CHAPTER Fourteen
“What the devil are you doing?” Gareth asked, his voice filled with horror. The old man had truly gone daft, for he’d smoothed away the straw on the floor of the dungeon and somehow—Gareth wasn’t exactly certain how he’d accomplished this—Muir had begun to bleed from his finger. Chanting words that made no sense, he let the blood flow onto the floor in a snakelike pattern that coiled evilly.
“Shh.” Muir grimaced and squeezed harder as he continued his task while the goosebumps on Gareth’s skin began to rise. From the bench near the stairs the sentry snored loudly, his mouth open, his head bent forward as he dozed.
“I like this not,” Gareth whispered.
“Nor do I, but ‘tis necessary.”
“Why?”
“Do you want to escape this dungeon? Aye or nay?”
“Aye, but-”
“Then pretend to be asleep and have no more questions,” he ordered and added under his breath, “Silly, miserable youth.” The drops of blood continued in their coiled labyrinthine configuration until the old man was satisfied.
“Now what?” Gareth asked as Muir sighed and sat on the floor, his back propped against one wall.
“We wait.”
“For what?” Gareth was confused and he didn’t like the old man talking in riddles.
“Until ‘tis discovered.”
“And then?”
Muir smiled. “Then, my boy, ye will see magic unlike any ye’ve ever seen.”
“From you?” Gareth snorted in disdain. “I doubt it.”
Muir’s good eye was fastened upon him. “You will see.”
Gareth was sick of the riddles, the talk, and no deeds. He had his own way out of the dungeon and it didn’t take chants or spells or scribblings in blood. Nay, with his slingshot he’d be able to wound more than one guard, dash up the stairs, and breathe fresh air again. He wasn’t going to listen to Muir’s silly ramblings and boastings that were naught. “I’ll believe it when it happens.”
“So be it,” Muir said and closed his eyes. “Before the night is over, son, your mind will change.”
Gareth snorted in disbelief and yet he felt a breeze, cold as snow, upon the back of his neck though there was not a breath of fresh air in this dank pit. Shivering, he ignored the old man’s advice and rummaged through the filthy rushes for another stone to add to his growing pile. The addled wizard could believe in sorcery or pagan gods or demons for all Gareth cared. He, more practical, would depend upon his quick wits and his weapons.
His callused fingers encountered a chipped bit of daub from the wall and he smiled to himself as he pocketed what would become another pebble in his growing arsenal. Aye, whenever the soldiers came to take him to the gallows, they’d be in for a surprise. He’d give them a damned good fight.
His head plumped by pillows, Ian glanced down at his flagging member and cursed silently. Why couldn’t he find hardness with this comely wench? Her skin was dark, nearly swarthy, her hair jet black, her eyes, wide with fear, a deep shade of blue. He’d forced her to straddle him and she’d complied, but still he felt no welcome warmth or tightening of his crotch.
“Damn it all to hell.” He shoved her off him and scowled darkly. Though he’d lived nearly five decades he had the body of a younger man and very rarely could he not take a woman. Usually when that unlikely event had occurred ‘twas because he’d consumed far too much wine.
Not tonight. This evening he’d swallowed hardly a drop as he’d waited for news from Black Oak Hall. Surely Sir Charles had reached the keep long before now. Aye, he’d been wounded, but he was a strong man and Ian was certain he would have made the trip. As foolishly loyal as the man was to Gwynn, he would have staved off death until he found the lady. Only then would he have dared give up his soul.
So, Gwynn, if she was at the keep as Ian suspected, would have heard that her precious son was imprisoned. She wouldn’t think twice but would make haste to return either to beg for Ian’s pity—and oh, that thought was pleasant—or try to devise a way of helping the lad escape. Either way, Ian’s wayward wife would return.
He couldn’t wait.
But what of Trevin—the Outlaw Lord. Ian’s muscles tensed at the thought and he shifted in the bed. The thief could not be ignored. No doubt he, too, would return. Ian planned a surprise for that one. For the humiliation of stealing his bride, the man would pay with his life, but first, as vengeance for the agony he’d inflicted in Ian’s legs, Trevin of Black Oak would suffer, long and hard, in full view of everyone in the castle. Especially Gwynn.
The thief would be an example to anyone who considered going against the new ruler. There were others as well, men, and women, servants and peasants who were more loyal to Lady Gwynn than to their new lord. They, too, would be publicly destroyed.
As would the boy. Gareth could not be allowed to live.
Yea, Ian thought, gazing at the tapestry of a great stag that hung near the fire, all he needed now was patience and a little relief.
“Touch me,” he ordered roughly to the woman in his bed.
“M’lord?” the wench asked, her voice soft as a doe’s breath.
“I said, ‘Touch me’ and be quick about it.”
Biting her lip she reached under the covers of the bed and he felt her fingers, young and nimble, surround him. He closed his eyes willing an erection, but still did not respond. By the gods, what was wrong?
“Stroke!”
She gave off a soft mew of protest.
“Just do it.”
She began her ministrations and he sighed. ‘Twas as if a weight were pressed onto his chest. All this worry about his traitorous wife, her son, and the damned thief caused his head to pound. Oh, when he got his hands on that woman who had wed him… At the thought of Gwynn he felt the first stirrings of desire course through his veins. Uppity, she was, the little snipe. Oh, when he finally took her, ‘twould be pure ecstasy for him. He would not hold back, but mount her like a stallion and make her scream out of need. He knew how to satisfy a woman, but with Gwynn, ‘twould not be a mating for pleasure, but a challenge, a show of power. He would make her squirm and beg then plunder her body.
Mayhap the thief would get to watch their fierce coupling before he was put to death.
His cock began to throb though the girl had the touch of a blacksmith and worked with leaden hands. With Gwynn ‘twould be different. And he would make her pay. For lying with the thief she would have to atone with her hands, her lips, her entire body. That thought, of her doing his bidding, whatever he wanted, caused him satisfaction.
He glanced down at the girl in his bed and for a split second he remembered another woman, so long ago it seemed as if ‘twas someone else’s wife.
That one, too, just past girlhood had raven hair and eyes as bright as sapphires. Comely and tart, she’d been the sister of a man who had interfered when Ian, much younger then, had made his advances known. The woman had declined and he, randy from a recent battle, had refused to take no for an answer.
“Yes, yes,” he said as the wench in his bed continued to rub him, but still the old memory wrapped around him like a shroud. His breathing was ragged, his chest ready to explode, but he could not forget that other act so long ago.
‘Twas in a forest, where the girl had been gathering mushrooms. Ian had spied her and the brother and had wanted her. When she’d refused his lusty advances, he’d had no choice but to take her by force, using his dagger to encourage her into submission.
The brother, a slight man with a fierce countenance, had jumped him from behind and in the ensuing fight Ian had used the knife he’d held at the woman’s throat to hobble the man. One cut to the leg, another to the arm, and a final blow to the face. He’d fallen then, screaming, his hands over his wounds, blood streaming through his fingers. The woman had been hysterical, but, as her brother lay bleeding to death, Ian had mounted her. The rest, robbing her of her virginity and spilling his seed into her, had been easy.
He’d left that particular village feeling strong and powerful. A true ruler. It hadn’t mattered then that his brother, the eldest, would inherit Rhydd. He’d proved himself not only as a warrior, but as a man.
Now, years later, the ghosts of his past haunted him and though the girl now in his bed was scared but willing, he could not hold a damned erection. There were too many distractions and the truth of the matter was, he decided as he rolled away from her and motioned her to leave, he would not be satisfied until he could have his wife.
And have her he would.
“We cannot stop now,” Sir Gerald insisted. “We be but an hour’s ride from Rhydd.”
Henry wasn’t going to be bullied. “I needs to piss.”
“Ye should have thought of it afore.”
“’Tis nervous, I be.” Henry pulled up on the reins and with Gwynn’s cloak around him, he climbed off his steed. As they had ridden ever closer to Rhydd, the air had seemed to become thicker and damp with a soft shroud of fog. “’Twill take but a minute.”
Sir Gerald glowered from beneath his helmet, but he raised his hand, silently imploring the rest of the small party to halt. “If anyone else feels an urgency,” he invited, but the rest of the men waited as Henry hid behind a small corpse of fir and oak trees, pushed back Gwynn’s long mantle, unlaced his breeches, and let loose a long stream.
Finishing, he took a chance and ducked further into the woods where the foliage was dense and dark and there, where needles and dry leaves littered the ground, Henry dropped to his knees. Crossing himself quickly he tried to rally his courage, for his was a quest that was as dangerous as it was difficult.
He had not long been a knight and never would have become one had not his father died in the saving of Lord Trevin’s life. At the memory of his slain father, blood pooling around his body, Henry’s stomach twisted and the same sour taste that he’d experienced on that horrid day again crawled up his throat.
Lord Trevin, in an act of gratitude had knighted the slain soldier’s only son and, Henry feared, already had begun to realize that he’d made a mistake. Though Henry fervently wanted to please the new master of Black Oak, he could not. The new lord was not worth the dung of his father’s destrier.
Did not Lord Trevin consort with a married woman?
Did not he trust her though she practiced dark arts and pagan magic?
Had he not killed Lord Dryw?
Had it not been for Trevin would not his father be alive today?
Had he not fathered a child of another man’s wife?
Henry spat and felt pain pounding behind his eyes. Trevin of Black Oak, a thief by trade, was not a man to whom Henry, nor his trusting father, should have sworn his allegiance, his fealty, or his life. The new lord of Black Oak was but a fraud, a man who kidnapped another man’s bride, a man who cheated at a game of dice to win a castle, a man who had a murdering black heart.
A crow flew overhead cawing loudly.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Henry whispered, his heart hammering wildly as he prayed in the wisping fog. He thought of Hildy and the fact that she was with child—his child. He should have not lain with her and yet she was so comely, warm, and soft. She offered sweet haven when his life was so confused. “Help me in my efforts to serve Ye. Be with my unborn child and sweet Hildy. I vow, if I am victorious in my quest, I will marry Hildy and give my son a name and forever be Your devoted servant.”
“Hey, Henry!” Gerald yelled from the road. “Are ye not finished?”
“Aye, about,” he said, angry that his prayer was interrupted.
“’E even pisses like a woman. Takes all day,” Sir York observed with a chuckle and Henry’s blood boiled.
He’d show them all. More swiftly than he wanted, he ended his prayer and stood, dusting the stupid woman’s cloak he’d been forced to wear. Another humiliation he had to stomach at the hands of Lord Trevin. Well, not for long.
He appeared from behind the trees and York, astride his destrier let out a long, low whistle. “’Tis beautiful ye be, lass,” he said.
“Yeah and what would ye know of a beautiful women,” Henry retorted with a swagger as he approached his horse, “when every one ye’ve ever been with ‘as been ugly as a vulture?”
“Fortunately there ‘aven’t been many,” Sir Winston added with a smirk, his mustache twitching.
“Enough of this nonsense!” Gerald eyed them all gravely. “We have not the time. There is much to do and nightfall fast approaches.”
Henry swung into the saddle. His hands were sweaty on the reins, his mouth dry as wormwood, his heart racing. He, too, had much to do before the coming night and he was ready. ‘Twould be sweet vengeance to prove Trevin of Black Oak the murderin’ bastard he be.
Gwynn’s legs had lost all feeling and her back ached as she bounced and jostled inside the dark compartment. How many times would she let Trevin play her for a fool? If she ever got out of this cursed box on wheels, she’d find a way to get even with him.
Would you? that pesky voice inside her brain demanded. Remember his lovemaking, remember the way you felt as he kissed you, remember how easily he bent your will to his.
Never again, she vowed as one cartwheel hit a rock and swerved slightly.
“Oh, Gareth, I fear I have failed you,” she muttered, then gave herself a quick mental kick. She couldn’t give up. ‘Twas her duty to save her son and no one, not even Trevin of damned Black Oak, was going to stop her. Somehow, some way she had to trick Sir Stephen. That would be difficult, for, of all of Trevin’s soldiers, he seemed one of the smartest and most loyal.
She pounded upon the flooring of the cart. “Sir Stephen! Please. Stop!”
“Nay, m’lady,” he replied, over the creak of wheels and rattle of the peddler’s wares.
“But I need to relieve myself.”
“Then ye best be doin’ it in there.”
“Please, do not make me soil myself.”
He didn’t reply.
“I could cast a spell on you and force you to do my bidding.”
He chuckled. “Aye, so ye say.”
“I jest not.”
“Neither do I.”
So he wasn’t superstitious. Damn the fates.
“Ye may as well sleep and not waste yer breath on me,” he said, “because unless Satan himself stops me, I’ll see that ye be safely to Black Oak.”
There had to be another way. For the dozenth time she let her fingers skim the interior of the compartment, from corner to corner, over the rough boards, picking up slivers for her efforts. She discovered where the bolt was driven into the false bottom, but it was secure and all she received for her efforts of trying to move it were bloody fingers and broken fingernails.
She closed her eyes and concentrated. She was in a box—a wooden box made of planks fastened together. Atop the box was the floor of the cart and above that foldaway shelves and cupboards holding the peddler’s wares. Nay, she could not find a way through the upper flooring.
She couldn’t give up! Nor could she rely on silly luck.
Again she searched the base and this time her fingers traced each board. Under one of her shoulders, she felt a knothole large enough for three of her fingers to delve through. If she moved slightly, the hole would allow a little light into her dark coffin, but not much as dusk was shadowing the earth. Craning her neck, she was able to see the axle that ran between the two front wheels. If somehow it could be broken… she still had her dagger, but there was no way for her to reach through the boards, and aside, the knife was too small to slice through a solid oak rod.
But there had to be a way.
Think, Gwynn think! You’re a clever woman. You ruled a castle in your husband’s absence. You found a way to stay alive when Roderick threatened your life if you didn’t give him a child. You tricked Sir Bently and the guards at Black Oak into letting you go free. Certainly a simple wagon can’t trap you!
Notion after silly notion entered her head, only to be discarded. Night was falling swiftly and with each turn of the wheels she was being hauled farther from her son. Farther from the man she loved.
Though she was furious with Trevin for deceiving her, she still worried about his safety. If Ian discovered him, he would be tortured and killed. Ian of Rhydd was not a kind man nor a patient man. Even if she returned to the castle and threw herself upon his mercy, she didn’t know if he would let Trevin and Gareth go free.
But ‘twas the only chance they had.
Again she eyed the knothole. She forced three of her fingers through the small space. The fourth would not fit. She reached into her pouch, withdrew her dagger, and discovered it, too, would fit. But still it was a useless weapon… or was it? Perhaps if she… Her mind was spinning with a new idea, she used her tiny knife to start ripping her tunic. First one strip, then another and another which, with pained fingers, she laboriously tied together in tight knots. “Holy Mother, please let this work,” she whispered as once the tunic was completely destroyed and she was shivering with the cold, she tied one end securely to her dagger, which she used as a weight. If she could drop it through the knothole and it would catch on the ground, there was a chance that the cloth strips would wind along the axle until they reached the wheel whereupon the torn pieces of fabric would wind in the spokes and clog the wheel so badly that Stephen would have to stop the cart.
And then what? Still, he would not open the hatch. Nay, she was doomed to return to Black Oak.
Nonetheless she let her knife drop. It hit the ground, bounced upward, and caught around the axle. Slowly her handmade rope began to slide through the knothole, winding as she’d hoped upon the axle. She rubbed her arms to keep from freezing and felt a change in the pace of the donkey as the wagon slowed.
“Come on, come on,” Stephen yelled to the beast. “Hey, what-” The cart began to turn in a circle. “Straighten out, you stubborn beast.”
Gwynn crossed her fingers.
“What in the name of Saint Jude?”
The wagon slowed to a stop and bounced as Stephen hopped onto the ground. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked the donkey. “Oh, for the love of Christ. What the devil?”
“Sir Stephen, please,” she said. “You must let me out.”
“After what you did? By the gods, you might’ve ruined this cart and then where would we be?”
“I… I had to get your attention.”
“By disabling the wagon? God’s eyes, m’lady, what does that help?”
“We need to save Lord Trevin.”
There was silence.
“Please, just listen to me, I beseech you.” She didn’t bother masking the desperation in her voice. “My husband… the Baron of Rhydd, he’ll kill Lord Trevin if he but gets the chance.”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know Ian,” she cried. “Please, we must save him and Gareth. I can do nothing from here or Black Oak Hall.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “I know the lord thinks he’s saving me, that I would only get in the way, but you must believe me, I’ve lived at Rhydd for over thirteen years and I know the castle like the back of my hand. I can save Trevin and
Gareth.”
“You’re but a woman-”
“I was the mistress of Rhydd. I ruled the castle alone. I have servants, soldiers, and peasants within the walls of the keep who would do my bidding if only I can get to them. Trevin knows not who is ally or enemy. Please, we must hurry. There is little time.”
“I cannot go against the baron’s wishes.”
“Of course you can when ‘tis to save his very life! Sir Stephen, I know you to be loyal, aye, but smart as well. Please, I implore you, open this hatch,” she ordered. “I would offer you coin, but I know you be a noble man who would be offended. However, whatever it is you desire, I will grant it to you. All you need do is let me escape.”
She felt the shift in the air; knew he was weighing his options. Fiercely loyal to Trevin, he nonetheless wanted to help him.
“You and I, together we can aid the baron in his quest. What good is it for you to dress up like a peddler and spend two days journey upon the road when you could be taking up your sword and fighting Black Oak Hall’s sworn enemies?”
“I cannot listen to your prattle-”
“’Tis not prattle, Sir Stephen. Tell me, how would you feel if the lord and his son died and you were busy driving a donkey and a woman away from the battle?”
Again silence.
“Sir Stephen, have you thought of it?”
“Aye-”
“Is not the lord’s life worth his wrath?”
“Oh, by the gods, I should be bathed in hot oil for this,” he grumbled, but she heard a wrenching of metal and a loud click as the bolt gave way, the hidden door opened, and fresh air invaded the dark interior of the box.
Gwynn didn’t waste a second. She dropped to the ground before he had time to change his mind. Cold air rushed across the earth and brought goose bumps to her skin.
“Oh, for the love of God. You’ve got no clothes—m’lady, please!” Stephen stood and worked the latches on the top of the cart. Averting his eyes, he dug through the wares and came up with a leather tunic with metal studs that looked as if it were made for a small boy. “Here, until we reach Black Oak-”
“We go not to Black Oak,” she corrected, as she drew the tunic over her head and cinched a small corded belt around her waist. He found a hat as well as she tied her hair onto her head before donning the hat. She eyed the peddler’s cart with a scowl. “Can the wheel be fixed?”
“Aye.” Stephen bent on one knee, sliced the tattered strips of fabric away from the axle, and after cutting her little knife free, handed the dagger to her. “Your weapon, m’lady.”
“Thank you.”
“Now,” he said, straightening and wiping his hands on his too-small breeches. “I will take you back to Castle Rhydd and accept my lord’s ire even if he banishes me, but I want your promise that you will do so as I say and stay out of danger.” His blue eyes were troubled.
“I swear. Except that I must talk to Ian.”
“With me,” he insisted. “Elsewise I will take you to Black Oak Hall if I have to carry you over my shoulder like a sack of flour.”
“But-”
“Do not argue, m’lady. I fear not your sharp tongue, your little dagger, or your spells of nonsense. Nor do I fear Lord Trevin’s wrath or Ian of Rhydd’s blade, but I will not go against my lord’s wishes without your oath that you will obey me and, when we meet up with him again, the Lord of Black Oak.”
The words stuck in her throat and Stephen stood as if rooted to the earth of that very spot in the road. He folded his arms over his great chest and waited. “What will it be, Lady Gwynn? Back to your hiding spot in the cart and on to Black Oak, or will you do as I ask on our way to Rhydd?”
“I have no choice.”
“Then say it.”
“I, Sir Stephen, I will do as you ask.” ‘Twas a lie, but a small one, just a fib, to assure her that she would have a chance to save Gareth.
“Do not cross me, m’lady.”
“I will not. Now, come, let us be off. There is no time to waste!” She climbed onto the driver’s bench and Stephen, grumbling under his breath that he was the worst kind of fool, climbed aboard and took up the reins.
Night had fallen, they were hours from Rhydd and Gwynn worried her dagger in its hilt. What if they were already too late?
“Swear to God, Sir Webb, they were out there. Five, maybe six of ‘em, all wearin’ the colors of Black Oak Hall.” From the watchtower where they stood peering through the crenels the guard made a sweeping gesture toward the forest where a thick mist was beginning to rise.
Webb eyed the young sentry as if he’d gone daft. “Why would they show themselves? If I were to try and sneak into another’s keep, I would disguise meself so as not to warn me enemies.”
“I know not,” the young man said, his thick eyebrows butting together. He was a serious lad with dirty-blond hair, dark eyes, and a crooked nose. Webb had never known him to lie or make up stories, but then times were strange and as the lord had pointed out, no one was to be trusted. Not even this snotnosed solider. “I know what I saw and there were half a dozen men and a woman - aye, ‘twas a woman’s cape, like the lady’s.”
“Lady Gwynn’s?” Webb asked, more interested.
“Aye. I’ve seen her wear it afore: deep blue with white fur lining it.”
“She would come this close to the castle? Why take the risk?” Webb fingered the hilt of his sword and stared at the darkening forest with its eerie, shifting blanket of fog. Though the soldier had no reason to lie, Webb smelled a trap. “Prithee, what else did ye see?”
“Your destrier.”
“What?” Every muscle in his body tensed.
“The black with the off-center splash of white down his nose or his damned twin,” the boy sentry insisted. “Swear on me poor mum’s grave that the leader was ridin’ ‘im.”
Anger, hot and dark, shot through Webb’s veins. The damned thief had made him look a fool at the mill that night by stealing his favorite mount and now he was parading the beast, flaunting the fact that he’d bested Webb. “And the women in the cloak was with him and his band of men?”
“Aye.” The youth’s head bobbed up and down faster than a chicken plucking up bugs. “I don’t think they thought they’d be seen as ‘twas nearly dark and the fog, it was shiftin’ in, but my eyes were keen.”
“So they are.” Was it possible?
“Could they not be going to make camp in the forest nearby until they are ready to attack?”
“’Tis a small amount of men,” Webb thought aloud as he rubbed his chin.
“And a woman,” the sentry reminded him. “’Tis truly what I saw.”
“And they rode toward the river?” Webb sighed. ‘Twas a cold night and fog, damp and cloying, had begun to roll over the curtain walls and into the bailey. The thought of chasing through the woods and coming up empty-handed again wasn’t appealing, not when there was a cup of ale and a game of dice to be had. This sighting of an enemy army could be naught but a young guard’s over-exuberance. “Did you see any of the men close up?”
“Nay,” he admitted, “but the mantle the woman wore was Lady Gwynn’s, I be sure of it.”
“Or like hers.”
He lifted a shoulder and had the decency to look worried. “I thought the lord would want to know.”
“Aye. That he will,” Webb thought aloud and considered how much of a reward he would pocket if, indeed, he captured Trevin of Black Oak as well as the lady. ‘Twould be well worth giving up a cup of wine, warm fire, and a game of chance.
Asides, his interrogations had gone badly. The mason had known nothing, the carpenter had been close-mouthed with a hard glint in his eye. An odd one, that. As for Mildred, the alewife, she had been scared, to be sure, for her mouth hadn’t been pried open and Parr, the atilliator, had seemed innocent. Webb hadn’t tortured anyone, not yet, and though it bothered him not to inflict pain, he preferred to use the whip or brand or knives only if other means were not effective. He’d planned to speak with old Idelle on the morrow and that wasn’t a pleasant thought. The midwife gave him the chills. Those near-blinded opaque eyes saw far more than a normal person’s. The chants she whispered as she moved about the keep caused his innards to turn to pudding.
She was a daughter of Satan and there was no doubt of it.
“Find a replacement for your watch, I want ye to ride with me and show me where the bloody bastards went. I’ll get the others.” Webb said, as there was no other option. Mayhap the thief was foolhardy and desperate to save his son. Certainly the lady would risk anything for the boy. Aye, ‘twas possible that Ian’s plan was working.
Webb hurried into the turret and took the stairs leading ever downward. He’d wake up the houndmaster to ready the dogs, and take a dozen of Ian’s best men. If the thief was stupid enough to ride up so close to the portals of Rhydd, Webb would personally drag him before the lord and if the lady… Webb’s thoughts strayed into perilous territory when he considered Ian’s wife. Unlike any woman he’d ever seen before, she was beautiful, smart, and sharp-tongued. Webb usually liked women who were pretty and stupid, willing to do whatever he wanted without too much of an argument, but Gwynn of Rhydd was the exception—fiery challenge. He wondered, not for the first time, what she would be like warming a man’s bed, then, as he shoved open the door to the outer bailey and stepped into the damp mist, he pushed those wayward thoughts aside.
She was Ian of Rhydd’s wife, lady of the castle, and Webb would think of her as such. Nothing else. To do otherwise would spell instant death.
Instead of the thief, it could be he who would end up dangling by the neck from the hangman’s noose. Webb had worked too hard and too long to let this eager cock determine his fate.
But he had to remain cautious. There was a chance that the sentry was mistaken, that there was no small army from Black Oak, or, that he’d mistakenly identified a group of travelers, as enemies, or… was it possible? Could the sighting be part of Trevin of Black Oak’s plan to lure some men away from the castle and ambush the lot of them?
Webb glanced over his shoulder as he made his way to the kennels and some of the hounds began to bark. Was it his imagination or were there enemy eyes already watching his every move?
Curse it all. He’d never felt a moment’s fear in his life, until he’d come across that slippery thief with cold blue eyes. Christ, the thief caused a blade of dread to twist in Webb’s guts.
The sooner the bastard was caught and brought to Ian of Rhydd’s swift justice, the better.
Webb mind worked feverishly as he awakened his men—his best soldiers. Some would ride with him, the others would stay, awake and alert, to defend the castle.
Trevin of Black Oak wasn’t going to outsmart him and make Webb appear the fool again. ‘Twas time to even the score.