Temptress (27 page)

She had already threatened to send him to Wybren, and he had little doubt she would go through with her intentions. Despite what they had shared together tonight, he sensed a part of her would be relieved not to have to deal with him any longer.

He watched her for an instant, saw the way her lips parted with her deep, soft breathing, noticed the way her eyelashes swept across the top of her cheek. Something deep inside him knotted, and when she sighed and rolled over, nestling deeper into the covers, he nearly changed his mind and slipped between the linens to lie with her again.

He could not.

He had to escape.

To find out the truth about his past on his own.

His features hardened in the dim light. He planned to go to Wybren, aye, but not under guard, not with his hands bound while the horse he was astride was led through the yawning gates of the castle for all to see, not to be assured of facing the gallows or a dungeon. He would go his own way.

Without a sound he walked to the hidden door, found the latch and, as the portal opened, snagged one of the rushlights, and then crept through the opening. He closed it securely behind him and, using the scratches he’d etched into the stones near the floor as his guide, found his way to the mound of clothes he’d stolen. Quickly he donned the uniform, and though it was a bit too tight across the shoulders, he felt he could, if darkness prevailed a little longer, be able to escape.

As long as Morwenna slept.

Still thinking of her, he carried the boots so as to make no sound and maneuvered through the maze toward the doorway near the chapel. From there he would, when the guards were changing, hurry to the stable and hide until he found a moment when he could steal a horse. He would probably have to attack the stable master or convince a dull-witted stableboy that he was a mercenary recently hired by Sir Alexander, but he was confident that one way or another, he would be able to procure a steed.

Once he did, he would ride like a demon to Wybren.

To face Lord Graydynn as a free man.

And to finally know the truth.

 

Tonight would be the night, Isa knew, as she chanted prayers to the mother goddess and scratched a rune upon the mud near the eel pond. Faint moonlight cast the night in an eerie silver glow and she sensed that, somewhere within the keep, evil was moving, prowling about in the darkness.

“Keep them safe, Mother,” she chanted as she dug her stick deep into the thick soil and scattered her herbs and bark—ash, Saint-John’s-wort and rowan—upon her drawing. “For protection, Morrigu,” she prayed. “Keep them safe. If I am to be taken, please, please be with the lady. Protect her and her family.” She had intoned the same request over and over, and now, with the coming dawn, Isa realized these prayers would be her last.

Slowly she stood, her old knees creaking, fear squeezing her heart. She’d hoped she would be braver when she faced death, relieved to cross from this world to the next, but she was frightened. It was too early. She had so much to do. So much. She looked down at her hands, gnarled as they were, the knuckles swollen and oftentimes painful; as a young woman, her fingers had been supple and strong.

She should accept her own death, trust in the fates that had plotted her destiny, and yet she could not. As a raven called in the darkness, she took a step closer to the pond and stared into the deep water. So still. So dark. Only a hint of moonlight added a tiny sheen to the pond’s surface.

But she took another step forward and stared into the silent waters.

Her own reflection gazed up at her and there was fear in her eyes. Knowledge. Worse yet, she was not alone, and though there was no breath of wind, the water seemed to stir, to swirl as behind her image arose a shimmering red dragon and atop his back was Arawn, god of the underworld, a hideous smile slicing his face.

Her old heart clutched painfully. She spun to face the beast, but of course no one was behind her; the red dragon and his master of death were invisible.

She quivered, her every sense heightened, her eyes searching the darkness as she sent up another tremulous prayer, this one to Morgan le Fay, not for her safety but for death to he who would try to kill her. “Please,” she whispered, “goddess of death, come from Glamorgan, hear my plea, cast a curse upon the evil one!”

But it was too late. Already the lots of fate had been cast. Her vision could not be changed.

Be not afraid,
she told herself.
Death comes to us all.
And yet wrapping her cloak more tightly around her body, she felt despair as cold as all of winter.

There was no cheating death. When it came, she’d always told herself, she would surrender peacefully, go eagerly through the portal to the other side. But now, facing death’s certainty, she wanted to run, to hide, to remain here in this earthly life.

Old joints aching, she started for her room. Inside, she would light candles, burn herbs and bark, tie strings for safety, and, lastly, arm herself with a weapon. Though Arawn himself could not be slain, whoever he sent as his messenger would, no doubt, be mortal. And evil. She sensed it, felt it in the still, frigid air.

Bustling up the path through the garden, she thought of the bone-handled knife her mother had left her, the one with a blade sharp enough to slice an eel from the tip of his head to his wriggling tail with one quick cut. Even so, she would hone the blade tonight, make certain it was sharp.

A cloud slid over the moon.

Isa’s arms prickled with bumps.

The night grew dark as obsidian.

Isa felt a tremor. Either within her or from without, she knew not, but there was a shifting.

She raced faster, her old feet slipping on the flat stones. She was near the chapel now, and then it was but a sprint through the chapel garden to the doorway. Only a few more steps!
Run, Isa. Make these old legs move faster!

Her lungs burned as she dragged cold air into them, but she was close now. Through the garden gate to the path leading toward the great hall. Surely the guard would see her . . . but there was no guard at the doorway, no sentry.

Something was amiss! ’Twas too early for the changing of the guard and Sir Cowan would never abandon his post.

To one side, she saw a figure approach and she sighed a breath of relief. The guard had just stepped away from the door, probably to stretch his legs.

“Oh, Sir Cowan, you gave me a fright,” she said, gulping in deep breaths of air.

Too late, as the clouds shifted again and a bit of moonlight filtered through, did she realize that the man was not Sir Cowan. He was but a farmer, wearing the garb of a peasant . . . or was he? Nay . . .

He was on her in an instant!

Before she could scream, he leapt, one gloved hand pressed hard over her mouth, his other arm fast around her waist.

She had not escaped.

Arawn had come for her in the guise of someone she knew.

Fear drove deep into her soul.

She struggled, flailing and kicking, but was no match for his strength. Steely muscles dragged her backward again through the gate as she clawed and squirmed to no avail.

Once in the shadows of the chapel, his sweat and foul breath a stench as vile as Pwyll’s piss, he drove her to the ground.

Bam! Her chin smashed against the rocks and for a blinding instant a flash of light exploded behind her eyes.

Morrigu, help me.
She thought of trying to scream, to move, to somehow slither away from this beast. She tried to bite his hand, but all she got for her trouble was the taste of dry old leather. His body weight held her down. Breathing hard, he shifted, no doubt to find his weapon.

He rolled something in front of her face and she saw the glint of metal, a ring. Her heart sank. Carrick of Wybren’s ring. This monster must be the very same vile beast who had butchered Sir Vernon. She struggled harder, all her muscles working together, her arthritis forgotten, her body soaked in sweat with the effort, her mind screaming to fight him off. Valiantly she attempted to buck him off her back, but it was no use. He was strong. And determined.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of steel.

His knife.

’Twould be over soon.

The knife plunged downward.

There was no escape.

No denying death.

Tonight, she knew, Arawn would take his due.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

C
arrick?
Why did the name still bother him? Still cause his stomach to curdle a bit? He hid behind the gong farmer’s smelly cart and waited for just the right moment. Every nerve ending stretched tight, every muscle ready to spring, he crouched deep in the shadows.

Everyone here at Calon, from the sheriff to the kitchen maids, assumed he was the murderous bastard. People who had met Carrick long before the accident, aye, before the fire, recognized him as the murderous bastard. Morwenna believed him to be Carrick of Wybren, and he’d been wearing a ring with the castle’s crest upon it.

Even he himself had accepted the name of Carrick as his own.

But it didn’t feel right. It chafed and itched and caused him to cringe each time he heard it, as if he, as much as anyone else, despised the man he was supposed to be.

Mayhap it’s because you nearly died. Once faced with your own mortality,
Carrick
, you changed your ways.

He nearly snorted at the absurdity of the thought but caught himself as he heard footsteps in the garrison, the sound of soldiers ready to change positions.

His lips twisted wryly at that thought. One thing he was certain of—he’d not been a religious man before the attack, nor had he been especially just and good. No saint was he, but though he’d sinned, he found it impossible to believe himself capable of murdering his family.

Whatever the case, he was determined to uncover the truth and he was certain that truth lay in the fortress that was Wybren. He’d be damned if he was going to carry the name around with him if it wasn’t his.

Well, soon he’d find out. ’Twas nearly time to leave Calon for Wybren.

Gray light rose in the east, sending feeble shafts to pierce the fog as it crept through the bailey, wrapping around the huts and walls, settling over the ponds and sluices, rising in thin fingers toward the heavens.

To him it was a gift, a gossamer cloak that would help him slip through the gates.

Within the mist he heard the changing of the guard and saw the soldiers, like shadows, moving about, taking the time to speak to each other.

With a grinding of ancient gears the portcullis was slowly raised, the gates creaking open. The huntsmen, already astride their mounts, disappeared into the fog.

Now was the time.

Knife in hand, cowl hiding his features, he slid silently through the shadows, slipped into the open stable door, and found a solitary boy raking out the stalls. Whistling to himself, his rake scraping while the horses in the surrounding stalls snorted, the lad was busy with his work, unaware anyone else was inside.

His fingers tightened over the knife’s hilt. ’Twould be a simple matter to vault over the rail, plunge his knife into the youth’s neck, and kill him swiftly.

But it seemed such a waste. Quickly he glanced around and spied several ropes coiled and hanging upon the wall. He grabbed one; then, with the scent of horse dung and piss filling his nostrils, he put one hand on the top rail, sprang into the stall, and grabbed the boy from behind in one swift instant.

A horse whinnied nervously.

The stableboy tried to scream and kick before he felt the blade at his throat. “Be quiet and you’ll survive!” he hissed as several horses in nearby boxes stomped and snorted, tossing their heads. “But scream or make one move against me, and I swear I’ll slit your throat.”

The boy complied. Crumpled in his arms. Wet himself.

Using the rope, he bound the boy’s wrists and ankles and then ripped off a sleeve of his tunic and used it for a gag. Once the stableboy was properly trussed, he hauled him to a far corner of the stable, behind bags filled with grain. He tied his feet and hands to a post.

“Do not move until I’m gone,” he warned, though it would be nearly impossible for the boy to work himself free or kick or hit anything to attract attention. He would be found only when someone came looking for a missing stableboy.

Once the boy was no hindrance, he searched through the horses tethered in the building and found a barrel-chested bay with sturdy legs and a wild eye. Not only did the animal appear strong and swift, but the steed would also blend into the forest much better than the gray or white animals he noticed. Ears straining to hear anything out of the ordinary—a footstep or cough—announcing another worker’s arrival, he located a bridle and saddle that would suffice.

There was not a peep from the dark corner where the lad was tied.

Good.

He heard over the rustle of straw in the stables the sound of a dog’s bark and the movement of sentries as they walked along the walls of the castle, but otherwise the early morn was quiet.

Within minutes he’d saddled and bridled the bay and, before dawn had completely broken, led the horse outside.

As expected, the guard was still in the process of changing and the gate to the keep was opened wide. A few farmers’ carts pulled by mules and oxen and laden with goods were already slowly rolling into the bailey. Three more hunters rode out of the bailey, raising their arms to the sentry as they passed under the yawning portcullis.