“Why is it you hate Carrick so much?” Bryanna asked as she pretended to embroider. She tugged impatiently upon the thread. It was evening, the fires burning bright, and Isa felt it then, the evil that lurked within this castle.
’Twas as if the walls themselves had eyes.
“He broke your sister’s heart.” They were seated in Bryanna’s room. Isa warmed her old back against the blaze of the logs in the grate. It seemed that with each winter the aches in her joints worsened. She rubbed her hands together and noticed how her knuckles had grown over the past few years.
Bryanna lifted a shoulder and, frowning at her work, pulled at the knotted thread, then muttered something unkind under her breath. “It happens often, does it not, a heart being broken?”
“Aye, but not with Morwenna.” Isa knew of Morwenna’s unborn babe, of course, though Isa had never revealed it to anyone, including Morwenna. For the loss of that little one, Isa would never forgive Carrick. Nor would she ever reveal that he’d left Morwenna for Alena of Heath, the woman who had married his brother Theron; Alena, the sister to Lord Ryden, to whom Morwenna was now promised. Oh, ’twas an impossible knot. As bad as Bryanna’s pathetic attempts at embroidery. On top of all this mess, there were the ever-present rumors that Carrick had murdered his family as they’d slept.
“You know more than you’re willing to say.”
“About a lot of things,” Isa admitted. “We all have our secrets.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“You ask too many questions.”
Bryanna snorted but didn’t disagree. “There’s talk of sending him back to Wybren.”
Isa nodded; she’d heard the same rumor. In Isa’s opinion, returning Carrick to Wybren was too good for the beast. “Your sister told you this?”
“Nay, it was Fyrnne. Oh!” Bryanna looked up sharply, her round eyes pleading. “Please do not rebuke her. I overheard her speaking with Gladdys as they carried the laundry downstairs, and they said Sir Alexander wants Morwenna to send a messenger to Graydynn of Wybren about Carrick,” Bryanna explained, her words coming out in a rush, tumbling over each other. “Of course Lord Graydynn will demand that the traitor be returned.”
“Of course,” Isa agreed. She’d already thought the same. Good. The sooner that Carrick was out of the keep, the better for everyone. Especially Morwenna. “Still, the serving girls shouldn’t gossip.”
Bryanna nodded but grinned, one dark eyebrow arching sagely. “No one should, Isa. But we all do; that’s the fun of it. ’Tis a woman’s nature and, I suppose, a man’s as well.” She glanced down at her embroidery hoop and sighed at her limited progress. “This is hopeless.” Angrily she clipped the thread with her teeth, then tossed the hoop onto her bed, where she ignored it. Leaning forward, her eyes reflecting the firelight, she asked, “How did Carrick kill his family?”
“I’m not sure. ’Tis only conjecture that he set the blaze, remember.”
Bryanna stared at Isa. “But you believe it.”
Isa picked her words carefully. “I believe that he is capable of many things, even murdering his family, though I don’t understand why. It makes no sense.” She rubbed the thick bumps of her knuckles. “But it’s said that while the baron and his family were all sleeping, Carrick sneaked through the hallway and set the fires. Some people, perhaps the constable, think that he even poured on the floor oil or something that would ignite the rushes even more quickly and cause smoke to seep and spread under the doors into each of the chambers. The lord and lady, Baron Dafydd and Lady Myrnna, were in one room; their children Alyce, Byron, and Owen as well as Theron and his wife, Alena, were asleep in their chambers.” She frowned. ’Twas a tragedy.
“Where were the guards?”
“I know not, but some say they were asleep at their posts.”
“Did no one awaken?”
Isa sighed and bit her lip. “There was a suggestion that all of the people who died may have sipped from the same jug of wine, that it may have been tainted.”
“With poison?”
“Or something to make the family members sleep through the smoke and flames.” Isa stood. She’d said enough. Too much perhaps. She shivered as a cool breath of air touched the back of her neck, and she glanced upward to the walls that rose so high to the ceiling, to the dark spots where light never seemed to reach.
“What do you think Morwenna will do?” Bryanna asked.
“I know not,” Isa said, walking to the bed, where she picked up the embroidery hoop. Deftly she removed several of the ungainly stitches, then handed the hoop to Bryanna. “I’m sure your sister will make the right decision.”
It was a lie.
Deep in her heart, Isa knew, as she left the room, there was no right choice. She’d seen the face of death in her dreams, sensed his breath upon her skin, knew he lingered close, waiting for just the right moment, ready to pounce.
It was only a matter of time.
’Twas dark.
The night lay mired in a dense fog that blocked the moon.
The Redeemer stood near the crenels of a high tower and felt moisture ooze through his heavy cloak and dark cowl. A dampness pressed against his face, cool and soothing, and yet there was a disturbance in the night. Though he could not see through the veil of mist, he knew that she was down there, by the creek, whispering her spells and drawing her runes in the dirt.
The old one.
Isa.
She was dangerous.
And evil.
Had she not seen visions that had, time and again, proved true?
’Twas a miracle that she had not yet unmasked him and destroyed all that he had worked for.
Though he outwardly disdained anyone who believed in the tripe that was peddled by the old ones—the pagan ways—he could not deny that some of their magic seemed to exist.
In the windless night, he thought he heard her raspy voice whispering through the bare trees, calling to the spirit of Morrigu, the Great Mother, pleading for safety from an unseen menace, asking for guidance and protection.
Deep in his cowl, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
’Tis too late, Isa, you old witch . . . much too late.
Silently he fingered the knife strapped to his waist.
All your prayers to the Great Mother are for naught.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“
I
said,’twill be all right, Sir James. Let me pass.” Her muffled voice floated to him as if in a dream, and mayhap he was dreaming for he kept drifting in and out of consciousness, mindful that time was passing, listening, as if through a tunnel, to voices of people as they attended him. But the tenor of her voice, Morwenna’s, was different than the others. It touched a chord deep inside and brought him closer to the surface.
He tried to move his arm and to his surprise it shifted. Just a bit. His heart beat faster and sweat beaded his brow as he concentrated. With renewed determination, he attempted to slide his right leg to one side and it, too, moved only slightly, but his calf definitely slid an inch beneath the bedclothes.
Christ Jesus, he wasn’t a cripple!
He tried his fingers and they responded. As did his toes.
His heart jolted, pounding wildly with the effort and the sudden exhilaration of knowing that he wouldn’t have to lie unmoving on this bed forever.
“Sir Alexander will not like this.” A muted male voice, the one she called Sir James, argued. “I’ll be losing my post, just like Vernon did.”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” she insisted. “In fact, I’ll tell Sir Alexander myself in the morning.”
The patient panicked. Soon she would slip into the room and he would have to make a choice. Try to speak and reason with her, show her that he was healing, or to remain unmoving and pretend to yet be comatose.
If he was to prove that he was mending, mayhap the guards would become more vigilant, or, worse yet, he might be sent to a prison cell to insure that he did not escape. . . .
Sir James said, “But, m’lady, ’tis my duty to protect you and—”
“The patient hasn’t moved since he was brought in here nearly two weeks ago. I’m certain I will be safe enough with him.”
“Nay—”
“Stand aside, Sir James, and keep to your post here at the door. I’ll call you if I need you,” she said firmly, and the patient heard the door creak open only to shut softly a few seconds later.
“Wait. Lady Morwenna!” the man’s voice was muffled before the door squeaked as it was shoved open again. “The door should not be closed. Please, m’lady, let it remain ajar.” The guard must’ve poked his head into the room as his voice fairly boomed, jarring loudly through the patient’s brain.
“Fine,” she said with a sigh of disgust.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you, Sir James,” she said and then after a few seconds admonished herself under her breath, “Fie and feathers, Morwenna, who is the ruler here? Why do you let them bully you? Would Kelan let a soldier tell him what to do? Nay. Sir Alexander and Sir Payne and all the rest try to tell you what to do because you are a woman, despite the fact that you have all the power of the lord of the castle.”
Her voice grew closer. Louder, even though she was whispering in ire. “Damn it all. Even the men beneath them and the serving girls do the same. Treat you as if you are a child rather than the lady of the manor. ’Tis an insult.” Her footsteps, which the patient had heard approaching his bed, abruptly stopped. “God’s eyes, do not let them get away with it!” The sound of her footsteps receded angrily as she marched away from him. “I’ve changed my mind, Sir James,” she shouted so loudly the patient nearly jumped out of his skin. “The door will remain shut.”
“Nay, m’lady—”
“Do not argue with me!” The door banged closed. “I should lock it,” she muttered under her breath again and then, footsteps stronger, advanced to his bed.
His every nerve ending was taut, and for the first time as he tried to open his eyes, he felt his eyelids rise just slightly, barely slitting but allowing in a gloomy light and a bit of motion. Pain burned through his pupils as his vision adjusted to the soft light of a fire that crackled in the grate.
“So, Carrick.” Morwenna’s voice held no warmth. “ ’Tis time for me to send a messenger to Wybren.”
Carrick, if that was his name, felt himself tense, every muscle painfully tightening. Wybren was familiar, the castle name reverberating through his brain. Faint, horrifying memories of smoke-filled corridors, burning tapestries, and crackling flames consuming everything in their path seared through his mind. Holy God, was he responsible for the blaze? Was he truly the beast who had brutally murdered his own family as they’d slept?
A dark malevolence burrowed deep into his soul. He envisioned someone lifting a burning torch from its sconce and sweeping it over the tinder-dry rushes and dusty tapestries of the keep. Could it have been he? Could he really have plotted the deaths of each of his family, have planned the horrific fire? Sickening visions of burning hair, eyes rounding in horror, blackened, searing flesh appeared before him.
No! No! No!
He could not have masterminded the unthinkable!
Despair took hold of him. Wrenched his guts.
What kind of man was he?
Or was it all a lie?
Some dire scheme concocted to make him appear a villain for someone else’s crimes?
“Who did this to you?” she asked, leaning closer.
In his mind’s eye he saw muddy boots aimed at his abdomen. Heard voices yelling angrily, horses’ shrieks of terror ringing through the woods. Smelled smoke from a campfire. Felt the sharp, painful crack as the toe of a well-aimed boot smashed against his ribs. Men cursed, clubs thudded against his body as he writhed on the ground. Who had done this to him?
Who?
Had whoever it was left him for dead? Or had the son of a dog who had beaten him to within an inch of his life intentionally left him to be found and brought here, to this castle?
But why would someone do this to him?
And why had he been defenseless? Though he couldn’t remember much about himself, he sensed that he’d been a strong man, a warrior, one who would not submit to a beating.
By the gods, he felt as if he were going mad as he listened to her voice, felt her presence so near.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, her voice whispering across his skin. “Carrick?”
Again the too-familiar name. He didn’t move.
“I need to talk to you.”
He remained still as stone even when he felt her finger poke gently at his shoulder. “Can you not hear me? Sir Carrick of Wybren, please, awaken.”
It was all he could do to breathe naturally.
Another prod. Harder this time. Her voice sounded more desperate as she said, “Carrick, by all that is holy, please, please, talk to me.”
He resisted. Nothing good would come of letting her know that he could hear her. Not yet. He set his jaw and endured yet another jab before she gave up and let out a disgusted puff of breath.
“So this will be my decision alone. You won’t help me.”
If her remark was meant to goad him into speaking, if it was one more test, he ignored it and didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow. Yet she continued to speak. If not to him, then to herself.
“Well, I suppose I should not have expected more! However, you may as well know that Sir Alexander is insisting that I send word to Wybren of your . . . condition and, er, situation. And I must tell you that everyone here at Calon, including Isa and the physician and the priest and the sheriff, agrees that Lord Graydynn must be notified that you have been . . . well, ‘captured’ isn’t the word I would like to use, and ‘apprehended’ isn’t quite right, either, but that you are here, as my guest, recovering from your wounds.” She was moving around the bed, the sound of her voice shifting as she circled him, and past the veil of his lashes, he saw bits of color as she passed, her form seeming to float about him.