CHAPTER Fifteen
The fog was a blessing he hadn’t expected. It rose from the river, enveloped the castle, and provided Trevin with a cover he might not have otherwise found in the shadows of Rhydd’s watchtower. He grinned to himself as, with a clang, the portcullis rattled open and the two files of Rhydd’s best soldiers mounted on steeds worthy of battle galloped through. They carried torches that burned bright in the night but gave off small illumination in the gloom.
“Ride, you bastards,” he muttered softly and spied Webb’s stiff back as the dark knight rode upon a pale charger. The company seemed to be made up of Rhydd’s best soldiers, but nowhere in the small army did he spy the lord of the manor. So Ian of Rhydd was still within the curtain walls.
Good. Trevin wanted to deal with the baron personally.
Before the guards had a chance to lower the gate, he slipped into the bailey. Like a wolf slinking through a dark glen, he made his way unnoticed to the carpenter’s hut and silently sneaked inside.
“Richard?” he whispered as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior. “’Tis I-”
“Yea, I know who ye be,” Richard said from his bed jammed into a back corner of the shop. “Be quiet, will ye, or we’ll all be killed.” Tools lined the walls and the scent of sawdust and raw wood was heavy in the air.
“Richard?” The carpenter’s wife, Maggie, rolled over as he climbed out of bed.
“Shh, wife. ‘Tis only Trevin.”
“Ach. The baron, y’mean. I know who he is and what trouble he brings to this house,” Maggie grumbled over a yawn. “Whether ye be a thief as I knew ye years before or all high-and-mighty Lord of Black Oak, ‘tis a dark cloud ye carry with ye, Trevin McBain.”
“Hush!” Richard ordered.
“Hush, yerself. Here I am, with child now, and Trevin, oh, excuse me, his lordship, comes in and ye’re ready to lay down yer life. Haven’t ye suffered enough?” She sat up in the bed, held the covers around her ample breasts, and pouted. “I needs ye, Richard. I love ye.”
“Aye, and ye hate Lord Ian as much as I do.”
Maggie, sighing theatrically, fell back to the pallet. “Oh, all right,” she groused. “What do ye want me to do?”
“Pretend that nothing is amiss,” Trevin said, his voice low.
“’Tis a miracle ye want from me then.”
Richard turned and reached for a tunic hanging on a peg. As he did Trevin saw his back, white skin marred by dark, ragged welts.
“You’ve been flogged,” Trevin whispered, fury burning through his veins.
“Within an inch of his life. Because of you, McBain.” Maggie was anxious to tell him. “Sir Webb that devil was on a tear. Lookin’ fer spies, he was.”
“Worry not,” Richard said. “Sir Webb first came sniffin’ around, just askin’ questions, of not only me, but others as well. When he found out nothin’ he resorted to… stronger measures.” Richard found his sword and strapped it onto his belt. “I kept me tongue quiet, as did everyone, even old Matilda when they threatened to burn her fingers one by one. She’s a tough old hen, I’ll give her that. Now, my friend.” He looked up and grinned in anticipation. “What have ye got in mind?”
“’Tis time to take the castle away from the lord.”
“Oh, is that all?” Richard mocked.
“Nay, we need to free Muir and Gareth as well.”
“And did ye bring an army to help ye?”
Trevin shook his head. “’Tis only I, but Lord Ian’s best soldiers have ridden out of the castle to be led on a merry chase.”
“So, then, have ye got a plan in mind?”
“A simple one,” Trevin said.
“From you, would I expect more?”
“Be sure this plan ‘tis one that works,” Maggie mumbled from beneath the covers.
“To be sure,” Trevin agreed. “Now we need to quickly round up the men to take over the great hall and the dungeon.”
“Gladly,” Richard said and Maggie, from the bed, sighed dramatically.
“Be on your guard,” she advised, her eyes shining in the dark.
“Always,” Trevin vowed as he opened the door a slit and stared through the crack. When he was certain the sentries weren’t looking, he and Richard would launch his personal attack to save his son.
“Good work.” Gerald held tightly to the reins of Dark One as the charger sidestepped and snorted, nervously shifting in a tight circle.
“Here they come.” From their vantage point on a hill, Trevin’s men could barely discern the looming darkness of Rhydd. Shrouded in the fog, the fortress was black except for two columns of torchligths shining weakly in the gloom.
“Like a dog to a bitch in heat,” York said and Henry watched, his heart beating rapidly, his body bathed in a cold sweat.
The five of them sat astride their mounts waiting to lead the warriors from Rhydd through the forests and hills. But Henry had his own plan, a scheme that didn’t include racing along the edge of the river to disperse on differing trails through the woods while Ian of Rhydd’s soldiers stupidly split up and followed their lead.
“Now!” Gerald said as the lights shone brighter. He kneed the back stallion and snorting, the beast took off. Tail aloft, hooves clanging on stones, the charger raced through the dark trees. Winston, York and Nelson took up their reins and their mounts, too, raced through the underbrush and damp mist.
“Guide me, Father,” Henry prayed, trailing behind, his steed’s gait an easy canter along the wide path. The sound of the river, water rushing through the canyon, met his ears and he told himself to have faith. He was doing that which was right. Remember your father, how he died needlessly, taking an arrow meant for the outlaw-turned-baron. Remember Lord Dryw. A good man. An able leader. Murdered by Trevin. His breathing was labored, sweat running in his eyes, Lady Gwynn’s mantle billowing over his bay’s rump as he slowed his horse, fighting as the animal tossed his great head, anxious to be part of the ever-fleeing herd.
“Hold back,” he said to the horse as the trees gave way to a strip of rocky shore that bordered the black, racing water. The others had already urged their animals onto the sandy beach, hoping that their pursuers would catch glimpse of the small army before each rider turned into the dense foliage once again. Nelson’s mount splashed along the river’s edge, York’s hugged close to the trees, Gerald and Winston rode together in the middle of the sandy strand. Henry hung back, his trepidation mounting as wisping trails of fog separated him from the others. Certainly this was the right thing to do—the most noble of acts. Or was it?
His throat ached in fear and for the first time he doubted the wisdom of this one, rash act. Hoofbeats sounded behind him. Men’s voices, unfamiliar voices, caught up to him. He swallowed hard and sent up another prayer. “Please, Father, keep me safe. Let me follow the courageous noble path worthy of-”
“Hey! There’s one!” he heard as he wheeled his mount.
“Do not harm me,” he yelled. “I am with you.”
“’Tis the lady-” one of the riders yelled, his silhouette dark and ghostlike as he appeared in the haze.
“It don’t sound like ‘er.”
“Use caution. She is not to be harmed.” Webb’s voice boomed through the fog. Bobbing lights burned ever more brightly. “Stay your weapons!”
Soldiers on huge horses emerged from the mist to surround him and his nervous stallion.
Henry began to tremble. “Do not harm me for I wish to join you,” he said as he tossed off the hood of Lady Gwynn’s mantle. “The lady is not with us as we—the other four riders and I—are part of a decoy mission.”
“Decoy?” Webb thundered, his mount mincing as it approached.
“Aye. Trevin and the others, the lady included, stayed back and planned to take the castle.”
“Four of them?” Webb asked.
“There are others inside. Those not loyal to Ian of Rhydd.” Oh, he hoped he’d not made a horrid mistake in throwing in his lot with Lord Ian and this surly knight.
“Why, pray tell,” Webb said, guiding his horse so close to Henry that the beast’s hot breath shot down his leg, “should I believe that you’ve turned traitor?” His face was wet from the mist and glowered darkly in the dim, flickering light of the torches. “Could you, too, not be part of a trap?”
“Because I tell the truth. I-I am Henry. Sir Henry.” Why wouldn’t they believe him?
“You be a knight?” One of the soldier’s laughed and another joined in. Henry squared his thin shoulders and tried to hold up his wobbling chin.
“Hush!” Webb glowered at his company and his face took on the visage of Satan incarnate. “Tell me, Sir Henry, why ye have turned against the man for whom you ride?”
Sweat trickled down Henry’s cheek and settled in the sparse hairs on his beard. “I trust him not. He killed Lord Dryw and… and my father lost his life saving that of the outlaw.” His reasons, nay his convictions, sounded feeble and unfounded.
“Ye expect me to believe you?”
“Aye.” Henry nodded quickly, his eyes darting as the soldiers seemed to draw nearer, evil messengers from hell getting ever closer. His horse tossed his head nervously and Henry had to fight every instinct he had to kick the steed and try to race away from the sinister forces he suddenly realized were at work here. “’Tis… ‘tis the truth I say, Sir Webb. This be not part of a trick. If… if ye do not believe me, ye can take me hostage, but please, please trust me. Trevin is at this moment insides the gates of Rhydd. He will not rest until his son is free and Lord Ian is dead.”
“What of my horse?” Webb asked, his countenance menacing.
“’Tis ridden by one of Trevin’s men, part of the deception, as is the mantle of Lady Gwynn’s.”
“Where is she?”
“We left her with a peddler, but… but I think Gerald, one of the knights, said that she was to be returned to Black Oak by Sir Stephen, another one of Trevin’s knights.”
Slowly Webb unsheathed his dagger. Learning forward in his saddle so that his face, a mask of dangerous fury, was within inches of Henry’s, he whispered, “Listen to me, Sir Henry, I will trust ye for a while. We’ll return to the keep and if I find that ye have deceived me, I will personally cut out yer lying tongue and throw it to the dogs, do ye understand?”
Henry nearly fainted. He swayed in the saddle. “Aye. Aye. But ‘tis the truth I speak,” he managed to say as Webb leaned back, pulled upon his white steed’s reins and the animal, rearing, wheeled and nearly fell against Henry’s mount.
“To, Rhydd,” he said and Henry felt a moment’s relief. “And you-” he pointed a gloved hand at a burly giant of a knight “-Sir Patrick, make certain our prisoner does not escape.”
“Prisoner?” Henry said as someone slapped his mount’s rump and the edgy horse leaped forward. “Nay, Sir Webb, I am not a traitor to Rhydd.”
“Nay? A man who turns his back on his lord is not to be trusted. This, I know.”
“But-” Prisoner? No, this was all wrong!
“Ye didn’t think ye’d be a guest, now, did ye?”
“I thought I would ride with yer men.”
“Did ye?” Webb’s laughter was dull and wicked. “You be a simpleton, then. ‘Tis a miracle you be called a knight. Come! Once we secure the fortress, then we shall retrieve my horse and find the lady.” He spurred his mount and the white stallion took off like a shot, galloping fearlessly into the thick darkness.
Henry, astride his steed, was swallowed in a sea of horses, soldiers, and torches. Though he felt betrayed, as if he’d cast his lot with the wrong madman, he had no choice but to follow.
“Help! Guard! Please, help me with the old one. He’s… he’s dead!” Gareth cried, banging on the iron bars of his cage with his fists.
“Dead?” the sentry, a behemoth of a man whose only speed was slow, asked. “Nay, he’s just sleepin.”
“He breathes not! He… he has no heartbeat! Please call for the physician.”
“If he be dead, then ‘tis already too late.” With a snort of disdain, the man climbed from his bench and lumbered through the murky darkness to the cell. “He looks fine to—what the devil’s that?” Frowning, his heavy face distrustful, he opened the cell door and walked inside.
“I know not,” Gareth said, eyeing the rune that Muir had bled from his own body onto the cell floor. “Did you not hear the old man rambling on and on and drawing on the floor?”
“Nay…” The sentry slowly shook his massive head. “I listen not to the prisoners.” He scratched his crown and his face pulled into a confused frown.
“Well, he did and then… then he lay down as if to sleep and died… I swear it!”
The guard didn’t move, nor did he approach the old man who lay motionless on the filthy rushes.
“’Tis the mark of the devil,” the thickheaded sentry whispered, fear flaring his nostrils.
“No…”
The guard, rather than enter further into the cell as Gareth had hoped, backed out and closed the door with a clang. “I’ll not be in any place where Lucifer sleeps,” he insisted and a few of the other prisoners grumbled their agreement. “Hey! John! You at the top of the stairs. Go and get the priest.”
“Why?” a voice yelled down.
“Do it and do it now unless ye want to find yerself in the maw of hell!”
“Go and get ‘im yerself!”
“Gladly.” Backing up the stairs he disappeared and Gareth kicked at the straw in disgust.
“He believed you not,” he whispered, thinking Muir’s plan to trick the guard had been feeble at best. “We needs to do something else.”
The old man didn’t stir.
“Did ye hear me?” Gareth asked, moving closer to the corner where the sorcerer slept. “We needs—oh, God.” Muir was not sleeping as was the plan. Nay, he lay, not breathing, his one eye open and staring sightlessly. “Oh, no, no, no!” With footsteps as cold as an ogre’s breath, fear crawled up the back of Gareth’s spine and wrinkled his scalp. “Help!” he cried again, more loudly this time.
“Oh, shut up, would ye?” a ruffian grumbled from his cell.
“You shut up, Reginald,” his cellmate shot back.
“Help!”
Gareth’s heart thundered, his palms sweated. He’d never liked the old man, not really, and yet he felt a terrible loss in this dank, close prison with its dripping walls, rotting straw, and hidden rats. To be in this dungeon, alone, without anyone with whom to speak, was unthinkable and the sorcerer for all his faults was a good old sod. The world seemed to collapse upon him and Gareth realized the futility of his plight. He thought of his mother and tears burned the back of his eyes, tears he would never shed for ‘twas weak to show much he missed the woman who’d borne him.
All of his bravado failed him and though he tried to summon a drop of courage, he had but to look at the old man, his mouth agape, his chest not rising, his scarred eyes open and Gareth wanted nothing more than to climb through the damned bars and escape. His slingshot was tucked into his breeches and he had more than a handful of pebbles in his pocket, but he was so scared he could think of nothing more than getting away from the dead body.
“Hey, is the old sod really dead?” one of the other prisoners asked.
“I’ll be buggered. Are ye sure?” another joined in. “Ain’t ‘e some kind of magician or somethin’? Maybe ‘e’s just in a damned trance.”
“Aye, and I be the King of England.”
The men chortled and told more jokes, but Gareth didn’t listen. He stared at the stairway and silently prayed for the priest, the guard, anyone who would remove the body.
It seemed like hours before he heard voices and saw the dance of golden shadows from a torch playing against the bottom of the steps.
“’Tis too late for last rites,” Father Anthony was saying as he, grim faced, along with the guard and old Idelle, entered the dungeon.
“This place be a disgrace,” Idelle said, shaking her aged head as if she could see through eyes that had turned a milky white. “If the mistress was still in charge-”
“Well, she ain’t and this is the way Lord Ian likes things,” the guard said as he reached for his keys.
“Gareth, lad!” Idelle’s wrinkled countenance lightened with a grin. “’Tis troubled I’ve been, knowing ye were here.” She hugged him fiercely and again those dreaded tears came to his eyes. Idelle, so close to his mother, had always been good to him. “I’ve tried to come and see ye, but Lord Ian had forbidden it.”
“Where is my mother?”
“Oh, would I to know,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head before turning to Muir’s still form.
“Look, there, on the floor!” The guard pointed at the rune Muir had created with his own blood. “’Tis the mark of the devil, I tell ye.”
“Nay,” Idelle dismissed the man’s fears. “’Tis only a drawing about life.”
The priest, trembling, made a quick sign of the cross, then leaned over Muir. “This poor soul-”
At that, one of magician’s hands moved.
“Achh!” The guard yelled.
“Holy Father.” The priest backed toward the cell’s door and Gareth, heart beating faster than a rabbit’s, yanked his slingshot from his breeches, loaded, and fired a piece of mortar. Ssst! Crack! The rock hit the sentry squarely on the back of his head.
“Ouch! Say what?” He turned just as another piece of flying mortar shot into his forehead. “Ach! Stop!” Another shot. This one to an eye. “Stop it, ye’ve blinded me, ye filthy little bastard!” With one hand over his wound, the other to his sword, the guard didn’t expect another sharp stone to launch into his gut.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, stop him!” He yanked out his sword but not before Muir jumped to his feet and imbedded his tiny knife into the guard’s neck.
“Run!” he ordered.
Blood spurted and sprayed. The sentry swung wildly with his sword and Gareth took off like a startled colt. He didn’t wait to see what happened to Father Anthony or Muir or Idelle. He ran up the stairs, two at a time, and threw open the door to the bailey where fog shrouded the keep. Heart in his throat he slunk through the shadows, hanging close to the curtain wall and thankful for the mist that was his cover. Two sentries guarded the main gate and the portcullis was down. No escape there. He inched around the edge of the keep until he came to the kennels where the dogs, already restless, woofed softly at his approach. Alfred was nowhere in sight, so Gareth let himself into the pens and was nearly knocked over by Boon.
Tail whipping, the pup yipped and danced at Gareth’s feet. “Hush,” he ordered, picking up the wriggling mass. Most of the grown dogs, those trained for the hunt, lifted their heads, then lowered them again as they were used to the boy visiting at odd hours. He held his puppy close and felt the wild, erratic beating of Boon’s heart. “Shh,” he warned, trying to stay in the shadows.
Muir, the old goat, had duped him. Why hadn’t he told him that he could put himself into a trance or whatever it was and appear dead? Gareth shivered as he carried Boon out of the kennels and sat behind the huge kettles used for washing clothes. He had no plan for escape, but knew it would have to be done quickly, before everyone in the castle was looking for him.
On his feet again, he made his way past the ferret kennels where the nervous beasts were pacing restlessly in their cages. Boon stiffened, but didn’t bark as they passed. He stopped at the end of the kennels to view the sally port where a sentry, a young lad from the looks of him, was positioned. He wore no helmet so there was a chance that Gareth could use his slingshot against him, but he had only one more pebble. ‘Twasn’t enough. He needed a pocketful of rocks and then he’d attack the guard and set himself free.
Once he was outside the walls of Rhydd, he’d do as his mother had ordered him and head south. In a few day’s time if he walked partway and caught riders on carts, he’d arrive at Heath Castle where his mother’s sister Luelle was mistress.
Except he had no money or jewels. Those his mother had given him before were with Muir. Gareth had nothing, not a single coin. Unless… He smiled to himself in the darkness. So his father was a thief, was he? Well, Gareth could be one as well. He’d steal a dagger from the armory, bread and apples from the kitchens, and a few jewels from the castle treasury, for unless Ian had changed things in the short time he’d become lord, Gareth knew where the spare key to the treasury was hidden.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The sounds of the castle were different. In his sleep he’d heard men shouting, horses neighing, and the excited barks of the hounds. Ian had incorporated all these noises into his dreams, but now, though the fire had burned down and the torches were dark, he sensed another presence in his chamber.
He reached to the side of his bed where his sword was lying, but his fingers found only cold stone and thick rushes, no metal blade.
His heart hammered and he turned, expecting to find his dagger and its sheath near him on the pallet, but it, too, was missing.
“So you finally awaken.”
The voice was that of his enemy. The thief.
“I thought I might have to slit your throat while you slept.”
As Ian’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw his nemesis, dark and foreboding, looking larger than ever as he stood near the window. In one hand was Ian’s sword, in the other his knife.
“How did you get in here?”
“Through the front door.”
“Guard!” Ian yelled, but Trevin crossed the room and was upon him, his own knife pressed against his throat.
“I’ve dispensed with those loyal to you,” he said in a harsh whisper that turned Ian’s blood to ice. “Now, I think you should get dressed and come with me.”
Gwynn eyed the sky and wished for moonlight and a swifter means of getting to Rhydd. They’d traveled for hours, she and Sir Stephen, and finally they were near, though the tired ass lagged and ‘twas only the reins slapping him on his buttocks that kept him plodding along.
The air here was dense with fog and cold enough to freeze flesh. Gwynn blew on her hands and hoped beyond hope that she was not too late, that Trevin was safe and Gareth… oh, if only he were alive and somewhere safe.
“Cannot we move faster?” she asked, not for the first time.
“Would that we could, but ‘tis not possible.”
Time was ticking by so quickly and Gwynn shivered to the marrow of her bones. She should never have let Trevin trick her so, never have trusted him and yet, furious as she was, her heart was with him and the few men he’d taken.
‘Twas a fool’s mission but she couldn’t quell that little bit of hope that burned bright in her heart. Surely he was safe. He had to be. With Gareth. Oh, what she would give to see her son again, to embrace him. If only she could see them both one last time, she would be able to give herself to Ian and be his dutiful wife.
The idea was pure poison and it turned sour deep in her belly, but she would find a way to survive being Ian of Rhydd’s wife, suffer any indignity he suggested as long as Trevin and Gareth were safe.
She sent up yet another silent prayer and somewhere in the forest nearby a wolf gave up a lonely cry. The donkey, so listless moments before, bolted and the cart rolled forward at a faster clip.
Rhydd was close now. She could feel it in her bones, but along with that welcome sensation was a dark fear that those she loved most in the world were in danger… or worse yet, had not survived.
Gareth couldn’t believe his good luck. His pockets bulging with jewels and coins he’d taken from the counting house, the puppy tucked under one arm, he dashed along the curtain wall, pausing behind a wagon to scan the bailey.
All the sentries were missing, away from their posts, and he had the vague feeling that something was amiss, something more than his escape from the dungeon. Was it possible old Muir had finally cast a spell that worked and all the guards had fallen asleep at their posts, or mayhap, after the fight and confusion in the prison could it be that the sentries were scouring the castle looking for him?
Gareth didn’t stop to think too hard. All he knew was that the gatehouse appeared empty and though the portcullis was lowered, it was a simple matter of raising it and slipping through. It would take time and agility, for the minute the huge metal gate began clanging upward, the castle would be alerted. Then he would have only seconds to race down the stairs and dash through the gatehouse to freedom outside the castle walls.
Cautiously he slunk along the edge of the walk, squinting so hard through the fog that his head ached. His slingshot was tucked into the band of his breeches and in the hand not holding the dog, he carried a dagger.
He reached the gatehouse and holding his breath, slipped through the open door and up a winding staircase. He expected to run into a guard hastening down at any second, but heard no sounds and the torches and candles in the sconces on the walls had burned low; some, mere embers, cast little light.
Heart thumping, he reached the winch room, then realized he couldn’t open the portcullis without another man’s help. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath as Boon gave out a yip and scrambled out of his arms. “Shh!”
“I wondered when ye were goin’ to arrive.”
Gareth froze, then watched in wonder as Muir, cackling, appeared from a dark alcove. So the old man did have a little magic in him after all.
“Hurry now, boy. We have not much time. Grab that handle!”
Gareth did as he was told though he wondered at the old man’s strength. The gate was heavy, meant for two stout men to reel it upward, and yet there was no other way. If he and Muir and Boon were to escape, they had to open the gates.
“The prisoners have escaped!” A guard was yelling, his voice rolling through the bailey as Trevin, his sword still at Ian’s throat, pushed his captive through the doorway of the great hall. No other men came running, and the few sleepy-eyed servants who appeared in the windows did not seem inclined to help the anxious sentry.
Trevin smiled to himself. Richard and the other men they’d gathered must have been victorious in their efforts of subduing the few guards and soldiers left in the castle. He leaned forward and said into the older man’s ear, “Now ‘tis time for you to smell the stench of the dungeon.” Trevin prodded Ian with the tip of his blade.
The sentry, running toward the great hall, was tackled by a clumsy lad no more than thirteen. They rolled on the grass until Richard, hiding behind a broken wagon, leapt forward and helped the awkward boy restrain the guard. “Sorry,” the carpenter said, looking up and appearing sheepish. “We missed this one. Good work, Tom.”
“The rest?” Trevin asked.
“Most have either sworn allegiance to you or are in the dungeon.”
Ian’s shoulders slumped as if a weight had been placed squarely upon them. In the poor light, he appeared old and tired.
“’Tis as it should be,” Trevin said.
“Nay, ‘tis not all good news. A few men loyal to this one-” he spat on the ground at Ian’s bare feet “-escaped and the boy and sorcerer are missing.”
“What?” Trevin’s fingers tightened over his sword. “Missing?”
Richard nodded gravely. “I led the group into the dungeon, but the guard was already dead, the boy and Muir gone, and all that was left was a strange, bloody drawing on the cell floor.”
“All for naught, thief?” Ian asked, one eyebrow lifting.
“Where are they?”
Ian shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Trevin believed him, but felt a moment’s fear. “Search every inch of the castle,” he ordered his men but as the words escaped his mouth, he heard the creak and groan of ancient gears. Rattling like the chains of dying prisoners, the metal portcullis slowly raised. “No!” he yelled for just as the gate opened, the hollow, damning sound of hoofbeats rang through the bailey. “Close the gates!” he ordered. “For the love of Christ, lower the gate!” But it was too late. Through the fog he saw two figures, an old man and a youth, slip out the door of the gatehouse while, riding through the unguarded portal was a company of soldiers, torches held high.
In the lead, his sworn drawn, the blade gleaming a malevolent gold in the light, was Trevin’s old enemy.
Sir Webb, hatred distorting his features, had returned.
The only object between him and the outlaw baron was Trevin’s son.
“Gareth, run!” Trevin screamed. “Here, take this one!” He shoved Ian toward Richard and ran across the bailey, his sword raised, fury and fear pumping through his blood. “Run, damn it, boy, run!”
But it was too late.
“Get him!” Webb ordered. Two men jumped from their steeds. Another took quick aim. The dog, which Gareth had been holding, dropped to the grass and yipping, scuttled away.
“Nay!” Trevin vaulted a pile of firewood in his path, landed quickly, and didn’t miss a stride as he ran. He was only fifty yards from the boy.
Thwack!
The first arrow hit Gareth in the leg. He screamed and the sound echoed in Trevin’s heart. Writhing in agony, the boy fell. His slingshot slipped to the ground. With a whimper, the puppy ran further into the shadows.
Another deadly hiss.
Thud. The second arrow lodged in Gareth’s shoulder. Again that horrid, shrill scream.
“Nay!” Fury, as black as a demon’s heart tore through Trevin. He raced forward, his sword raised, the keening scream of denial he heard, torn from his own throat. He swung and one of the archers fell with a sickening thunk. Horses whinnied and reared. Men shouted. Swords flashed in the ghastly orange lights. Metal clashed. Grown men yowled in pain.
“Stop him!” Webb’s voice thundered above the horrid cacophony.
An arrow hissed through the air, whizzing by his head.
Another sizzled as it passed.
“Trevin! Watch out!” Richard’s voice. Somewhere nearby. Or far away.
Men scrambled off their horses and in the midst of the soldiers, captured, his face white as death, was Sir Henry.
Thwang!
Pain exploded in Trevin’s thigh. He stumbled. His sword nearly fell from his hand. He forced himself onward. “Gareth!”
An archer sighted on his boy.
Trevin threw his sword. It hit the archer and sliced deep.
Screaming, blood spraying from his chest, the soldier dropped to his knees, clutching the weapon that was ending his life.
“Stop this bloodshed! In the name of the Almighty, I implore ye!” Father Anthony, robes flying behind him, descended through the dark bailey like a furious, avenging angel from heaven. “D-d-do not—Oh, merciful God!”
Trevin was at Gareth’s side. His dagger was in his hand. “Stay back!” There were other men about. Some rushing from their huts, others taking up weapons. Whether for him or his enemies, he knew not. The torches reflected on the thick mist and in the wild eyes of the restless steeds and the flash of weapons.
Dogs barked, horses snorted, and in the distance he heard a baby crying. Men were shouting or screaming, the sounds jumbling in his mind.
An arrow hissed by his ear. Another pierced his shoulder. “Gareth, get up. Run.”
“’Tis too late,” Muir, appearing through the fog was suddenly at his side. Gareth lay unmoving, blood staining his tunic.
“Nay. He will live and survive and-”
“’Tis too late for all of us,” Muir said.
“Never!”
Trevin reached under the boy, intending to carry him to the keep. “Gareth, lad, rest easy. I will see to you,” he promised, staggering as he lifted the boy and the pain of his own wounds burned through his muscles.
“Stop!” Ian’s voice was cold as the bottom of a well. “Traitor. Murderer. Thief!”
Trevin pushed onward. The words were far and distant, their meaning unclear. A roar, like a sound of a mighty, tumbling waterfall, filled his head. If he could get Gareth to the keep, lie him on a bed, all would be well.
And what of Gwynn?
By the gods she was beautiful. If he could ever see her again. Just once. He fought the pain and the darkness that threatened his vision. The dull roar in his head grew louder, like the sound of the sea pounding the shore. Gwynn, love, I will see that our son is safe. Remember that I love you as I have no other… With a shake of his head, he cleared his mind. He could not lose his senses, not yet.
“Did you not hear me?” Ian roared.
Trevin trudged onward, his legs heavy, his feet stumbling in the bloodstained grass. He would save his son. If he’d done nothing of purpose in his vile life, he would save his boy.
Sweat poured from his skin. Blood flowed from his wounds. Pain gnawed at his body and soul. Still he trudged forward. ‘Twas not much farther.
“Run!” Richard yelled. “Trevin, please… all is lost! Save youself!”
Ian, who had managed, with the help of the miller to wrest Richard’s weapon form him, watched the fool carry his boy toward the keep. With each step Trevin of Black Oak faltered yet he kept onward, intent upon his mission, caring for a child he’d never really know.
The battle was nearly over. Webb’s soldiers and weapons were strong; the insurgents—peasants and servants—were no match for trained warriors.
Ian turned to a marksman who had slain several men in the uprising. “Take care of the traitor,” he said and watched as the archer drew back on his bow, aiming at Trevin’s back.
“NAY! TREVIN!” A woman’s voice, his wife’s voice, shrilled. Ian turned and saw Gwynn, her face a mask of horror running through the bailey. Her feet were swift as she passed the soldiers who had managed to round up most of the traitors. She had just arrived in some sort of cart and was dressed in men’s clothing, leather tunic and breeches. Her hair streamed behind her, tears ran from her large eyes and never had she looked more beautiful. “Stop this! Ian, I beg you, please-”
Trevin, hearing her voice, turned.
The archer released his missile.
True to its mark, the arrow whistled through the air and lodged deep into Trevin’s shoulder, only inches above Gareth’s head.
“Nay, nay, nay!” she yelled, racing over the wet grass and through the thick mist, speeding closer.
The outlaw baron staggered. His son rolled to the ground and with one final look at the woman racing through the gloom, he fell.
“Trevin! Oh, no, no, no!”
She tried to race past him, but Ian would have none of it. This woman had humiliated him before. She’d run off with the thief on their wedding night, slipped away from him and caused him to be a buffoon to his own men. She was not to be trusted, never to be let out of his sight again. For all he knew she could already be carrying another of the outlaw’s children in her womb.
That nasty thought curdled his blood.
Though he was nearly fifty, he was quick and he caught her. He reached for her arm and she, flying around empty carts and splashing through the edge of the eel pond, jerked her elbow away from him. As if his very touch repelled her.
Wicked little slut.
“Stop, wife!” he commanded and when she attempted to keep running, he tackled her, knocking her onto the muddy grass. Tears still pooling in her eyes, she tried to push him away and when his grip around her only tightened she pounded his chest with her fists.
He pinned her with his weight and grabbed her hands so that she could no longer strike him. So close he could smell the scent of heather in her hair, he heard his men surround them, knew that Webb and his soldiers were witnessing the taming of his woman. “Listen, you little wench,” he breathed hard into her ear. “If you value the lives of your lover and your son you will get up and stand with me as my wife. You will find a way to repair your dignity as well as mine.”
“I cannot.”
“’Tis your choice, m’lady,” he said, seeing the righteous fury flashing in her eyes and feeling her breasts, beneath him, rising and falling with each of her shallow, indignant breaths.
“I would rather die.”
“’Tis not your life with which I barter.”
Every muscle in her body stopped moving. Finally, he had her full, though unwilling, attention.
“If you do not do as I ask, I’m afraid, they’ll both die.”
“No!” She twisted, trying to catch a glimpse of her beloved and their child.
Her faith in the thief was enough to make a man sick, though he was awed by her courage and the fervency of her emotions. “’Tis your choice, sweet,” he said, trying to keep the snarl from his voice. “If you do not stand by me they will die, either by the wounds they have received this night or by having their necks snapped in the gallows as soon as they are strong enough. So make up your mind. Now. Just remember, their fates rest with you.”