Conquer the Night (28 page)

She spun around, staring at Corrigan. “What?”

“Do you really wish to see them all hanged—or worse?”

She stared at him a long while. “No, Father. I wish no man's death. No man's.”

She left him and hurried back to the landing before the steps to the tower room. She froze; Patrick was there, of course. She had forgotten that he watched her, every step she took. If she had tried to leave, he would have stopped her.

What had he heard of the conversation between her and the priest?

Suddenly angry and disgusted with all of them, she wagged a finger beneath his nose. “I will not come to dinner tonight, Patrick. And I will not be drugged again; it is a coward's way to keep a prisoner!”

He stared at her blankly. “My lady, I gave you no drugs!”

She hesitated, then turned around. Father Corrigan had followed her in.

“You bastard!” she charged.

“My lady! You're speaking to a man of the church!” Patrick said.

Michael Corrigan said nothing to defend himself. “A man of the church?” she murmured, eyes narrowing. “An Irish devil!”

“A preferable creature to an English traitor, my lady!” he said, bowing politely.

She turned, ignoring them both, hurrying back to the tower room.

There she began to pace. There had to be some way out of here now—before Arryn returned. Arryn's men were good, but nowhere near as vigilant as their leader himself. It didn't help, of course, that her own people were against her.

They would be watching for her to make a desperate dive into the river.

What other chance did she have?

Walking out the gates?

Walking out … walking right out …

She hesitated.

His
things were still here—a mantle left on the chair by the fire, hose just laundered and left folded on a trunk. The bed carried his scent; it even seemed to retain his heat. She lowered her head. She didn't dare think about it, about him. She would want to break down, cry, despair. She couldn't admit the truth to herself; it was far too terrible. She didn't surrender—no! She had capitulated beyond belief; she
liked
him, far worse, she was compelled by him, fascinated by him, so eager now to crawl back into bed with him that it was beyond humiliating, far worse than ironic. She should throw herself into the river for being such a wretched, pathetic fool. Good God, she yearned for the sound of his voice, the way his eyes could flicker over the length of her, the brush of his fingers, the touch of his lips. If he only knew what vengeance he had truly enacted …

She closed her eyes tightly. She had to leave. Now. Before she was forced to see him again. He was, she realized, the man she had always wanted Kinsey to be. His strength lay in the power of his beliefs; he could be merciful despite cruelties done to him.

Shaking, she sat down. There had to be something else.

If she tried to escape and reach London, and if she could convince the king that she would die at Kinsey's hands, she would simply be made the prize for some other warrior in the king's service, another man willing to fight and kill for the king's goodwill.

The low-burning fire in the hearth flickered; she watched the shadows of the flame as they danced on the stone. She reached out.

Fire …

Kinsey had left his wife to burn….

She rose. She couldn't leave by way of the river. If she survived a dive, she would be stopped. They would be watching for her. Father Corrigan knew her intent, and he had become her enemy, though why, she didn't know. He had to realize that she'd be in danger once Kinsey returned. Or maybe he still didn't believe that men could have such pride and be so possessive that they'd rather kill than allow their enemy any small victory.

She paced before the fire.

Late, it was so late in the day already! Day—no, it was night; darkness was falling. She'd slept like the dead. The drug had been strong, and yet tasteless. It must have been in the wine, and she had never known, never even suspected….

She paused, watching the flames again, blue and crimson flickering against the stone of the castle.

Father Corrigan … the Irish demon!

Determined, she swung around and hurried to the door, throwing it open. Patrick sat slumped on the floor just outside the doorway. He sprang guiltily to his feet as she appeared.

“My lady—”

“I need to see the priest,” she said sweetly.

“But—” he began with a frown.

She set her hand upon his shoulder. “Please, Patrick. I must see him. I have been in there thinking about my words…. I must apologize.”

“I'm not sure where he has gone.”

“Well, we'll try the chapel.” He wasn't going to be in the chapel, she was certain. “And then we'll try his quarters. Please?” He stared at her uncertainly. “Patrick, my immortal soul could be in danger.”

“Aye, lady, come; we'll see the priest,” Patrick told her.

She smiled sweetly. And innocently.

Arryn felt restless on the return to Seacairn, despite the speed with which they rode. Accompanied by only Jay and Ragnor, he could ride far harder than usual.

He felt a strange sense of relief and freedom, and yet a deep gravity—the time had come at last when they would face a large English contingent, when they would fight a real battle, when they had a chance to make a stand that would matter.

It was in their favor that Edward battled the French at this moment, and therefore was not in Scotland. His son—Edward like him, but in no other way resembling him—was in power in his father's absence. A good thing. The young Edward was not at all the soldier that his father was; he was uncertain, and might easily make poor judgments and decisions.

But the commanders coming against them were able indeed. There was rumor that the king's men came with huge armies, troops that numbered nearly a hundred thousand. Surely those numbers were inflated. What was certainly true was that they traveled with able men, trained men, archers, cavalrymen, soldiers adept with heavy swords.

“Do we stop for the night?” Jay asked when they had left the forest of Selkirk far in the distance. They approached a grove that sat atop a high cliff, giving them an advantage if any of their enemies prowled the night as well. It was where they had rested and gathered their assault the night before they had swept down on Seacairn. From the summit, he thought, they could see the towers of the castle, they were so close.

His men were weary. Though they were close, they should rest for the night.

Still he hesitated, anxious to return.

“For an hour, Arryn, we'll break, and ride again, aye?” Ragnor suggested.

“Aye, we'll rest an hour, and continue.”

But while Jay and Ragnor dismounted, leading their horses toward a small stream for water, he encouraged Pict up the narrow, overgrown trail to the top of the cliff.

Aye, he could see Seacairn. And more.

Fires …

Campfires burning to the far east, in a copse in the forest. Two, three, four of them.

And then he knew.

Darrow was back.

The priest's house was beyond the inner defenses, but within the outer wall. It was a simple place, Kyra thought thankfully, for after she had entered with Patrick on her heels, she somehow had to find what she was searching for without letting him realize that what she longed to do was ransack the priest's belongings.

Corrigan was organized and neat. And he was a priest; his belongings were simple and few.

There were shelves by the table where he took his meals. There was a skin of wine on the table, a plate with freshly dug greens and potatoes, and bread wrapped in linen. The shelf by the table had treasures brought back from the priest's pilgrimage to the Holy Land: Arabian coffee, a few coins, a silver relic, a number of small, blown-glass vials. There were linen bandages, for when he was called upon to help the sick or the injured. There were herbs, essences, potions, and oils.

Pretending to pour wine, she studied the vials and found what she was looking for—poppy-seed extract.

A twinge of guilt tugged at her conscience.

How much to use? She didn't want to kill anyone!

Ah, but then, she didn't want to die herself.

She thought about all that she had read on the uses of poppies, and decided a few drops were all she dared.

She poured wine and brought it to Patrick. “While we're waiting.”

“My lady, thank you. I am not thirsty.”

She stared at him, blinking quickly to avoid showing her frustration. “Drink with me, then, Patrick.
Slainte!
”

“To what do we drink?”

“Scotland!” she said softly.

He lifted the goblet to his lips. She smiled and pretended to drink what she had poured for herself.

“So you would drink to Scotland?” he inquired.

“My mother was Scottish. Seacairn is in Scotland. It's beautiful; it's my home. Of course I would drink to Scotland.”

He smiled, wagging a finger at her. “To King Edward's Scotland—that's the Scotland to which you would drink!”

“Patrick, what if we were to drink to peace?”

“Ah, 'twould be lovely, but a foolish thing, I think!”

He smiled and seemed fine. He had finished the wine. She looked at him. He looked back at her. Nothing.

Then suddenly he slumped forward. She tried to catch him. He was muscled like an oak. The best she could do was break his fall as he slipped down to the ground, his head falling forward. “Patrick!”

She had killed him.

No. He was breathing easily. He even looked up at her for a moment. “Peace! Aye, we'll drink to peace!” he muttered.

His eyes closed again.

She stretched him out on the floor. “I'm sorry, Patrick. Really. You'll have a lovely sleep, though.”

Now … to hurry before Father Corrigan did come back!

She rose quickly and threw open the door to the tiny bedroom that flanked the main room. As she'd hoped, she found one of his ecclesiastical robes, a hooded one. Moving quickly, she tossed aside her own mantle and donned the robe.

She could not leave here weaponless.

At the foot of the narrow bed was the priest's trunk. She opened it quickly. She was surprised at the wickedly long sword she found lying on top of ecclesiastical robes and white linen shirts. There was a sword belt beneath it, with curious designs. She didn't understand them, or their significance, but she needed a way to carry the sword, and so, she dragged it out as well. She dug again until she found a small dagger—perfect. It would fit into the pocket discreetly sewn into the skirt of her overgown.

“Sorry, Father, for borrowing without asking!” she murmured, and, looking at the crucifix over the priest's bed, she hastily crossed herself. “God helps those who help themselves; you told me so!” she whispered.

She left his small bedroom and hurried out. She knelt down beside Patrick once again and assured herself that he was breathing.

Then she stood and hurried out the door, carefully watching for who might be about.

She had to hurry. If they didn't start looking for her soon, they'd look for Patrick. It was almost time for dinner to be served in the main hall.

She could see masons, farmers, and workers ending their day's work, some heading to homes inside the outer walls, some preparing to leave. With the priest's robe covering her form, the hood protecting her face, she slipped around the side of the small house. Father Corrigan's dappled mare was munching hay in her small stall. Kyra saw the horse's bridle, but no saddle. She had no time to saddle the horse anyway, she told herself. She slipped the bridle on the mare and rode quickly out, joining a group of stoneworkers on their way to homes outside the wall. Someone hailed her, assuming her to be the priest. “Good evening, Father.”

She lifted a hand in return.

“Coming out to bless the new bairn, Father?” a man asked. “And a pity his da was one killed in the fightin' here!”

She nodded, praying she wouldn't have to give a real answer.

“ 'Tis a wreck of a war for most of us, eh, Father?” another man said. “We toil all day one way or the other; though, 'tis true, 'tis better to be robbed by one of our own for taxes, than for a foreign prince!”

Something was expected from her. “Aye, my man!” she said, keeping her voice low and raspy. She quickly made the sign of the cross in the air. “Bless you, my sons!” she said, and urged her mare on. She was nearly at the gates.

One of the guards was shouting, calling out to the people. “All in, all out! The gates close for the night!”

She nudged her heels against the mare's flanks. The mare surged forward.

She passed beneath the portcullis.

She was free.

In the end, it had been easy. Far too easy. She was free, thank God, free, and she had to be, for her own survival….

And still, she was afraid.

And her heart felt ridiculously heavy.

They returned by darkness, aware that Darrow would plan his attack for the dawn.

Reaching the gates, Arryn shouted to the guard.

The portcullis was raised; they entered the outer defenses. In the courtyard he leapt from Pict, calling Brendan to take his horse. He called commands to the guards on duty, warning them to keep a close eye on the forest, that it was filled with the English. Men were awakened from their beds; archers were sent to the parapets; oil was set to boil to be cast down upon the invaders who would come. Fires were lit around the walls so that the arrows the bowmen sent down would ignite the oil and, hopefully, put an end to any siege machines as well as the soldiers who manned them.

With the castle set into preparedness, Arryn realized that he had not seen Patrick, and though the man had been ordered to guard Kyra, the commotion should have brought about his appearance by now. Leaving Ragnor in the great hall to continue defense plans, he started up the stairs to the tower. Patrick did not wait outside the door; opening the door, he found the tower room empty. Tension beginning to pound in his temples, he summoned Ingrid, who immediately began to blather that the lady had been with Patrick, that she'd had a disagreement with the priest, that there had a been a row, and she had gone for forgiveness.