Memories of the Heart (22 page)

Uncomfortably aware of his lacks, Tom shrugged yet attempted to describe the one he'd observed. “The man was as different from Sir Ulrich as two people can be—tall and gaunt and…”

In acknowledgment of Thomas's vivid word picture, Tal's wry half-smile appeared.

Tom recognized his lord's response as a hopeful sign that all was not lost by his inability to overhear a conversation and immediately asked, “Do you know who that man is?”

“The one long suspected, Ulrich's brother Simeon.” Tal felt his squire had earned the right to know this name.

A beaming Tom nodded, honored by this demonstration of his lord's trust.

“Did you hear
anything
that was said?” Tal asked this most important question.

Tom ruefully shook his head but valiantly confessed this lack, too. “Once the second man—Simeon—arrived, he led Sir Ulrich in retreating from the deluge to the far side of the tor where they ducked under the protection of an oak's thick-leafed boughs.”

“Then you heard nothing.” Tal absently restated the boy's answer with no expectation of a response.

Again Tom shook his head. “In the brief moments before they moved to the glade's far side I caught only the word
celebration.
” He steadily met the earl's penetrating gaze while adding, “After that they were so far distant that I would've had to cross the open ground surrounding the tor, likely betraying my presence.”

*   *   *

Ceri entered the family chapel, pausing to admire the recently finished work in a new layer of paint lending revived life to panels depicting biblical scenes. She'd been sent to deliver neatly folded squares of fine linen destined for use at the mass following betrothal rites scheduled to be performed in a rapidly dwindling two days' time.

As Ceri placed stacks of white cloth on one side of the altar, the weak light of a cloudy afternoon fell through the narrow arrow slit to gleam over highly polished candlestick and platters. At the same time Edith knelt nearby in earnest prayer—doubtless beseeching God to save her from a commitment she was loath to vow. Ceridwen, too, had hoped Lord Taliesan would've more hastily intervened. The thought of Tal stung Ceri with a reminder of her unplanned and likely unwelcome confession of love.

Ceri hadn't spoken with Tal since abruptly departing his chamber the past day but whenever they'd shared the same room she had felt the touch of his gaze. But was Taliesan's near constant attention meant as a further accusation of treachery? Or did he intend to wordlessly caution her that the feelings she'd openly declared were not only unreciprocated but inappropriate coming from a common Welshwoman?

“Ah, a servant—” Irritation gave Blanche's words the rough surface of a rasp. “At last.”

Startled, Ceri turned toward the speaker framed in an open door while Edith remained focused on her silent pleas for divine intervention.

“The vile pain in my head has returned. Thus I would that you immediately go to the wellhouse, draw a bucket of cool water. Bring to me an ewer filled with that liquid and a remnant of cloth to use in bathing the ache from my brow.”

Blanche gave a pained and completely insincere smile while pressing fingertips to the abused area. Turning without further words, she retreated to the bedchamber ungraciously shared with an ever-praying child.

Ceri knew herself almost certainly the only servant on this level at present and found nothing unusual in Lady Blanche's command. Although she didn't obey with gladness in her heart, she did promptly move down the steep, stone stairway, passed through the dark tunnel to castle entrance, and descended exterior wooden steps to the courtyard.

On finally entering the gloomy wellhouse, Ceri bent to reach for the nearest wooden bucket just as a powerful arm grabbed her from behind. Her mouth opened on a scream only to have the center knot of a crude cloth gag stuffed deep inside before its ends were tied tightly behind her head. Still she struggled wildly—until a firm blow to her temple rendered her senseless.

A short time later little heed was paid when two seeming serfs threw yet another bulging homespun bag into the back of a crude cart. It joined others filled with the kind of kitchen refuse weekly given as alms for the poor. Whichever servants the church sent to perform this task were rarely questioned as they drove their oxen-drawn cart beyond bailey walls.

*   *   *

At near that same instant Tal led a small contingent of warriors on their daily patrol over a path deep in the dense forest bordering Bendale. Though he'd limited the number assigned to accompany him, those riding behind were all trusted and deeply aware that the last attack on their lord had been made along this route. Still this monotonous journey beneath a heavily overcast sky was made in near silence and more than one of the guardsmen atop well-trained destriers had to fight sleep.

Suddenly, the peace was shattered by a hail of arrows launched from the Bendale side to whiz past Westbourne's guardsmen. No guardsman wasted a moment's attention on the remarkable inaccuracy of their archers' aim. Rather, erstwhile prey instantly turned their destriers to madly race into the shadows toward the assault's source.

As Tal rode between towering, close-grown trees, something fell from above, knocking him from the saddle to land hard in the midst of a thicket of dense brush. Before he could shake disorienting mists from his mind or clear blurred vision, a homespun sack was dropped over his head. It was firmly secured about his throat with a rope then pulled down to bind wrists behind his back and fasten joined ankles to shackled wrists.

Thus blinded, trussed, and hobbled, Tal could hear his men crashing through the woodland, moving ever farther away while yelling curses and threats at anonymous foes. Even as that noise faded into the distance he was roughly tossed into the back of what he realized must be a small, empty wagon.

Taliesan's initial protests and calls for aid had been to no avail, and he soon acknowledged the unfortunate truth that as his guardsmen raced in one direction the wagon carrying him rolled away in another. Plainly help was far beyond the reach of his voice.

*   *   *

In the family solar, Angwen and her two lady guests sat in a morose silence brought on by recently arrived news of an attempted assault and the abduction of Lord Taliesan.

“The betrothal is set for the day beyond tomorrow.…” Edith tentatively voiced her foremost worry. Not only would her father be upset that she hadn't written to inform him of Lady Blanche's arrival but the tangle this abduction of Lord Tal would make of his plans was certain to infuriate him.

“What if Lord Taliesan still isn't here when my father…?” Again Edith's words trailed into nervous silence.

Behind a feigned expression of concern, Blanche hid her delight with this gaping stumble-hole in the once smooth path of an unworthy bride-to-be.

After an uncomfortable pause Angwen stated flatly, “The betrothal will have to be postponed.”

With this implacable announcement, Angwen gave Edith such a stern glare that the girl daren't so much as hint that her father might consider the action an insult. Blanche was not so easily stifled.

“How will you explain the need for such a surely unwelcome alteration in plans?” Blanche tamed her scoffing tone to faint skepticism.

Angwen's mouth snapped closed and compressed into a single harsh line. Lord James was an irascible man, difficult to negotiate with under any circumstances and so close to a goal long planned doubtless near impossible to reason with now.

“An illness,” Angwen quietly mused aloud. “Aye, I think it would be best to claim an illness shared by both the bride and me. We will state that although the ailment hasn't yet proven life-threatening, it sorely saps strength and—most dangerous—might well spread to unwary visitors.”

The three women present recognized the latter phrase as the most likely to secure success in their goal of postponing planned rites. Few would willingly expose anyone, least of all themselves, to an unknown and possibly deadly plague.

Once Lady Angwen's personal scribe was summoned a formal message was soon composed and ready to be dispatched. Along with Lady Angwen's letter, Edith begged leave to send a smaller note which she wrote herself. Edith directed the servant carrying these missives to Farleith Keep to place the one she'd prepared only into the hand of her twin brother, Eldon.

*   *   *

Violently jostled against the crudely hewn boards forming the cart's floor, to Tal it seemed hours passed in extreme discomfort what with bound ankles and wrists tied together behind his back.

Tal had nearly given up on being rescued when of a sudden he heard blades clashing, groans of exertion, yelps of pain, and harsh curses—all apparent proof of a battle being waged in earnest. Had his guardsmen overtaken the wretches who'd captured him?

Although to Tal the battle was endless, in reality its fury was soon followed by the thunder of retreating hooves and the victorious shouts issuing from those in pursuit.

“Lord Taliesan—” With these words the bag sewn of thick homespun which had effectively blinded Tal was abruptly jerked from his head. “How could … how
did
this happen to you?”

Tal studied the expression of disgust on Lord Morton of Bendale's face and couldn't help but wonder if this man was as thoroughly accomplished at feigning false emotions as was his sister.

“What happened to your guardsmen that you've been so poorly used?” Morton went on to wryly ask as he cut rope restraints with a sharp dagger and freed his rescued captive.

Ignoring the tinge of scorn in the mention of guardsmen, Tal responded to Bendale's initial question while briskly rubbing feeling to return in wrists and ankles.

“Unfortunately, by their sudden assault and strange tactics, I was prevented from seeing anything of my captors.” Penetrating dark eyes bored directly into the weak lord of Bendale. “But surely you, during your recent struggle with them, saw my foes clearly?”

“There were a number involved—most of no particular distinction.” As Morton shrugged, pale and rapidly thinning hair brushed narrow shoulders. “Only one stood out from the rest and he for being so strong despite the considerable grey in even the curls of his otherwise dark beard.”

“I assume your men are still chasing the culprits?” Tal asked as he leaped down from the rickety wagon. On receiving the other's prompt nod, he added, “Trusting you and yours to do that task, I must return to Castle Westbourne and reassure my people of their lord's continuing health.”

“A wise choice,” Morton immediately agreed, inwardly pleased with this unintentional but fine setup for a delivery planned for later—the arrival of a supposed feminine culprit's lifeless form. “Might I journey with you? I wish to seek a few words alone with my sister.”

“Come and be welcome in my home,” Taliesan graciously invited an instant before turning toward forest shadows and giving a distinctive pattern of whistles. Obviously trained to follow his master, a massive black destrier leaped through thick vegetation to reach Tal's side. Once both men were ahorse, they set off for a mighty stone fortress.

As cloudy daylight settled into the gloomier hues of dusk, Westbourne's great hall was unnaturally still although the evening meal was being served. Their lord had been abducted, taken from the midst of his own warriors—a shame to them all. Now with the garrison divided into rotating bands there would be a continuous search throughout the night and following day, on and on until Lord Taliesan was safe again at their high table's center.

Ceridwen's absence had also been noticed, but no one looked for her, the witch who, even if not responsible for crimes against Tal, was believed best gone.

The chamber was so quiet that when heavy boots began traversing the entrance tunnel the echoing noise of their tread caught everyone's attention.

Tal led the way through the arched doorway, and such a mighty cheer rose that it shook the sturdy oak rafters above. His return was heartily welcomed and marred only by the disconcerting fact that he was not escorted by members of his own garrison. Apparently they were yet vainly searching for him while instead an unexpected band of warriors from Bendale swaggered behind.

“Brother,” Lady Blanche called out once the loud welcome settled into a gentler, steady din. “I'm pleased to see you … but what brings you to Westbourne?”

Morton, slight and as fair-haired as his sister though with a much weaker chin, moved several paces beyond the central hearth which lay between two long lines of lower trestle tables. From there he gazed up into the faces of three ladies seated on the dais. “I found its lord trussed and guarded by blackguards needful of a lesson in respect for their master.”

“Who?” Lady Angwen instantly demanded. “Who was responsible for the violence in stealing Taliesan away from his own guardsmen?”

Morton gave a faint shrug. “I don't know their names, but I believe your son recognized my description of their leader.”

Angwen's gaze shifted her son, but it was the lord of Bendale from whom she requested more. “Tell me, what did the vile toad look like?”

Beneath his mother's attention Tal remained silent, curious to hear either greater sincerity or clear proof of a lie in Bendale's repeated tale.

Morton used the same words as he earlier had to create the image of a man older but very strong and with grey liberally highlighting the dark curls of his hair and beard. While speaking Morton could see his sister trying to stifle a satisfied smile.

“Lloyd … the escaped prisoner … the Welshman.…” These words were either whispered in disgust or harshly muttered by many voices until it seemed a continuously repeating litany ever growing in power and didn't end until Morton spoke again.

“There were others of no particular note but I did see one with a very slight, perhaps feminine, build and a most distinctive feature—strange green eyes shot through with glittering silver.”