Temptress (32 page)

Heart leaping, she pushed against a stone near the scrapes on the floor and ever so slowly a portal opened, a jagged door as no rocks had been cut to create an even entryway.

Bryanna put two candles in her pocket. Then, taking one of the lit tapers from the sconce, she stepped into the dark, musty corridor, determined she would learn how Carrick of Wybren had gotten away with Isa’s murder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

M
orwenna was still pondering the questions, coming up with no answers, staring out the solar window and feeling utterly useless. She rubbed her arms and glanced upward, feeling again as if unseen eyes were silently observing her every move.

A soft rap at the door announced the steward. “So where is everyone?” she asked as Alfrydd brought in his damned ledgers. “And do not talk to me of taxes today, please.” Unpaid taxes were the least of her worries. “I have too many more important matters to consider.”

Alfrydd, forever weary, was decidedly more glum than usual. And argumentative.

“But, m’lady, we have things to discuss and I think it would be best to do so, even though we are grieving, before Sir Ryden arrives.”

She’d forgotten that he would soon be at the gates of Calon, anticipating to be welcomed into the keep. He would expect a feast and . . . oh, no . . . “God in heaven,” she whispered. Before the last spate of tragedies had occurred, she’d planned to tell Ryden that she couldn’t marry him, that a union of their two baronies was out of the question. She’d hoped that he would understand; surely he would want a bride who was attracted to him. “I can’t think of Ryden now,” she said, ignoring the look of reproof in Alfrydd’s eyes. She walked to the window again and gazed outside to the bailey, where soldiers were still searching the grounds. “Where the devil is Alexander?”

“It’s my understanding that Sir Alexander and the sheriff left at dawn to search for the band of cutthroats and thieves that have been operating in the forest not far from Raven’s Crossing. Another man, a farmer, I think, was robbed last night,” he said, bolstering what she’d already heard hours before.

“What of the physician?”

“Nygyll is in town tending to a woman who is having trouble laboring. She’s carrying twins, I’m told, and the midwife who would be in attendance has another woman who is birthing.”

“And Isa can’t help,” Morwenna said with a catch in her voice.

“Aye. The poor babes chose a poor night to try to come into the world.”

He set his ledgers onto the table and reluctantly Morwenna left her spot by the window.

“Why has Father Daniel not returned?” she asked. “Does anyone know where he is?”

“Also in town,” Alfrydd assured her. “Helping the chaplain hear confession and then giving alms to the poor.”

“He’s been gone for hours.”

One side of Alfrydd’s skeletal mouth lifted in a sad, world-weary smile. “There are so many sinners,” he said, opening his book. “Always.”

“I suppose. . . .” Morwenna briefly considered Alfrydd, wondering if he, too, was against her. He seemed such a kind and patient man, one who had never raised his voice, nor mentioned the fact that she was female, but sometimes those who seemed most innocent were the most deadly. Unless one had knowledge and looked closely, it was nearly impossible to tell a poisonous spider from one without venom.

She tapped a finger on the open ledgers. “When we’re done here, send me the scribe. I want to write a letter to Lord Ryden. And one to my brother.”

“As you wish,” he said, and when he glanced up at her, questions in his eyes, she only shook her head and refused to confide in him.

“ ’Tis a private matter.” Already a plan was forming in her mind, a course of action that she would share with no one, for there was no one she could trust. Except for her sister, and to confide in Bryanna was to endanger her.

She spent the next hour trying to listen to Alfrydd’s concerns about thievery within the keep; he seemed convinced that someone was pilfering everything from herbs, sugar, and rice to honey, dates, and even wine. He showed her where the clerk’s inventory didn’t agree with what he’d calculated had been purchased and used.

He was starting in on the delinquent taxes again when she cut him off.

“Another day,” she said. “This one is for mourning.”

“Of course.” He managed a patient, if strained, smile and immediately called for the scribe. After Alfrydd left, she had the scribe write two quick letters, one telling Lord Ryden that she could not possibly marry him, a letter she intended to leave with instructions that should Ryden arrive when she was gone, he should be given the letter. The second one was to her brother, telling him that Isa had been killed and she would like him to send help in the form of soldiers she could trust. She would give the letter for Kelan to Sir Fletcher, one of the men who had ridden with her from Penbrooke, a man who had spent years with her brother. He was one of the few here who, she was certain, would lay down his life for her.

Once the scribe had left, she hurried to her own room. Her plans forming in her mind, she threaded a belt through the back of a leather purse and strapped it around her waist before donning a warm wool mantle with a hood trimmed in black fur. No longer could she sit around and wait. It had been hours since she’d found Isa, longer still since Carrick had left. If she stayed another minute in the keep, she’d lose her mind. Yanking on her boots and with a plan of action propelling her, she dashed down the stairs, surprised that she didn’t trip over Dwynn. He, too, was missing, no longer sitting listening at keyholes.

She wasted no time in seeking out Sir Lylle. She was walking so rapidly she was nearly running, her breath fogging in the cold air. In her hurry she passed groups of peasants and servants gathered in the inner bailey. She nodded to their greetings but didn’t bother listening to their gossip. Let them wag their tongues and spread their rumors; she would no longer let whatever they were talking about concern her.

Following a heavily trodden path to the gatehouse, she splashed through puddles and sank into mud that nearly covered the toes of her boots.

Ignoring a guard’s question about her business, she barely scraped her boots before flying into the gatehouse. Up the stairs she pounded to burst through the door to the captain of the guard’s room.

As expected she found Sir Lylle seated at Sir Alexander’s desk and looking for all the world as if he enjoyed his new command, as if he was already dreaming about someday replacing the current captain of the guard.

At her entrance he stiffened and stood abruptly. “M’lady, what brings you to—”

“Have the soldiers found anything that might tell them who killed Isa?” she demanded.

“Nay.” He shook his head and frowned, his long face lengthening as the corners of his mouth drew downward. “Only impressions upon the mud, runes near the eel pond where they think Isa may have been praying.”

Morwenna’s heart caved at the thought of poor Isa chanting and praying to the Great Mother, tossing herbs into the wind and scratching out runes for protection, for
Morwenna’s
protection, even as she was no doubt seeing her own death. Morwenna wrapped her arms around her waist, her fingers curling into fists, her nails cutting into her palms as she mutely renewed her oath to find Isa’s killer.

“The sentries last night heard her chanting out near the eel pond but thought nothing of it.” The soldier’s eyes beseeched hers. “It was her custom, m’lady. No amount of talking to her would make her stop.”

“I know. I sanctioned her actions,” Morwenna admitted, another jab of guilt jarring her. She’d allowed the old woman to practice her own form of religion despite everyone from the priest to the physician scoffing at Isa’s pagan ways. Father Daniel thought her work to be heresy; Nygyll considered her “hen scratching” and “baying at the moon” as religious nonsense. Even Sir Alexander had tried to dissuade Isa from her practice, but no one could convince her otherwise and Morwenna had seen no harm in letting her pray as she always had.

And it had cost Isa her life.

“Have you found no one who saw anything?” Morwenna asked, refusing to dwell on her mistake. ’Twas time for restitution. “The guards, did they not see anyone near Isa? Not hear her cry out? Not sense something amiss?”

“Nay, Lady, I told you—nothing.”

“What of the baker who may have been up early? Or the priest? Does not Father Daniel sometimes wake long before dawn?” As he shook his head, she felt a deep sense of despair wrap around her heart. She itched to do something,
any
thing to help. “What of the monk in the south tower? Brother Thomas? Has anyone questioned him?”

“He rarely leaves his room.”

“So we think,” she said, “but who really knows what he does, especially at night?”

“Surely you don’t think he killed Isa.” Sir Lylle stared at her as if she’d gone mad.

“No, no! But I think he might have seen or heard something! Did no dog bark suddenly last night? A horse neigh nervously? Dwynn . . . did he not see anyone? He is forever lurking about! Or . . . or . . . or what about a new mother up with her young babe? Does not the master mason’s wife have a colicky babe? She may have been awake and could have heard something amiss, a noise or smell that was out of the ordinary.” She was suddenly angry again, her blood racing through her veins, her own impotence infuriating her. “And where the devil is everyone? Why are they all gone this day? The priest, the physician, the captain of the guard, the sheriff—all gone. Even Dwynn who is forever underfoot seems, despite all our guards, to have vanished!”

A new horrid thought came to her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, having trouble finding her voice. “You . . . you do not think that something has happened to them, that they all have suffered the same terrible fate as poor Isa?”

“Nay, Lady, you’re making too much of this.”

“Am I? I think not. Isa was slain last night, her throat slit in a W from ear to ear, and Carrick escaped. Now most of the people I trust are missing. Something evil is happening here, Sir Lylle; something vile and evil and hungry.” She swallowed hard, noticing that she finally had the soldier’s attention. She leaned over the desk and jabbed a finger at the worn wooden planks. “Someone in this keep knows something about the events of last night, Sir Lylle. We just have to find out who. Now, I suggest we should start with Brother Thomas, the sentries, the mason’s wife, and the baker. Who else is known to rise early—the hunters? The steward . . . aye, Alfrydd is always awake. It seems the man never rests.” She was thinking hard now, pacing in front of the desk and tapping her chin with a forefinger. “And who goes late to bed—the jailor, perhaps?” Her eyes narrowed as she turned and faced Sir Lylle. “Let us question them all again.”

His lips paled and his nostrils flared a bit for he was a proud man and obviously didn’t like his authority questioned. Nonetheless he nodded curtly. “As you wish.” He rounded the table just as the sound of hurried footsteps thundered up the stairs.

“Sir Lylle,” a voice shouted, and seconds later Sir Hywell pushed open the door. With him, being pulled by his arm, was a sullen lad whom Morwenna recognized as Kyrth the stableboy. The boy’s eyes were downcast and hay was stuck to his clothes and cap. “Kyrth, here, knows what happened last night,” Hywell announced triumphantly and then upon seeing Morwenna gave a quick nod. “M’lady.”

“What is it you saw?” Morwenna asked, and the boy, swiping his woolen hat from his head, leaving his hair standing on end, barely looked up.

“I was attacked.”

“Who attacked you?” she asked quickly.

He shook his head. “I know not. ’Twas dark and I was mucking out the stable, didn’t see him, but he had a knife to me neck, right here”—he touched a spot near his Adam’s apple with one grimy finger—“and . . . and he swore he’d cut my throat if I so much as said a word.”

“Tell me everything,” Morwenna said.

Haltingly Kyrth explained how he’d been bound and gagged and left in the stables. He’d been unable to move or cry out and hadn’t been discovered for hours. Whoever had trussed him up and left him had also stolen a horse, a big bay stallion named Rex.

“ ’Tis sorry, I am,” he was saying as another set of footsteps lumbered up the stairs. The stable master appeared in the doorway and upon spying Kyrth swore under his breath.

“ ’Tis your fault we lost a fine steed,” he accused, pointing a gnarly finger at the boy. “Christ Jesus, what were ye thinkin’, or do ye?” Red-faced and tight-lipped, he barely glanced at Morwenna. “I never could trust ye,” he spat, his thick eyebrows slamming together. “How could this have happened? By the Christ, Rex is a fine steed and now he’s been stolen!” He turned his worried eyes to Morwenna, and some of the wind seemed knocked out of his sails, his anger, now that he’d spewed at the boy, spent. “ ’Tis sorry, I am, m’lady.” He plucked his cap from his head as if finally remembering his manners. “This . . . this disgrace should never have happened.” He shook his big head slowly from side to side. “First the man escapes. Then Isa, poor woman, is slain . . . and now this.”

Morwenna’s eyes narrowed at the man’s speech. The sadness in his eyes was contrived. John had never trusted Isa, had often made fun of her ways, and here he was acting as if he mourned a woman he’d muttered was a “heretic, a damned witch,” over a cup of ale. He was just trying to save his position by blaming the boy and pretending to care about a woman he despised.

“We’ll find the horse,” Sir Lylle assured her, his long jaw hardening. “Along with the rider.”

“Good,” she said, though she didn’t believe him for a minute. It seemed everyone in the castle was inept and incompetent.

She’d already decided that it was best not to trust others with her own mission. Though she didn’t voice her mistake, she realized it was she who had refused to listen to Isa’s warnings. She’d allowed the self-proclaimed sorceress to do what she wanted—and that leniency may have cost Isa her life. Morwenna also knew she was the one person within the keep who had given Carrick his chance to escape, she who had insisted he not be jailed, or bound, or returned to Wybren under lock and key.