Passion's Blood (7 page)

At the prince’s words, Gareth’s eyes opened.

“Prince Emric.” Gareth’s voice was a thin, sickly rattle. “And now it seems I dream even when awake.” He spoke with difficulty through cracked lips that were caked with blood. His limbs were twisted unnaturally, and Emric suspected the wheel.

Gareth was the hero of Emric’s youth, by whose side he had fought many a battle. Now he lay broken and defenseless in the prince’s arms, suffering as no good man should be made to do. A bitter taste rose in Emric’s throat at the thought of his beloved Leanna and her terrible grief were she to see her proud father so ravaged.

“Emric, Emric,” Gareth repeated, his eyes staring dully before him. Suddenly the film seemed to drop away from his gaze and he was alert again. “You? Here? But the savages …” He grew agitated.

“Do not fret,” Emric whispered, unclasping his cloak and draping it over his old friend. “The price was high, but we crushed those dogs. Gallitain is free, and you are again among friends.”

“Gallitain free …” Gareth mimicked, his stare drifting up to the ceiling.

Emric shuddered, wondering if Gareth’s mind would ever recover from his abuses. A soldier handed him a water flask and Emric held it to the older man’s lips.

When Gareth had drunk his fill, Emric prepared to rise. The older man followed his movements and then suddenly reached for Emric’s arm.

“My prince,” he said in a voice as coarse as a millstone. “We were betrayed.”

“Do not worry, Gareth,” Emric reassured him. He gently pried the man’s fingers from his arm. “All is well.”

“No,” Lord Gareth insisted, grabbing Emric’s arm again with surprising strength. “We were betrayed, surprised a mere fortnight after you departed for Brimhall with half the garrison. There was no siege.” His fervor grew.

“They slew us all, even the women and children, but left me as their plaything.” He drew in a long, shuddering breath. “And all by the hand of your brother.”

“What say you?” Emric stared at him incredulously, sure that his pitiable condition had provoked these insane words.

Defying his crippled body, Gareth struggled to sit. He clutched Emric’s breastplate.

“I have the proof of my own eyes and ears,” he burst out. “As I lay chained and under the knife, the Highlander chief cursed us for kin slayers.” His eyes were wide and full of pain.

“He brought a man I knew to be of Prince Bran’s bodyguard before me and ordered him to ride to his master with the news that his plan had borne fruit. ‘Twas worse torture for me to hear those words than any my body endured.” He fell back exhausted, but kept his eyes locked with Emric’s. “Bran brought these walls down as surely as any Highland steel.”

I
t was near midnight when an exhausted Prince Emric galloped into the cobblestoned bailey of Castle Brimhall. Gareth’s news of Bran’s betrayal had filled his heart with anxiety over the king’s safety, and he had ridden like a madman.

Men were shouting after him, descending from their posts and bearing torches, as Emric and his escort thundered past the rising portcullis of the inner courtyard. He reined in hard, vaulting from the saddle as his mount slid to a halt before a growing crowd of assembled watchmen.

“Is the king in his quarters?” he demanded of a nearby sergeant.

“I … I beg Your Highness to accompany me to the hall,” the man stammered hesitantly. Emric realized that he wore the livery of the house of Loriel.

New fears rose within him, and he shoved past the man, making for the great hall, forgetting in his haste even to glance at his beloved Leanna’s balcony.

Within moments, he strode through the heavy oaken doors of the hall, sending the metal-bound portals open with a crash. A group of men were conferring around a map-laden table. The tallest of them stepped forward, his scarlet overcoat partially concealing the gleam of mail. Emric recognized his silver hair and beard at once.

“Duke Loriel.” He stepped forward. “Where is my father?”

“Prince Emric.” Loriel crossed the hall and bowed before him. He stood for a long moment, steeling himself. “My prince, it saddens me to say your beloved father
is dead.” He placed an arm on Emric’s shoulder. “All Wareham grieves at the loss.”

“How?”

“The work of an assassin the very night you marched for Gallitain. None of the murderers have been found, though the Guard still searches.”

The words rippled through Emric like shock waves. This had been the secret heart of his fears made reality ever since Gareth disclosed the traitor in their midst. His father … dead in his own castle. It was insane, and impossible, and a million other things, none of which would change the final, implacable truth. Emric felt sickened.

To keep from retching, he seized on a nagging thought.

“You said ‘murderers.’ Why do you speak as though more than one hand is responsible?”

“I suspect at least two men, my prince,” Loriel replied, “for an attempt was made on Lady Leanna’s life, as well. Her bodyguards were found slain.”

“What?” Emric could scarcely believe it. “Is she safe?”

“We believe so. She fled Brimhall to the safety of Karvoie with your brother.”

“By the saints!” Emric hurled a cup from the table into the fireplace, the wine hissing when it hit the flames. He whirled away, ignoring Loriel’s astonished look. “Did you see them with your own eyes, Loriel?” he demanded when he had checked his fury enough to speak.

“Nay, Your Highness.” Loriel’s tone was cautious. “I but arrived from the coast this very morning. Riders dispatched from Gallitain a few days ago reached me with word of the siege; they had made for Brimhall but could not break through to the interior, so decided to turn southward to my holdings. I marched north immediately, intercepting the king’s messengers on the road and found things as they are now.”

“To whom did the Lady Leanna communicate her desire to flee with Prince Bran?”

“No one, my lord,” said Loriel after a pause. “Prince Bran himself informed the chamberlain. Apparently, she had grown faint from her ordeal.”

Emric rubbed his hands over his face. His exhausted mind was reeling. “Treachery most foul has undone Wareham, Duke Loriel, and her betrayer is none other than
my brother.” In quick, choppy words, he related what Lord Gareth had told him. “My father’s murder was undoubtedly another bloody step in Bran’s plan for dominion. Lady Leanna despised him. She would never have gone willingly with him.”

“What would you have us do?”

“We cannot wait until the rest of your garrison arrives from the coast. My brother does not know that you are here, and I suspect he will try to attack Brimhall, thinking it undefended.

“We must take the battle to him. Assemble what men you have and march toward Karvoie. I venture you will encounter Bran’s army soon enough.”

“We ride together, my prince?”

“No.” Emric shook his head. “I shall take a dozen of our swiftest riders on a different mission. I have seen into my brother’s black heart. With luck, he will deliver himself to me.” With those enigmatic words, he lowered himself into the nearest chair. The fire crackled and Emric allowed its warmth to seep into his tired body.

Loriel took his leave. At the doors of the hall, he turned to face the prince. “The nobles of Wareham will not suffer the rule of a kin slayer, Emric. Such men are cursed by God. It may not be the fate you would have chosen, but the crown is now yours by right. You are king, and Wareham is well served by it.”

He strode from the hall, red coat swirling behind him, leaving Emric alone with the echo of his words.

T
he dark spires of Karvoie loomed in the night. Built into a cliff face at the foot of imposing northern mountains, it was raised over the crumbling remains of a fortress built by conquerors forgotten in the long history of Wareham. Its bastions had withstood many sieges, and judging by the daunting sight of it, Leanna imagined it could withstand a thousand more. Around the walls, the campfires of Bran’s army burned in the night.

Leanna, bound and gagged, had made the journey in a high-sided wagon roofed in canvas. Through a crack in the planks, she had spied the forests surrounding Karvoie. Disease, she recalled, had decimated the north of Wareham years ago and it seemed the land had never fully recovered. What peasants she saw were gaunt and hollow-eyed with famine. They knelt by the roadside, more in fear than tribute. It seemed to her as though she had entered the realm of the dead.

When the wagon came to rest, Bran’s hands reached in and seized her shoulders. “Welcome to your new home.” He laughed as he scooped her up in his powerful arms. His step was light, even cheerful, as he carried her into the fortress.

The yard was bustling with activity: grim-faced men sharpened weapons and shouted at one another while they loaded wagons with supplies. A blacksmith’s hammer rang nearby. Leanna surmised that a vast host was readying to march for war.

Bran carried her down a dark stairway to a cellar where he dropped her unceremoniously onto a bed of damp, dirty straw. Faint threads of light filtered through holes in the ceiling, and moisture ran in rivulets down the stone walls. The indescribable stench threatened to overcome her as Bran roughly unbound the ropes that held her wrists.

“I hope you find these accommodations pleasant, my lady. They are as lavish as we can afford to one of your stature here in Karvoie.” He bent in a mocking bow. “Soon you will again enjoy the splendor of Brimhall …” he paused “… as my queen.” His mouth curved in a lecherous smile.

“I am not ignorant of the fact that you consider me a monster, but think on this.” He leaned down toward her. “Your father is not dead, as you’ve been led to believe. He is the prisoner of my ally, Lorccan, where he will remain as long as it suits my fancy. He is alive, though those savage Highlanders have treated him most barbarously.” He shook his head in mock pity. “When I am king, I could have him brought to Brimhall, if you do your part. You will accept me as you never accepted my brother. I demand not just your submission, but your sincere desire.”

Leanna shrank back against the wall. Bran took her wrist and pulled her closer roughly.

“Your pretty prince is dead by now, and soon all of Wareham will be mine. After a time, you may learn to appreciate a strong hand.”

He released her and left the cellar, slamming the door and drawing the bolt home with a sound that echoed like the sealing of a crypt.

The days passed like a nightmare. The damp foulness of the cellar quickly weakened Leanna, and before long she developed a persistent, racking cough. What food Bran allowed her was meager, and she guarded the stale bread and brackish water from the rats that shared her captivity.

She thought of Emric often, praying for his safety. She had no reason to believe Bran when he claimed Emric was dead, yet Bran had seemed so pleased and sure of himself. But assuming he was lying, the fact remained that no one knew where she was. Would anyone be coming for her? Emric was fighting for his life in the borderlands, her father was captive, and the king dead. She considered escape, but even if she managed to flee the castle, she could never evade the whole of Bran’s army outside the walls.

As weakened in spirit as she was in body, she took to throwing her food to the rodents; starvation was a slow death, but preferable to a lifetime of Bran’s defilement.

‘She fell into despair, sobbing until it seemed her tears were spent. Then, like a ray of morning sunlight, reason filtered through the dark of her anguish. She thought again of Emric and remembered his bravery and strength. He would tell her that yielding her body was not the same as surrendering her spirit. He would wish her to endure and to avenge the evils Bran had committed.

She would be strong, Leanna resolved. She would be cunning. Duplicity and guile would be her shields. And vengeance would one day be hers …

Leanna awoke one morning to a thunderstorm, rain pouring in thin streams from the holes in the ceiling. She had crawled, shivering, into a corner where a measure of dryness remained when the door swung open noisily and Bran descended into the cellar.

He found Leanna on her straw pallet and lifted her roughly to her feet. “How fares your fiery temper today, my lady?”

Only a pleading, submissive gaze greeted him. “This is most unexpected,” he said, lifting her chin with his forefinger. “And delightful.”

Leaning forward, he kissed her. When she offered no resistance, he crushed her to him in a greedy embrace.

He stepped back at last, eyes alive with lust. Leanna looked away from the evidence of his blatant arousal.

“I am well pleased to see that you are as intelligent as you are beautiful. I did not expect you to bow to reason so soon.” He twisted his hand in her hair and pulled her to him.

Leanna did not fight him as he kissed her mouth and throat. She forced herself
to lift her hand and caress his face, urging him to greater passion.

Bran swept her up and placed her on the crude, wooden table that stood in the middle of the cellar. Breath uneven with desire, he seized her breast in a rough caress and tore at her clothes.