Angel's Assassin (2 page)

And then heaven vanished and hell returned as
Otis shoved him forward, slamming him into a thick wooden beam.
Damien plowed into it with the force of a rock hurled from a sling.
His world spun and his body dropped to the deck of the ship. He
managed to glance up at the captain’s cabin and saw the name of the
ship carved just above the door. The Redemption. The word swam
across his vision. Yes, redemption, his pain-fogged mind thought.
Gawyn is waiting in the darkness to deliver me from this evil.

He felt himself being lifted, saw Otis’s
twisted face, saw his lips move, but he could not understand what
the huge man had just said. All Damien knew was that Gawyn would
set him free. He had promised to come back.

Otis spun Damien around and stretched his
arms above his head. Damien glanced up to see the chain between his
wrist manacles being draped over a large hook in the main mast. The
manacles dug into his flesh, the rough metal edges slicing into his
skin. A ripping sound filled the night as what was left of his
tunic was torn from his back.

Gawyn will return. He promised to come back.
Brothers always keep their promises. He won’t leave me.

Damien looked dazedly beyond the edge of the
wooden pole he was now hooked to, searching the shadows of the ship
for his brother. Was Gawyn behind the crates of supplies to his
left? Or the netting to his right?

His mind was so foggy he didn’t realize what
was happening until the first snap of the whip cracked the air
behind him. His body stiffened in anticipation and dread.

Gawyn, where are you?

The whip snapped again, this time finding its
mark, landing with biting accuracy on the surface of Damien’s
flesh. He winced as hot pain flared through his back. His body
jerked away from the coil of the whip as a second lash struck him,
the thin tip of the cord digging deeper. He grit his teeth and
squeezed his eyes tight.

A shout to his right drew Damien’s attention.
Hope bloomed inside of him. It was Gawyn. It had to be Gawyn.

A shadow darted across the star-lit deck from
behind the netting and the dark shape leapt over the side of the
ship. Damien heard the distant splash of his brother’s freedom.
Other crewmembers ran to the rail of the ship, peering into the
dark waters below.

Gawyn!

The whip savagely bit his back again and
again and Damien’s chin dropped to his chest in anguished defeat.
Just before blackness took him, he knew the truth.

Gawyn was not coming to set him free.

V
illagers
lined the tall walls of the Great Hall in small clusters. Some sat
beneath the large stained glass window depicting an elegant knight
in his golden battle armor; others stood near the white marble
statue of a warhorse.

While the groups were indeed dwindling,
Aurora of Acquitaine knew she would not be able to hear all of
their concerns, complaints and petitions today. She had sat in the
judgment chair for the entire morning, dispensing verdicts. The sun
was almost directly overhead and time was running out. With the
tolling of the bell for the noon meal, the hearing of petitions
would come to an end. Her gaze swept over her villagers waiting
anxiously for their turn, all of their faces filled with
anticipation and hope for a ruling in their favor. She knew she
could not please them all, but she would do her best to be
fair.

She looked at the two men standing before
her. One was a big, beefy man with dark hair and a boyish face
known by all as Peter the Drunk, and the other was a ruffled old
man named Theodore, the owner of the Wolf’s Blood Inn. Both stared
at her with expectant eyes, waiting for her judgment.

Aurora glanced at Peter, the dark haired man,
noticing the stains on his tunic, the rip in the knee of his
breeches. “You will carve Theodore a walking stick,” she
proclaimed. “After all, you did break it in half.”

Peter stared at the floor, shaking his head
gently. “But I ain’t got –”

“I will supply the wood and the dagger. You
will present yourself here each morn to Mary. If you don’t, I will
have Captain Trane look for you. He won’t like doing that, so I
strongly urge you to report to Mary in a timely fashion.”

Peter nodded, bowing his head humbly. “Aye.
Thank ye, m’lady.”

“I want you to stay in the castle for now,
Peter. You can sleep here in the Great Hall with the others. We
will all help you resist your fondness for ale.”

Peter bobbed his head again, with a bit more
enthusiasm and vigor this time, his floppy brown hair falling in
his eyes. “I will, m’lady. Thank ye.”

Aurora turned to Theodore. “Theodore –” A
loud commotion came from the back of the room, drawing Aurora’s
attention. Four men walked down the aisle. She recognized the lead
man as Lord Warin Roke. She scowled at the disturbance and looked
back to the two men before her, continuing, “Peter will carve you a
new walking stick.”

Theodore bowed, half turning toward the men
moving up the middle of the room. “Thank ye, m’lady.”

“Take care of yourself, Theodore.”

Lord Warin Roke, dressed in dark silver from
his leather boots, to his leggings, to the loose fitting tunic he
wore over his slender figure, strolled up the aisle. He was a tall,
gangly man with a long face.

Behind him, three men followed. One of the
men was huge, easily six and a half feet tall. One of his eyes was
completely white. Aurora didn’t like the cruel grin that seemed to
be permanently etched on his lips. The second man was smaller, but
stockier, with oily dark hair. His expression was blank as he
pushed a thin man before him toward the dais. This third man
appeared to be a captive of some sort as his hands were bound
behind his back. The prisoner’s lip was cracked and swollen, and
there was a large purple bruise on his cheek. Dried blood stained
his chin.

Sir Rupert stepped up protectively beside
Aurora, his chain mail clinking softly. Rupert was a handsome young
man with a premature streak of gray running through his brown hair.
He was one of her father’s most trusted knights.

Aurora stood. “Lord Roke, I am hearing
petitions. There are others before you. You must wait –”

Roke stopped before the raised platform and
bowed, sweeping his arm out across his body in a grossly
exaggerated gesture. “Excuse the interruption, my lady.”

Her gaze swept the three men behind him
before returning to Roke. She carefully schooled her face in a
patient blankness, hiding the audacity she felt at Roke’s arrogance
in believing his problem took precedence over the rest.

“I have a gift for you,” he said in a soft
voice. “For your consideration of my betrothal offering.”

Anger spiked through Aurora. A gift when she
was clearly busy attending other matters? When others waited upon
her to hear their petitions? She pushed the anger down and regarded
the quiver of happiness in Roke’s lips, the arrogance in his lifted
chin. A betrothal to this wretched man would be a punishment worse
than death. “How kind, Lord Roke. But as you can see, I am
conducting –”

A self-satisfied smile beamed from his
wrinkled face. His voice lowered as he announced, “I have brought
you this assassin.”

Assassin. The word sent tremors of fear and
misgiving shuddering through Aurora.

Around her, villagers whispered and a murmur
swept through the hall like a rippling breeze. Sir Rupert stepped
forward, his hand moving to the hilt of his weapon. “You dare bring
an assassin before Lady Aurora?” He glowered hotly at Roke.

Aurora lifted her hand, stilling all around
her. Her gaze came to rest on the bound and bloodied man. Rage
charred through her and she forced her fists not to clench.
Assassin. The most loathsome kind of human being. “Who did he
kill?” she asked.

Roke’s grin quirked to the side. “Lord
Delamore’s wife.”

A woman. A victim just like her mother. She
carefully kept her face and her voice neutral, dispelling the
warring emotions swirling within her. Anger, anxiety, trepidation.
“Why bring him to me?”

“Why, my dear, I am ever vigilant for the
assassin who killed your mother.”

Aurora didn’t move for a very long moment.
Emotions from the past threatened to tidal wave over her, but she
kept a strong reign on her feelings, burying them deep inside. She
was Lady Aurora of Acquitaine, a figurehead to her people. Always
level headed, always fair. She couldn’t just crumple into a heap of
fear and dread even though her very limbs were threatening to give
out on her. She looked past Roke at William the Baker who met her
gaze with concern. His worry gave her strength. Aurora swallowed
and took a step forward.

“My Lady,” Sir Rupert hissed from behind her.
“Have a care.”

She snapped her gaze to the assassin as she
moved toward him. His jaw was tight and his eyes darted from side
to side. She moved by Lord Roke to stand before the assassin. She
could feel her heart hammering hard in her chest and willed herself
to remain calm.

“I was hoping you could identify him,” Roke
whispered.

A quiver of repulsion shook her at the sound
of Roke’s voice so close. She ignored it, concentrating on the
assassin. He was short, maybe half a head taller than her. But that
was not important. She remembered one thing about the assassin from
seven years ago. One thing she would never forget. She leaned
closer to look into his eyes.

He reared back and turned his head away from
her.

She grabbed his jaw and jerked his face back
toward her.

He stared at her with a mixture of defiance
and apprehension.

She held his face still, glaring into his
eyes, searching for the monstrous eyes that still haunted her
nightmares. The most dead, cold and uncaring, unfeeling and distant
eyes she had ever seen. But the eyes staring back at her were not
those eyes. And their shape was more oval than the eyes she
remembered. She released him, pushing his face away with a resolved
sigh. She stepped back. “It’s not him. He is not the one.”

“Have no fear, my dear. I will not rest until
your mother’s killer is brought to you,” Lord Roke reassured her.
“It is my duty as your future husband.”

Aurora cringed at the certainty in Roke’s
declaration of their future marriage. She looked away from him and
then noticed a red smudge on her fingers. She lifted her hand,
inspecting it. Blood. It was the assassin’s blood. Aurora swung her
gaze back to Roke. He was still grinning as if this were some kind
of amusing stage play he was performing in. She could see he was
not surprised at all by her declaration that this man was not the
murderer of her mother. Then she looked over her shoulder at the
assassin. There was too much blood on his chin for a simple cut
lip. Her eyes narrowed. “What happened to him?”

“He was properly punished.”

“How?”

“He was spouting lies, so we cut out his
tongue.” Roke’s tone was gleeful, proud.

Gasps sounded from the villagers within
earshot of Roke’s gloat.

“It is not for you to dispense justice,”
Aurora said calmly, forcing herself to show none of the disgust she
felt. “Bring him to Lord Delamore. He can bestow the proper justice
to his wife’s murderer.”

Aurora stared down at the smear of blood
still staining her hand. The assassin’s blood. She had listened to
one more petition after Roke’s interference. Then, the bell had
tolled. Thankful, she dismissed the rest, promising to add an extra
hearing for tomorrow. It had been difficult for her to concentrate
after Roke’s interruption. She had used a rag to wipe the blood
from her hands but no matter how much she scrubbed, the red stain
had remained. She moved through the hallway to her room and closed
the door.

She stood with her back against the door,
staring down at her hand, at the smear of blood on it. The
assassin’s blood. Fear swirled in the deepest recess of her soul as
she lifted her eyes to search her room. The murky corners, the
gloom, taunted her. She never felt safe near the darkness, always
feeling as if someone were there in the shadows. Watching.
Waiting.

Ridiculous, she told herself and pushed away
from the door to a small basin on the table beside the wall. She
dipped her hand into the water, scrubbing at the red stain.

It had been seven years almost to the day
since her mother’s death. But the man who had killed her mother had
never been caught. The assassin was still out there.

Aurora rubbed at the blood harder, finally
able to remove the last of the red smears from her skin. This is my
home, my castle, my lands, she thought. I will not be afraid
here.

The door swung open and she jumped, knocking
the basin over as she spun around. The water splashed across the
floor.

Her father swept into the room, his gray
brows angled over his eyes. “Aurora?”

Aurora’s shoulders sagged with relief.
“Father,” she whispered as if reassuring herself.

He rushed up to her with hurried steps, his
gaze moving over her in concern. “Are you alright?”

Aurora bent to pick up the basin. “Other than
being scared to death…” When he didn’t answer, she looked up at
him, noticing his unease. She stood slowly, her hands empty. “What
is it? What’s happened?”

He shook his head and glanced back at the
door where Sir Rupert stood looking down at his boots. When he
looked back at her, he took her hand into his. “Rupert told me Roke
was here.”

Disgust and annoyance at Roke’s name churned
within her, but didn’t reach her face. “Yes. He was here.”

The concern never left his eyes. “He brought
an assassin?”

Aurora nodded and then slowly shook her head.
“But it wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one who killed mother.”