The Crimson Lady (27 page)

Pulling the shutter closed, she headed back toward the door, pausing to test its strength. It was solid wood, hard and unyielding; it wouldn’t break, even if she was able to drive something sturdy into it. Nay, she would have to think of another way, a means of knocking off the thick bar that confined her inside its cradle.

Her heart pounded with nervous excitement. She set about the task, resolving to gain her freedom from this room while Draven was occupied elsewhere—knowing that if she was successful, she might well be able to escape Chepston Hall altogether.

Braedan kept his sword at the ready as he made his way along the main floor of Draven’s home. The blade bore signs of gore already, having been used in battle against three of Draven’s men as he’d entered the estate; chances were it would be used again, several times, before the day was done. To his misfortune, he’d yet to cross paths with Draven himself, though he’d made sure that the outlaws who’d joined him from both the Coterel and Folville gangs, as well as Will and his men, knew he wanted to be the one to make the final confrontation with him if it was possible.

The attack had gone as planned thus far, but much more needed to be accomplished before Braedan would breathe easier. It was why he was there, prowling
through the keep instead of outside where he could be lending his arm to the outlaw effort.

He had to find Fiona and his brother Richard.

Both of them needed protection from Draven for different reasons, it was true—and though Braedan’s heart burned to see Fiona again, to hold her close and tell her how sorry he was for not believing, he knew that Richard had to be found first. Without him this insurgence might well fail, and then Fiona would be in greater danger than ever. For though Braedan felt confident that he and the other outlaws could take Chepston into their control, in order to finish the deed and see Draven brought to justice for his crimes, he knew he needed to either kill him, or bring the law to Chepston. And while killing him would have been preferable for the satisfaction it would offer, it would be a mistake, he knew, at least if he ever hoped to prove his innocence and get back the life Draven had stolen from him by branding him outlaw.

But bringing the law to Chepston for a hearing on Draven would be no easy task either. The word of a score of outlaws would hold little weight with the authorities. They needed an emissary who was above reproach—someone who would be convincing enough to make the sheriff and his men come and investigate. Richard was the perfect choice. Although he was young, the fact that he was an unsullied member of the de Cantor family went far in his favor, as did his status as Draven’s own ward.

All Braedan had to do was to find him.

He paused at the second to last door in the corridor, examining it. Aye, it looked to be the one he remembered from the brief visit he’d had with Richard before
his own arrest and confinement below. The bar was off the cradle, though, leaving the room’s occupant, if there was one, free to come and go as he pleased. Braedan frowned. Sword hilt gripped firmly in his right hand, Braedan used his left to test the door. It was unlatched, even from the inside, swinging open with a loud creaking sound. Braedan maintained a wary stance and ducked inside.

It was a good thing he’d tread carefully, he realized in the next moment. An arrow whizzed by his head to embed itself in the wall with a
thunk
. Cursing, Braedan dropped to his knees and rolled behind a large piece of furniture that looked like a wardrobe of some kind, wondering what the devil he was going to be able to do with only a sword to keep his bow-wielding assailant from piercing him through.

“Braedan?”

The sound of that voice sent relief spilling through him, but that softer emotion was followed quickly by a burst of irritation. “Damn it, Richard—you nearly killed me with that thing!”

He heard a swishing sound, then a
thump
, and, peering around the corner of the wardrobe, he saw that his lanky younger brother had jumped down from his hiding place inside the drawn curtains of the bed. Richard stood there, looking a little sheepish, though his eyes held the same shadows that Braedan remembered from his brief visit with him right after returning home from Saint-Jean-d’Acre. It made Braedan’s gut clench to see it, the realization that his fifteen-year-old brother seemed more like an angry old man than a carefree youth hitting home with a vengeance.

“Where in hell did you get that crossbow?” Braedan
asked, scowling as he stood from behind the wardrobe and sheathed his sword.

“From him,” Richard answered, jerking his thumb toward a guard who was lying, apparently senseless, on the floor next to the tapestry-covered wall. “He came in a few moments ago. It seems that Draven sent him to fetch me to the main hall for safekeeping.” Shrugging, Richard took a few steps forward, flicking his gaze to the arrow sticking from the wall near the door. “Sorry about the bolt, Braedan; I thought you were another guard. I’m a much better shot with a regular bow, but I’m not allowed to have one inside the keep.”

“How fortunate for me,” Braedan said dryly.

Richard crossed the remaining distance between them, coming to a stop in front of him, and Braedan felt a little shock. His brother was nearly of a height with him now; he must have shot up five inches since their last meeting a few months ago. And his features…by the Rood but he was looking more and more like their sire every day, Braedan thought with a flush of pride.

“Braedan, I…it’s just good to know that you’re still alive,” Richard said quietly, his voice cracking in the way of most lads his age. “I wondered whether or not Draven had really gotten to you. He claimed he had, you know.”

Braedan’s gut twisted, angered at the suffering his brother had already been made to endure at Draven’s hands, and sick about the pain he himself was going to be inflicting when he added to it with the sad news about Elizabeth. It could wait for a bit, though, Braedan decided. It would be better to let him handle the changes a little at a time.

“Our dear uncle has a habit of saying many things that aren’t true,” he answered finally, giving Richard’s
shoulder a squeeze. “But you already know that, better than most, I’d warrant.”

Richard nodded, frowning as he stared at Braedan, as if trying to convince himself he was really there. Braedan held out his arms, then, and Richard fell against him, gripping him tightly as he returned the hug. Any remaining awkwardness between them dissipated, easing to a sense of quiet understanding, and Braedan’s throat closed, aching.

The fact that any strangeness existed between them to begin with was not so much because of their years apart, Braedan knew, as from the unnatural life his brother was leading under Draven’s corrupt control. It was well past time that Richard should have been fostering with a suitable family, and yet Draven had kept him secluded here, learning little other than the debilitating skill of hate. His brother’s treatment was just another example of the cruel injustice Draven had inflicted on their family—and another reason, if any more were needed, of why he had to be stopped for good.

Pulling out of their embrace after a moment, Richard cleared his throat to ask gruffly, “So, is the uproar going on around here your doing, then?” He jerked his head toward the casement and the few shouts and clangs still coming from outside somewhere.

Braedan nodded. “It’s an uprising against Draven. But before we speak of it further, I have to ask you something important. Did Draven bring a woman here earlier today? A beautiful woman, with auburn hair.”

Richard made a scoffing sound. “Draven always brings women here. Scores of them. He’s a lecherous swine.”

“Nay, you must think, Richard. This woman would
have come just today—this morning, wearing a crimson gown. Have you seen anything of her?”

Richard frowned. “He came in with a group of his men while I was breaking my fast in the hall this morning. I only saw them from a distance, but I think he had a woman with him, aye, though I didn’t notice her dress, for the cloak she wore. Why? Is she important to the revolt?”

“She is important to
me
,” Braedan murmured, clenching his hands into fists. “I have to find her and quickly, but I cannot until I have done what I came here to do. I need to ask for your help against Draven, Richard.”

“
My
help?” Richard’s expression showed his surprise. Then he seemed to stand a little straighter, and his jaw took on a resolute line. “Aye, Braedan, you’ve my arm if you need it. Just tell me where you need me in the fray, and I will go, right now.”

“It’s not your arm we’ll be needing, brother, but rather your wits and your speed,” Braedan answered. “In fact, you’re the only man who can complete the task.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to go to London proper and bring back either William de Lier or Thomas Romain. If neither can be found, go to Guildhall itself and use the de Cantor name to gain an audience with Sir John Briton.”

“
What?
Fetch one of the sheriffs or the mayor himself and bring him
here
?” Richard’s mouth fairly gaped. “God almighty, Braedan, you must be daft to want that. If we bring the law into this, you’ll go to Newgate, then on to the scaffold for sure!”

“I don’t think so. Not once they hear what you’re going to tell them about what Draven has been doing and
demand a trial for it. We’ll be waiting here for you, holding him for ransom until you get back with someone with the authority to hear the case and pass judgment. Either that, or he’ll be dead, in which case we’ll need the law anyway, to investigate the events that led us to that end.”

“I suppose it’s a bit late to be asking, but who exactly is the
us
you’re talking about?”

“The other outlaws I brought with me. Men from the Singleton, Folville, and Coterel gangs, all of whom share a common interest in stopping Draven for good.”

Richard let loose a string of low-breathed curses, earning him a sharp look from Braedan. “I can’t believe it,” Richard said, shaking his head in amazement. “An outlaw uprising. All right, then. You’ve convinced me. Tell me how you got into Chepston, and I’ll leave for London the same way.”

“Through the western gate. We secured that first, and it should still be under our control. Just go carefully, and all should be well.”

Richard nodded, but Braedan gripped his arm, stopping him for just a moment more. It was time, unfortunately. It could be put off no longer. “I need to tell you one more thing, Richard. I wish I could spare you it, but it’s something you deserve to know and should use in convincing the law that justice is on our side in this. It concerns Elizabeth—”

“You have news of Elizabeth?” Richard snapped to attention, worry stiffening his entire body as he searched Braedan’s somber gaze. “What’s happened—is something the matter? Has she been struck with the same illness that took her parents?”

“Nay, it’s not that,” Braedan answered, interrupting
the flood of questions he knew was Richard’s way of denying what he could already read in Braedan’s face. “I’m sorry, lad, but the truth of it is that Elizabeth is dead. It happened in the
stewes
. When, I haven’t been able to learn yet, but it seems that it was the result of a difficult childbirth.”

“
Childbirth?
” Richard choked, jerking away from Braedan’s grip, his eyes filling with tears of anger and grief. He remained frozen, pain evident in every tense line of his body. “Ah, damn him to everlasting hell!” he cried out at last, burying his head in his hands to add brokenly, “He killed her, Braedan! Sure as you’re standing there, he did. He forced her into that shameful life, that bastard…”

Braedan rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his own heart heavy at the pain of Elizabeth’s loss; she’d come to his family’s seat at Dandridge House to foster with them before he’d left to fight with the king, and she’d been a sweet child even then. But Richard had known her better, having been raised with her in the same household for years. Braedan had long suspected that his brother cherished a budding tenderness for her; Richard’s stricken reaction now made clear that he’d been right.

“It was a foul and sinful thing Draven did,” Braedan murmured, trying to offer Richard the only comfort he knew of at that moment. “But we have a chance to stop him. Can you rule your grief—will you channel it into a force of resolve and take that chance with me?”

Richard looked up then, the pain in his gaze tearing through Braedan like a knife, and making him grit his teeth. “Draven is responsible for buying and selling countless women like Elizabeth,” Braedan continued,
holding his brother’s gaze, “including the woman he brought here this morn—the woman that I love. And that is all the more reason why we must succeed in this today. Will you do as I bid you, Richard? Will you bring back the law so that we can crush him into oblivion with it?”

Silence hung over the room for several full and aching seconds before Richard seemed able to master his feelings enough to answer hoarsely, “Aye, Braedan, I’ll go.” His jaw clenched, the wounded look in his eyes draining and shifting to cold determination. “I promise you, an entire army of the law will follow me here, once I’ve done telling them my story. Just have the bastard shackled and ready for me when I return with them.”

F
iona dragged the trunk over to the only window she’d yet to try in her attempts to get free of Draven’s room during the past quarter hour—an ornate half arch, higher than the others. Panic and frustration hummed through her, and her rasping breaths edged on hysteria as she scrambled atop the wooden chest, praying that there would be even a small ledge onto which she could climb out. And if there was, that she could find a way to squeeze through the narrow window opening to get to it.

Slipping, she banged her knees on the metal reinforcements at the corner of the trunk, but she swallowed her yelp of pain, concentrating on standing and curling her fingers over the flat edge at the bottom of the window. She went up on her toes, pulling herself up at the same time with her hands, almost enough to peer over the edge to what was below. Just a little more and she’d—

The grating of the bolt was followed quickly by the sound of the door itself being slammed open against the corridor wall. Fiona had twisted around in her precarious position atop the trunk, and now she slipped off, still landing on her feet, but with a force that jarred her teeth. The faint sounds of shouting and clanging weapons filtered into the chamber even as Draven came stalking through the open door, looking disheveled and sweaty, his torn shirt still partly unlaced, and a bloodied sword in his grip.

“Come on,” he muttered at her, grabbing her with his free hand and yanking her against him. He kept her pinned there with his arm clenched tight around her throat as he began pulling her toward the hall. “Since these damned bandits seem so interested in your whereabouts, what do you say we let them have a look at you on our way out, eh?”

Fiona could barely choke out a response, not only because his arm was pressed against her throat, but because the sight that greeted her as they made their way down the corridor and into the main hall shocked her into silence. They burst through the archway and into chaos. It was a war—or at least what she imagined it must feel like to be in the midst of one. Men were fighting all around, swords clashing, grunts and screams echoing through the cavernous chamber, all lit by the golden light of the sun as it began to set, its rays shining through the costly glazed windows that Draven had insisted on putting in two years after she’d first come to Chepston.

Draven dragged her along the outer perimeter of the chamber, keeping their backs to the wall to prevent anyone attacking from behind. His sword was at the ready
in his free hand, should anyone come at him face on, as he pulled her slowly closer to the main door leading to the only stairway that led out of the keep and to the ground one story below. But everyone seemed too occupied with the fighting they were already embroiled in to notice them.

Eyes wide and arms curled up to pull on Draven’s arm so that a little more air could get into her lungs, Fiona stared wildly around, trying to get some sense of what was happening here. Draven’s guards she recognized by their colors, but except for realizing by their motley garments and lack of a standard that the men they fought weren’t a cohesive army of uniformed soldiers, she couldn’t tell who the intruders were.

Until she caught a glimpse of fiery red hair nearer to the door. The man faced away from her as he fought, but in the struggle he shifted positions with his adversary, and her heart leapt with joyful recognition.
Will!
Almost in the same instant her searching gaze lighted on several other familiar faces clustered at this end of the chamber…Clinton, then Rufus and Grady, and two others she knew to be Folvilles.
Good God
, she thought, stunned.
This is the uprising that the outlaws had been planning against Draven back at the settlement.

Suddenly, Draven yanked her harder and growled a command, wanting her to come more quickly, but she resisted; instead, she pulled back against his motion just as hard in her own direction, not caring that it sent waves of pain radiating down her neck and into her spine. She was looking desperately for the one other familiar face she sought among all the combatants…the one man she ached to find there—fighting, it was true, but living and breathing nonetheless—among the others.

But she couldn’t find Braedan. He wasn’t among the outlaw rebels.

And if he wasn’t here, fighting with Will and the others to take Draven for the ransom of a hearing to restore his own good name, it meant that he was unable to fight. That he was dead, killed outside the
stewe
-house at Draven’s command, as she’d suspected all along.

Only then did her resolve desert her, swept away by the waves of grief that had been swelling within her since last night. She slumped in Draven’s grip, not caring anymore what happened to her. Let him lop off her head or trample over her, or toss her into the middle of the fray, for all she cared…none of it mattered anymore. But he didn’t do any of those things. He stopped with a surprised grunt at her sudden heaviness sagging against his arm, pausing long enough to shift his hold on her away from her throat, where the prolonged weight of her body pressing down into his arm would have choked the life from her.

They’d come to a stop when she went limp against Draven, and now she noticed dimly that her action had had another effect as well. The fighting seemed to be lessening, though it continued in front of her as if she was watching it in the midst of a terrifying yet disconnected dream…but some of the men, the outlaws and a few guards who were still standing, began to see them. It helped, of course, that the battle was nearly over from the looks of things. The struggling and clanging of weapons had lessened. From somewhere deep inside she felt a kind of surprised joy; it seemed that the insurgents had claimed the victory.

Suddenly a hue and cry arose, the outlaws taking up the call from one another to warn of Draven’s imminent
escape. The ranks seemed to shift and for an instant confusion reigned as some of the outlaws stayed in the main fighting area to subdue and secure the remaining guards, while the others all converged on her and Draven, where they’d stopped at the front of the great hall, beneath the narrow, railed dais that jutted from the wall just above their heads—the place Draven had always favored during feasting for his table of honor, thanks to the elevation it gave him over his guests.

How ironic for him, Fiona thought darkly, that instead of being safely up there as was his custom, he was today being forced to mingle with his hot-eyed and bloody guests, who were even now approaching him with their gory blades upraised.

Suddenly, she stiffened, instinct drawing the reaction from her as he yanked her back squarely against him to lift the edge of his sword with a quick, smooth motion to her throat.

“You will all back away from us and let us pass from this chamber, or the woman will die,” Draven called, forcing her to lift her chin to avoid being cut by the blade he jerked harder into her to emphasize the statement.

Will stood, chest heaving, near the front of the pack that was clustering before them, and she saw fear flare in his eyes. But in the next instant his expression went utterly calm, his gaze flicking for an instant above her.

“Nay, Draven,” he called out, stepping forward, switching his sword to his other hand in order to pull a dagger from his boot. He straightened again. “It is
you
who will be the one doin’ somethin’ for
us
. Let her go now before you end up havin’ another crime to answer to us for. You’ve enough on your head already.”

Draven laughed, the sound echoing through Fiona’s
ears with the same tenor of utter control he’d seemed to wield over her for most of her life. “Do you honestly think that I would obey the commands of a ruffian like you, Singleton? I’ve been lenient with you thus far in pursuing and punishing you for your roadside crimes. It is something I’ll be remedying in future if you don’t order your men to step down now.”

“That I cannot do, Draven, even if I was fool enough to want to. You see, they’re not all my men,” Will answered, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Aye, some of them are mine,” Clinton Folville growled, stepping from the crowd to stand next to Will.

“And the rest are mine,” rasped a pock-faced and angry-looking bear of a man, who elbowed his way forward to stand with Clint and Will. Fiona felt Draven’s arm spasm against her belly, his other hand twitching just enough to shift the edge of the blade against her throat. It was all that prevented her from gasping as she recognized the third man to be Eustace Coterel, the leader of a gang of outlaws more feared than any others in these parts for their vicious barbarity, especially when dealing with noblemen they held for ransom.

Will shook his head, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “I don’t claim to be a font o’ learnin’, Draven, but I’d say it looks like you’ve managed to make enemies of one too many outlaws in your day.” He nodded to Fiona, adding, “Now why don’t you let her go, and we can discuss our terms like reasonable men.”

“Our terms?” Draven echoed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You must be jesting. The only terms I’ll be making are my own—which is for you to back away or witness your sister being slaughtered in front of your eyes.”

As he was talking, Fiona kept watching Will, noticing how his gaze lifted to just above her several times, the last time, just then, accompanied by a slight nod of his head. Draven continued, seemingly oblivious to it, looking around the group of outlaws to prevent anyone from getting a jump on him. “Giselle is a delectable bit of skirt, I’ll admit, and I’ve enjoyed her fully on many occasions, but there are many others like her who are less trouble with whom I can sate myself.”

“Like Elizabeth, you bastard?” a voice above them called flatly. It sent a jolt of disbelieving joy through Fiona almost at the same instant that she saw Will fling his dagger at Draven’s foot. Then a crashing weight fell into them from above. Draven’s grip had loosened on her when Will’s blade bit deep, his shout of pain rocking through her; but with the impact she suddenly felt herself being yanked away from his grasp by a pair of strong hands. There was a confusion of shouts and scuffling for an instant until she regained her balance and found herself supported in Will’s embrace, but she twisted her head frantically to see who had knocked Draven to the floor.

The man rolled to standing at the same time that Draven managed to get up on one knee, both of them reaching to scoop up their swords from a half crouch before coming at each other with growls of rage.
Braedan!
her heart cried out, her hand flying to her mouth. Oh, God it was Braedan—he was alive! She watched him, fear threading through her joy as he and Draven clashed again and again, their swords locked against one another.

But before long Draven stumbled on his injured foot; he fell hard into Braedan, making them both tumble to the floor again, though it was Braedan who managed to
roll to the top; Draven’s blade went spinning from his grip, and Fiona saw Braedan pull his fist back to land two punishing blows to his uncle’s jaw before lifting his sword and raising it, point down, above Draven’s throat. “This is for Elizabeth,” she heard him rasp, “and for Fiona and all the women you’ve tainted with your filthy touch!”

“Go ahead, de Cantor,” Draven gasped in reply, sneering. “It won’t change the fact that one of your beloved whores is dead while the other cast you off to return to me. Just remember that when you’re about to hang from the gibbet for murdering a peer of the realm!”

“Your lies have no more power here, Draven. Fiona did what she thought she had to in order to spare me,” Braedan grated, his chest heaving and the point of his blade still digging into Draven’s throat. “I know that now, though I was too blind to see it before.” He paused, clearly waging some kind of battle within himself before he shook his head, easing back the pressure on his weapon against Draven’s neck. “And though I’d relish nothing as much at this moment as sending you straight to the hell you’ve earned, I love her too much to throw away whatever chance we may have together by killing you now. The law can be brought in full against you with the same result in the end. You’re not worth more.”

As he spoke the last part, he lifted his sword from Draven’s throat, keeping it at the ready as he grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. “Here,” he said to Will, shoving Draven in his direction. “Bind him and secure him somewhere until the authorities arrive. I’ve sent a messenger to get them, and they should be here soon.”

“The authorities?” Draven echoed, before letting go a rusty laugh. “How delicious. Aye, I’m sure they’ll race right over at your bidding. Outlaws command such influence over government officials these days.”

Braedan refused to answer, so Draven continued taunting him, looking utterly undefeated, Fiona noticed with a shudder, even standing bruised and bloodied as he was in front of them all.

“You’re a fool, de Cantor,” he mocked. Will yanked Draven’s arms behind his back to begin tying his wrists with a piece of rope, but it hardly slowed him down. “The only thing your fugitive messenger will get for his pains is a pair of irons clapped on his legs and a lengthy stay in Newgate.”

The other outlaws had begun to mill around restlessly at Draven’s threats, but Braedan simply sheathed his sword, continuing to ignore him in favor of turning to Fiona at long last. She met his gaze, her tawny eyes moist with happiness, and he smiled back at her, the world seeming to narrow down only to her as he walked closer. With a little cry, she ran the rest of the way to him, throwing herself into his embrace, and he held her close, more thankful to have her safe in his arms again than he’d ever been about anything in his life.

“How did you learn the truth about what had happened?” she asked softly, pulling away enough to look up into his face.

“It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow before pulling her close again. “I never should have doubted you at all.”

Will muttered something to Draven, and he and Rufus began to pull the bound man from the chamber, but before they’d gone five paces, Draven twisted in their
grip, calling out to the room at large, “You should know that I dispatched several of my own men to the authorities when this all began. One of London’s sheriffs will most assuredly be arriving soon, as de Cantor promised, but with far different results than he claimed. All of you will be facing charges, not me. His messenger is already warming a prison cell, you can warrant—which is where each of you will end as well if you don’t give over this ridiculous plot of yours and release me immediately!”