Gareth fell into step with the old man who held on to a cane, but never used it, and found his way to a horse that was tethered to a small sapling. Bridle jangling, the palfrey was trying to pluck a few meager blades of grass in the darkness.
At that moment the pup gave out an excited yip and there was a baying of hounds in the distance.
“Saints be damned.” The dogs of Rhydd would be released to hunt him down like a wounded stag. “Climb up, then,” the drunk insisted and Gareth had no choice but to follow this crippled old man who mounted the horse with surprising ease. He clucked to the beast and though the forest was dark as pitch the palfrey clipped at a fast walk.
Again the dogs let out a chorus of baying that paralyzed Gareth. His teeth chattered and he closed out his mind to memories of slicing through Roderick’s flesh with his sword. ‘Twas far different from the games he played with Tom, the butcher’s simpleton of a son. The feel of metal piercing skin and scraping bone was sinister and cold. He held tight on to the pup, feeling the dog’s warmth and wishing that all this trouble had never started.
If only Lord Roderick, the man he’d thought to be his father, had never escaped.
“Hurry along,” the magician urged to the horse.
Their path was crooked and doubled back upon itself several times, enough that in the thick rain-washed night, Gareth, who knew the forest as well as the back of his hand, was completely turned around. Finally the old man guided the beast through a glen and around a small lake. On the far side, in a copse of dense bracken and fir trees, he dismounted and showed Gareth the thin slit of an entrance to a cave.
“This is the safe place?” Gareth whispered. He could have done better by himself.
“Trust me.”
“I know you not, old man.” He was suspicious. Why should he trust this old coot? Was there anyone he could believe in?
He watched the would-be magician pat the horse and tie him to a scrawny tree. “Come you, boy. ‘Tis time to eat.”
Gareth’s stomach grumbled as the ancient man paused to light a single torch from a stash near an outcropping of rock. The ancient one’s back was to the boy and Gareth saw nothing but a ragged black cape with a dusty hood and boots that were in sorry need of new heels and soles. Holding the torch aloft, he led Gareth down a dusty trail inside the cavern.
“Be there bears in here, or badgers?” Gareth asked, wishing he’d been clever enough to pack his quiver and bow with him as he strained to see into every nook and cranny of the cavern. His only weapon was a dagger and it seemed small at the thought of snarling wild creatures with sharp fangs.
Boon wasn’t much help. The pup whimpered and followed close to Gareth’s heels.
“Nay. Naught but a few bats.”
“But—” He swallowed back his fear. Dropping and bleached dry bones from several beasts littered the floor. Overhead the rustle of wings was ever-present. Gareth had to remind himself that being here with the old man was surely better than being alone in the forest certain that at any second Sir Webb would leap from the darkness to slit his throat.
“’Tis empty, I say. Would I bring ye to face some hideous, fanged beast if ‘twas my bidding to keep ye safe?”
“Nay, but—”
“Hush. All yer questions rattle around in my brain and cause my head to ache. Here we go now—” He placed his torch to a pile of dry sticks already laid in a circle of well-worn stones. With a crackle and spark the fire caught, flames and smoke rising over upward. Gold shadows played upon the uneven rock walls and the ceiling where roots tangled and weaved.
In one corner were two pallets and upon them furs that were old and dusty. The dog sniffed around the darkened corners, his breath moving the dust and dirt of the cavern’s floor.
“Here we be, home sweet home,” the cripple muttered and turned to face his young charge.
A scream died in Gareth’s throat.
The old man was hideous. He had but one eye and his face was disfigured.
The magician smiled and showed off a few remaining teeth. “This,” he said, motioning to his face, “is what happens when a lad gets too cocky and thinks he can best a stronger foe.”
“But—but you have only one eye.”
“Nay, son, I have two. One that sees as the rest of the world does and one that has visions that no one else views.” He settled onto a large rock and placed both gnarly hands around his cane. “’Tis a curse. Until I was blinded and bleeding, I was no different from the other men in the town. But I was caught robbing a rich man… well, there is more to the story but ‘tis best if ye hear it later, if at all. The long and short of it is that I was nursed back to health by an old woman who taught me of my magic.”
He frowned at the memory. “’Twas then I learned to use my other faculties. My ears and nose became my eyes. My fingers gave me sight as my vision failed me and when at last the bandages were removed, only one eye saw the light of day. The other, though, came to be hold that which others could not see— the dark of the night.”
Gareth’s skin crawled. “Who are you?”
“I be called Muir.”
“Of Black Oak?”
The old man smiled that crooked grin. “For now I belong here, in this cave. Take off your wet clothes, place them near the fire here, and warm yourself in the bed. ‘Twould be my hide if I were to deliver ye to Trevin and ye be ill. Go on now—” He waved Gareth toward the pallets, but the boy didn’t move.
“What does this Trevin want of me?”
Muir hesitated. “He’ll have to tell ye himself, boy, but trust me that he is no friend of Ian of Rhydd’s.”
“Where is he now?”
“That, I’m afraid, I know not.” The old man scowled, then eyed Gareth’s pack as the pup turned several circles before settling his head on his paws and watching the boy. “Did ye think to bring anything to drink with ye.”
“Nay.”
Muir sighed and rolled his good eye toward the ceiling. “I thought not. ‘Tis my lot in life to forever have a dry throat and parched tongue.”
Gareth, taking off his shirt, didn’t believe the old goat for a minute. However, for now, he had no choice but to trust him and hope beyond hope that Webb or any other of Ian’s soldiers didn’t find the cave. For as safe as the old man thought it was, the cavern was a trap as it had only one entrance.
If they were discovered, they were doomed.
She had betrayed him. As surely as the moon was hiding behind the clouds, Gwynn had double-crossed him. Silently cursing himself for being a fool, Trevin slunk through the shadows and made his way to the keep. He heard the sounds of the night, the river flowing wildly on the other side of the castle walls, an owl hooting in the forest, and pigs grunting and rooting in their sties.
Why had he trusted her? Had she not used him before? Seduced and bartered with him? Traded him his freedom for a few nights in her bed? The wench had no heart, no morals and certainly no loyalty.
Except to the boy. She seemed genuinely concerned about her son and his safety. His son, he reminded himself as he skirted the fish pond and slid noiselessly into the keep. Something was amiss, he was certain of it. The dogs in the kennels were restless, the doves in the dovecote disturbed, and Gwynn had been gone far too long.
He’d seen her enter the great hall and followed her path, his boots muted on the rushes. Several knights dozed at their posts; another two were engrossed in a game of chess, still one more was lifting the skirts of a maid near the doorway to the chapel. The image of the woman’s legs wrapped so eagerly around the knight’s torso burned deep into Trevin’s brain. It had been long since he’d been with a woman and holding Gwynn so tightly a short while earlier had brought his cock to attention.
Not since his wife had died had he bedded a woman, nor had he wanted one.
Until tonight. The smell of Gwynn’s hair, the feel of her ribs rising and falling beneath firm breasts, the nip of her waist in his palm and her rump, round and yielding against his legs had been too much too bear. He had not time for the distraction of a woman, any woman, least of all Gwynn and yet here he was, climbing the stairs to her chamber, hiding in the shadow his heart thudding expectantly.
There had been many women since he’d first made love to Gwynn all those years ago, but never had any touched him with the same primal, aching passion. He’d told himself it was because she’d been his first lover, a forbidden fruit, but now, as he made his way to her room, he felt the same breathless pang of desire squeezing his innards as he had so long ago.
He crouched near her door and heard her voice through the oaken panels.
“I swear to you, Lord Ian, I know not where Gareth is.”
“Liar!”
“Nay, do not—”
Slap!
Trevin sprang to his feet. He kicked hard. The door gave way.
Sword drawn, he leapt into the chamber.
“What the devil?” Ian demanded, his gaze moving from his beautiful wife, standing proudly before him with her fists clenched, to the doorway. “If it isn’t the thief.” He held his belt securely in one hand while the other was raised as if to strike again.
“Leave her be,” Trevin ordered and noticed a dark knight in the corner.
“She is my wife.”
“And you, Lord, are destined for hell if you do not lower your hand.” Trevin’s voice was deadly and he glared at the new baron of Rhydd in seething, barely leashed fury. “Gwynn, leave.”
“Nay, Trevin, this is not your battle.” Gwynn tossed him an anxious glance, silently begging him to hold his tongue.
“Isn’t it?” He sheathed his sword but kept his gaze fixed on the two other men in the room—both now his sworn enemies. “I know you.” Ian’s lips curled. “You’re the pathetic little cur who stole my dagger.”
“Aye, and sliced your face.”
Ian’s right hand flew to his cheek and he touched a scar that ran near his hairline.
“Get out of here now, Gwynn,” Trevin ordered, smelling a fight that was soon to erupt. From the sheath strapped to his belt he grabbed the dagger.
“I see you have it still.”
Trevin grinned wickedly. “Here.” He tossed the bejeweled knife at Ian. Rubies, emeralds, and sapphires glimmered in the firelight as the little knife sailed across the chamber to land in the lord’s outstretched palm. “I was but borrowing your weapon.”
“Ye be Trevin of Black Oak.” Webb’s eyes were mere slits, visible only as they reflected the light of the fire. “Ye killed Baron Dryw.”
“What business do you have here?” Ian asked, slowly circling Gwynn, his eyes never leaving Trevin. His fingers tightened around the knife’s hilt.
“I come for my son.”
Gwynn sucked in her breath and shook her head. “He knows not what he says.”
“Your son?” Ian asked. “Your son?”
Trevin nodded.
Gwynn was frantic. “He knows not—”
“The boy, Gareth?” Dark eyebrows raised in surprise and he barked out a jaded laugh.” Your son? You, a lowly thief, a mere boy yourself at the time, you fathered the lad?” Disbelieving, Ian looked at Gwynn, saw the stain on her cheeks, her eyes snapping fire. “For the love of God!”
“Where is he?” Trevin demanded.
Ian fingered the dagger. “You slept with Roderick’s wife while he was away at battle?”
“You suspected Gareth was not my husband’s issue,” Gwynn interjected, her voice trembling slightly.
“But I knew not that you were whore enough to sleep with a common thief, a man not worthy of polishing Roderick’s boots.”
“What does it matter who is Gareth’s father?” she said while Webb rubbed his leg and slid his sword from its sheath.
Ian’s lips curled into a snarl. “I hoped that you had better taste, Wife. That at the very least you could have done your whoring with a nobleman.”
“Where is the boy?” Trevin asked as Webb, sensing Ian’s intent, began circling the other side of Gwynn.
“A good question.” Ian rubbed the whiskers upon his chin and the scar running along his hairline seemed suddenly more distinct. “I was just asking the same of my wife.”
“By beating his whereabouts from her?” Trevin’s fingers tightened over the hilt of his weapon. Sweat collected at the roots of his hair.
“The boy killed my brother, the baron. His punishment is to be forever banished from Rhydd.”
Trevin lifted a shoulder. “Then, mayhap, he has saved you the trouble by leaving himself.”
“Nay! He would not have left without talking first to me,” Gwynn insisted, desperation echoing in her voice.
“Make your leave, lady,” Trevin warned.
“Stay!” Ian ordered.
“Now!” Trevin yelled and Gwynn fled to the door. Ian hurled his dagger at Trevin, but the younger man ducked and spun. Thunk! The knife buried itself in the oaken planks of the door.
Webb rounded on the interloper. His sword sliced the air. Trevin drew in his stomach but the tip of Webb’s weapon slit his cloak and cut his flesh. Gwynn wrenched the dagger free and flung it at Webb. The blade lodged in his shoulder and he shrieked like a gutted pig. Blood oozed down his arm as he yanked the hated dagger from his flesh.
“Run!” Trevin yelled and this time she flew through the door. Trevin, backing up, carving the air with his sword, followed, only to hide in a corner as Gwynn fled down the stairs. Crouching, he waited and as Ian dashed down the stone steps, he readied his sword.
“Guards! There is a traitor. A criminal! Catch him!” Ian rounded the corner. Trevin swung. His sword sliced and held in shinbone. Shrieking in agony, Ian rolled down the stairs.
Trevin raced upward, through the solar and onto the ledge of the window. With a leap, he flung himself through the air, caught hold of another window ledge, then slid down the stone walls, scraping his fingers and body until his feet hit the thatched roof of the carpenter’s shop. His bones jarred. He bit his tongue. Pain screamed through his body.
“For the love of God, man,” Richard cried as Trevin rolled down the thatches to the ground, “are ye truly daft?”
Trevin’s body ached and blood seeped through his tunic and cloak, but, as arranged, Richard handed him the stolen guise of a solider of Rhydd. “Where’s the boy?”
“Already gone, it seems.” Trevin stripped and with Richard’s help, dooned the armor. The smells of sawdust and wood were cut off as the helmet were forced upon his head. Dogs barked, soldiers yelled, horses neighed nervously, and the ring of boots upon stone thundered.
“And the lady?”
“Did she not come here?”
“Nay. I’ve seen her not.”
“Then I must stay.”
“You cannot.”
Could he leave Gwynn? Trevin remembered her cheek, bright with the pain of Ian’s hand, and for what? Not telling him where her son was? Now she had betrayed him, gone against his word. The torture Ian would inflict upon her would be merciless. Damn that woman.
“I cannot leave.”
“You will be killed, and I as well. In our effort I have detained one of Ian’s soldiers, mayhap have killed him.” Richard’s voice was harsh. “My family will suffer and my wife is with child again.”
“I will not leave her.”
“You must, Trevin, or I will turn you in myself.” Richard’s face, skeletal in the dark, was set with a fierce determination Trevin recognized. “I will see to the lady.”
“There is no need,” a hushed voice said as Idelle slipped through the doorway. “She is safe.”
“Here at Rhydd?”
“Nay.”
“She’s left the castle?”
The old midwife ducked into a corner, behind stacks of posts. “Do not worry over her, Trevin of Black Oak. You have your own dark heart to mend.”
“How am I to know that she is safe?” he asked.
“Trust in the Lord.”
“This from you—the woman who is known to cast spells and conjure demons?”
“The lady is well. She bid me to tell you. Now go, or Ian will have your hide and ours as well.”
Trevin felt a lie brewing in the air. “You be certain?”
“On the lives of the lady and her son, I swear to you Lady Gwynn is safely away. Now, you, too, must leave.”
Trevin didn’t bother to argue. He had to trust the old woman. But, he swore under his breath as he joined the other soldiers grabbing their mounts from the stable master, if he ever saw Gwynn of Rhydd alive again, he’d personally shake the living devil from her.
Or, he thought angrily, make love to her until neither of them had an ounce of strength left in their bodies.
“Let us p-pass, ‘tis the Lord’s b-bidding.” Father Anthony ordered as he led the ass and a cart laden with caskets. Wheels protested under the dead weight of the load and the donkey brayed loudly, protesting his dark task.
Deep within one coffin, Gwynn squeezed her eyes and shut and silently cursed Idelle’s morbid scheme for her escape.
“Now?” the guard asked. “But there be—”
“’Tis Lord Ian’s request,” Anthony insisted as Gwynn, hearing the argument dared not move. She was pinned beneath the cover of a dead corpse, a thin peasant woman who had worked spinning and dying wool until the cough that had rattled deep in her lungs and become so persistent and painful, it had finally taken her from this world.
“I heard not of this.”
“You hear of it now,” the priest insisted.
‘Twas all Gwynn could do not to scream or retch, but she closed her mind to the brittle woman lying atop her and remembered that she would soon see her son again. She had no more life at Rhydd and, if only she could escape, she would be able to find a way to Heath Castle, which was only a fortnight’s journey to the south on foot. ‘Twould be treacherous, but she had enough jewels and coin with her to hire a horse and guard, if only she survived this horrid part of her journey. Why must the sentry be so stubborn? Though the night was as cold as death, she began to sweat.
“I was told not to let anyone pass.” The guard sounded certain and Gwynn’s heart sank.
“Even against the Lord’s bidding?”
“Who’ve ye got?”
“Bartholomew, the miller.”
“Aye. He kneeled over this morn.”
“Then the girl, Kate, who drowned in the mill pond, and Brenna, one of the women who worked with the fleece.”
“Well, ye won’t mind if I have a look, now, will ye?”
“You t-t-trust me not.”
“’Tis my job, Father.” There was the stomp of the feet and the cart jostled with the guard’s weight. Dear God in heaven, please save me. With a wrenching squeak one of the coffin lids was raised. Golden light shined through the knotholes of Gwynn’s box.
Sweat soaked Gwynn’s skin. Breath was nearly impossible.
“Yea. ‘Tis Bartholomew, poor old sod. A better miller we’ll never have.”
“Aye, ‘tis true,” Anthony replied, his voice nervous as the sound of horse and soldiers reached her ears. Shouts, jangles of harnesses and armor, the anxious whinnies of steeds being mounted.
The second coffin was pried open and the guard sighed. “’Tis hard to see a child so. I saw her just yesterday chasing the piggies.”
“Listen, man,” the priest said solemnly. “Th-thi-this is enough desecration of the d-dead!”
“As I said, ‘tis my job. ‘Tis not that I want to look upon the dead, believe you me.” The guard’s bar squeezed through the lid and box of the coffin and creaking, the top popped open. Gwynn felt a rush of cool, welcome air. She closed her eyes but could see through her lids some flickering orange light as the sentry held his torch aloft.
“Ahh, Brenna. We’ll miss ya, lass.”
Do not let him see me, please God. Gwynn held her breath and the seconds stretched endlessly.
“Hurry, man.”
With a thud the lid was in place again. “Ye may pass.”
Thank you, Gwynn said silently. The cart started rolling forward again and Gwynn suffered the stale air and close quarters gratefully as the scrawny woman’s cold hand brushed against hers. In the dark, she heard the portcullis clanking open and the echo of the ass’s hooves as it pulled the heavy load over the bridge crossing the moat.
Only a little while longer would she have to endure this misery. However it seemed forever until the priest ordered “Whoa,” and the wagon stopped its uneven movement.
“God forgive me,” he muttered as he pried the lid open and yanked Breena’s breathless body off Gwynn. Without wasting a second, Gwynn scrambled free and bit her lip to keep from retching as she climbed out of the coffin and down the side of the cart.
“Thank you, Father,” she said, shuddering as he gently replaced Breanna’s body into the casket. “And, Idelle, thank her for me as well.”
He frowned. “Idelle. ‘Twas her idea.”
“But it would not have worked had you not helped.”
He sighed and glanced at the castle walls. “Be well, m’lady. And, p-p-please, think fondly of R-Roderick.”
“And you, Father Anthony.”
“Aye, now be off before we both be caught and end up praying for our souls at the gallows.”
“Bless you.” Lifting her skirts, she hurried through the cemetery, dodging graves and their tombstones as she made her way through wet grass and weeds to the forest.
No matter what else she encountered, she would find her son.
And what of his father?
She felt a little guilty about leaving Trevin in Rhydd but knew deep in her heart that he would find his way to safety. She fingered the pouch of jewels she’d put in the pocket of her cloak. She couldn’t think too much of Trevin. ‘Twas dangerous.
After thirteen years she’d thought any emotion she may have felt for him would be long dead. Oh, how very wrong she’d been. As she thought of his body pressed so closely to hers in the stables, her thoughts spun out of control. Her heart began to beat wildly, as if in anticipation of his kiss.
Foolish, foolish woman! What think you? You know better than to give your heart to a thief, for, if you do, you can be certain he will surely steal it.