”
“As it is mine to meet you, good sir,” Gwynn said, noticing for the first time that his thumbs were crooked and barely moved as he gestured.
“I hear ye are on a journey to save yer son. Godspeed to ye.”
“Thank you.”
He handed Trevin the reins of the cart. “And ye, m’lord, know how I feel about Sir Webb. If I can be of any assistance in cutting out the devil’s wretched heart, I’d be glad to ride with ye.”
“The cart and ass are good enough,” Trevin said. “Thank you, Fitch.”
“No thanks I need, m’lord. Just your assurance that this good earth will be rid of the likes of that viper.”
“Rest assured.”
A trade was made: two of Trevin’s horses for the wagon and donkey, and the peddler rode off. Only when he’d rounded a bend in the road did Trevin turn to his band. “Now, ‘tis time. If our plans go awry and you are captured, remember there are those at Rhydd who are true to Lady Gwynn and myself. You can trust Richard the carpenter, and Mildred who brews ale.”
“Aye, and Idelle who is a midwife,” Gwynn added.
Trevin looked each knight in his eyes. “If you are caught, I will save you. ‘Tis my vow.”
“What if ye be the one who is captured?” Henry asked.
Trevin’s smile was wicked. “Do not worry.”
“But-”
“Do not try and save me, for I will fight my own battle. ‘Tis enough that you have come with me for my son’s sake and to save Muir’s hide.” He eyed the lowering sun. “’Tis time.”
“Oh, fer the love of Saint Jude,” Henry grumbled as Gwynn removed her cloak and handed it to the smallest of the knights, Grudgingly he donned the mantle, pulled the hood over his head, and peeked sheepishly from its shadowy, fur-lined depths.
“Oh, ain’t ye a cute thing?” York teased and winked at Henry.
“A rare beauty, ‘e is, er, she is,” Winston agreed and hooted.
“Enough!” Trevin’s voice brooked no authority, but he could not hide the devilment in his own eyes. “Now, Sir Gerald, be off with ye. Make haste.”
“Come along,” Gerald said, clucking to his mount and riding away.
“Ye, too, sweetie,” York stage-whispered to Henry and was rewarded with a glower.
“Leave me alone, ye big braggart.” Henry gathered up his reins and guided his horse after Sir Gerald’s.
“Oh, I like a lass with spunk, that I do-” York’s voice faded as they rode away and a flock of birds flew overhead.
“They joke when they should be serious,” Gwynn said.
“They are good men.”
She didn’t doubt their intentions nor their dedications, just their judgment. “God be with you,” she whispered as the last of the group rounded the bend. Her worried heart sank. How could she possibly trust this band of ruffians, and not even particularly bright ruffians, to accomplish Trevin’s plan? Gareth’s safety was at stake, if, indeed, he was still alive, and the thought that his future depended upon duping Ian’s men with the likes of Sir Henry made her blood turn to ice. Nay, she could not count on those buffoons for anything.
“Do not worry,” Trevin said, as if reading her mind. “All they needs do is provide a distraction.”
“I pray to God that they can do it,” she said fervently, sending up a prayer before climbing off her horse.
“We will leave the horse here with you, Sir Ralph,” Trevin ordered. “You are to take them back to Black Oak with news that our mission has failed and we have been captured if we don’t return by morn.”
The knight seemed about to argue, but held his tongue. “Aye, m’lord,” he agreed.
“Stephen, you will take off your armor and wear the clothes Fitch left behind.” He reached into a side panel of the cart and found a filthy pair of breeches and stained gray tunic, which he tossed to the blond knight. “’Tis your job to convince the guards at Rhydd that you are truly a peddler. As no one in the castle has seen your face before, ‘twill not be a difficult task.”
“What of us?” Gwynn asked.
Trevin’s smile was positively evil. “You and I, m’lady, shall ride in here.” He reached beneath the rig, unlatched a metal bolt, and displayed the false bottom of the wagon.
“What is this?”
“Fitch is more than a peddler,” Trevin replied.
She should have guessed. She eyed the dusty, hidden compartment. “He’s a thief like you.”
“And a smuggler of cats and men or pieces of gold. Aye.”
“Why does he hate Sir Webb?”
“Did you not notice his hands? Sir Webb was the man who broke his thumbs and told him he was lucky that they were not cut off.”
“He was caught stealing?”
Trevin nodded. “Aye, a loaf of bread for a starving child.”
“Oh.” Gwynn had new respect for the rotund man whose features resembled a pig ready for slaughter.
“Don’t misunderstand. Fitch would steal from a poor man as well as rich one. He is truly a criminal.”
“But his heart is good.”
Trevin lifted a shoulder. “Most times, though some might disagree.” He motioned to the dark compartment beneath the floor of the cart. “We have no more time for gossip,” he said. “Come, m’lady, your coach awaits.”
She hesitated. Something felt wrong about this. Very wrong. Yet, ‘twas a clever way to enter the castle unnoticed and she had no choice. She had to trust Trevin, for he wanted only to save their son as much as she did.
“Hurry and slide to one side as there must be room for me as well.”
Gingerly she crawled under the wagon and slipped into the tiny, dark confines beneath. Dust swirled around her and she sneezed. Trevin followed after her, but instead of climbing inside, he swung the door shut.
Thunk.
It was suddenly dark as night.
“Nay-”
With a clunk, the bolt slid into place.
“Trevin!” She pounded on the sides of the cart as she realized that she was trapped. He was abandoning her! Oh, for the love of Saint Peter. He couldn’t be doing this. Wouldn’t! No! No! No!
“’Tis for your own good.”
“You demon! You can’t do this! For the love of God-” She kicked and pounded, furious with herself for trusting him and burning with rage that he would trick her. Again.
His voice was muffled but she heard him say, “Take her back to Black Oak and stand guard at her door. ‘Tis your duty to keep her safe.”
“Nay!” Tears of frustration burned behind her eyes. What a fool she’d been. How many times would she let his man dupe her? “Trevin, please, I needs go with you. For Gareth.” She thought of her son in that dark horrid dungeon. “Do not do this!” she begged. “Trevin!” She kicked hard and pounded until her fists began to bleed, but to no avail.
Did Trevin not know that Ian would kill Gareth if she did not return to him? Was he willing to gamble with their son’s life. “Curse and rot your hide, Trevin of Black Oak, let me out!”
“As you wish, my lord,” Sir Stephen said as the wheels creaked and started turning. The cart jostled in the rutted road.
Gwynn gnashed her teeth and fought her stupid tears. Whether she liked it or not, she was on her way back to Black Oak Hall. Away from Trevin. Away from Gareth. Away from any hope of ever seeing her son alive again.