“I don’t know.” Morwenna shook her head. “Sir Forrest, send someone for the physician . . . and the priest.” She stared down at the corpse of Sir Vernon and blinked rapidly against tears. “He was not married?”
“Nay,” Alexander said.
“Good. At least he has not left behind a widow or child,” she said, but it was little comfort on this night that was as black and cold as Satan’s shroud.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“
I
told you, Carrick of Wybren is cursed,” Isa whispered as they stood in a chamber of the gatehouse. She was rubbing her hands over her upper arms and her gaze darted about the room, searching every dark corner for a murderer.
As the sconces flickered, Father Daniel, grim as ever, was administering last rites over Sir Vernon’s body.
Outside, the castle began to stir to life. Roosters crowed, men shouted, sheep bleated. Cowbells clanged but the wind, so fierce in the night, had died. Dawn was stretching over the eastern hills and shafts of pale light sifted through the small windows. Most of the soldiers had been sent to search the keep; the few that remained stood in stony silence. Sleep, dice, women as well as food and drink had been forgotten at the sight of Sir Vernon’s unmoving, blood-smeared corpse.
Father Daniel whispered prayers over the slain man while the physician stood to one side, patiently waiting for the religious rite to be over with so that he could examine the corpse. Both men’s expressions were grim as they faced death from opposite sides, one from the spiritual, the other concerned with the physical body.
Sheriff Payne and Sir Alexander were positioned nearby, while Forrest was posted at the door.
“Listen, m’lady,” Isa insisted, her eyes wide with fear, her old lips flat against her teeth. “As long as Carrick of Wybren is within this keep, we are all doomed!”
The priest lifted his bowed head and his hard eyes found Isa’s. “If anyone is doomed,” he said slowly, his lips thin and without color, his eyes flaring with a nearly manic fire, “it is those who pray to pagan gods and goddesses.”
Isa’s gaze never faltered. She took a step toward the priest. “Since Sir Carrick has been brought into this keep, there has been naught but turmoil and death, Father.”
“Perhaps if we all had greater faith, God would bless this castle.” The priest’s smile was fixed. Practiced. He slid a cool glance toward Morwenna. “My lady, ’twould be best if all spells and runes and prayers to the unholy cease.”
“You think Sir Vernon was killed because of Isa’s prayers?”
“The Holy Father would not be pleased.”
“And you, Isa, you think Sir Vernon was killed because of a curse upon Carrick of Wybren?”
“All of Wybren is cursed,” the old nursemaid said boldly, and the priest snorted his disgust.
Sir Alexander stepped closer to the table upon which Sir Vernon lay. “No matter. The fact is Vernon is dead. A murderer somehow invaded this keep.”
“Or resides here,” the sheriff said as he tugged at his beard. “Physician, can you tell us what kind of blade was used to slice the man’s throat?”
Nygyll was already examining the body. He tilted up Sir Vernon’s chin, exposing the ugly gash beneath his beard. “Let’s see. . . . You there, Sir Forrest, go and see what’s taking so long. I’ve already asked the steward to have someone bring me hot water and fresh cloths from the great hall.”
Morwenna’s stomach turned. She’d seen dead men before and had helped those who were wounded, but Sir Vernon’s death was different. Personal. Not only was she indirectly responsible for sending him to his post upon the wall walk, but it was her duty to care for and protect all those within the keep. And she’d failed. Aye, Vernon had been a soldier and a sentry, a man who had sworn his allegiance to her and to Calon, a man who had vowed to protect her and who knew the dangers of his position, yet Morwenna experienced a gnawing guilt that somehow she’d brought this death and destruction with her when she’d come to Calon. Had it not been for her, would not Sir Vernon be alive this day?
She looked up and caught Dwynn staring at her. The addled man had somehow wakened and found his way here. Which was no surprise. It seemed he was always about, no matter what time of day or night, especially if trouble was brewing.
The door to the gatehouse opened and Gladdys, carrying a basket of towels, hurried into the room. She was followed by George, the page, lugging a heavy cauldron of steaming water.
“Put the basket there,” Nygyll ordered, pointing to a bench, “and set the pot on the hearth so it stays warm,” he said with an edge of impatience to his voice. “You there, Dwynn, help the lad!”
Dwynn reached for the cauldron’s handle and some of the hot water slopped onto the floor, a stream running into the fireplace to hiss against the hot coals.
“God’s teeth, what’s the matter with you?” Nygyll muttered, glowering at the half-wit as he reached for a towel and dipped it into the steaming water.
Dwynn, silent as usual, pointed an accusing finger at the page, but Nygyll had turned away and was cleaning the crusted dark blood from the wound at Vernon’s neck.
“ ’Tis not a straight cut,” the sheriff said, bending closer.
“Humph,” Nygyll grunted.
“What the devil is that all about?” Alexander asked as the wound became more apparent.
“Shave him,” Payne suggested.
Morwenna watched as Nygyll found a sharp blade and carefully scraped away the dark beard that grew down the dead sentry’s neck. Slowly the ugly gash was revealed, and as Payne had said, the wound was far from a neat, clean slash. The hideous cut sliced downward from Vernon’s left ear, then up slightly near the point of his chin, down again on the other side of his jaw to finally slash upward and end near his right ear.
“Jesus,” Alexander whispered.
The sheriff stared gravely.
“ ’Tis a W,” Isa said, and some of the soldiers in the room glanced at her for many could not read. “For Wybren.”
“Or witch,” Father Daniel said quickly, his lips flattening over his teeth as his eyes narrowed on Isa.
“By the gods, it’s something,” Payne finally whispered, and Morwenna felt a shiver race down her spine as she, too, stared at the uneven gash.
“A warning?” she asked.
“Or someone trying to place the blame on Carrick of Wybren.” Alexander looked at Morwenna, unasked questions in his eyes.
“Carrick has not awakened,” Nygyll said as he dried his hands on a clean towel. “I have attended to him, and he’s had no response.” He glanced up, his eyes focusing on Morwenna for an instant before looking at Sir Alexander. “Even if the patient had managed to wake up and have full use of his limbs, which I doubt, he could not have gotten past the guard. He’s trapped in his chamber. He could not have done this,” he said, motioning to Sir Vernon. “Take this,” he ordered Gladdys, the doe-eyed serving maid, as he slapped the dirty towel into her open hands. She flinched, then obediently placed the blood-soaked cloth into a pile with the other soiled rags.
“He obviously died from his throat being slit,” the sheriff said.
The physician turned back to the corpse and folded Vernon’s bloodstained hands over his chest. Nygyll’s gaze settled on the sheriff and he nodded. “I found no other marks upon the corpse aside from a bruise where he cracked his head against the battlements or the floor of the wall walk, so, yes, his throat was slit and he bled to death.” He glanced at the dead man. “Aside from what killed him, I would note that he’s fat and, I suspect, infested with lice or fleas or worse. Not exactly a prime example of Calon’s army.”
Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. “What’s going on here? Where’s my sister?” Bryanna’s voice floated into the chamber half a step in front of her. “Oh!” she cried as Morwenna turned toward the doorway. “What happened?”
“Sir Vernon was killed a few hours ago,” Morwenna said.
“Killed? How?” Bryanna gasped, her wide eyes rounding as they discovered the bloody corpse. “Oh, God!” One hand flew to her throat. “No!”
“Get her out of here before she gets sick,” Nygyll said.
Morwenna had seen enough. “Come,” she said to Bryanna and shepherded her into the hallway, then outside to the crisp morning where the tanner was scraping a deer hide and the armorer was cleaning chain mail in casks of sand. Morwenna barely noticed the activity, her thoughts centered on the slain guard. Who had done this to him? Why? Vernon, though a soldier, seemed a gentle soul at heart.
“Wha-what happened?” Bryanna asked as she and Isa hurried to catch up with Morwenna. “Who . . . who . . . would harm, I mean kill, Sir Vernon?”
“We know not. Yet.” As they made their way past the dyer who was boiling fabric in a vat filled with green liquid, Morwenna explained about Isa’s vision and the ensuing events.
They reached the great hall just as she finished.
“You are saying there is a killer in our midst,” Bryanna whispered as they slipped into the warmth of the keep.
“So it appears.”
“What are you going to do?” Bryanna asked.
“The guards are searching the castle. The sheriff and some of the soldiers are questioning people in the town and surrounding villages.”
“But he may have escaped,” Bryanna said as they climbed the stairs to the solar. “Should you not send a messenger to Penbrooke?”
“No.” Despite the murder, she wasn’t about to ask for help from her brother Kelan. At least not yet. “ ’Tis not Kelan’s problem.”
“He’d want to know about it.”
Morwenna nodded, thinking of her brother as she removed her gloves and mantle. Tall, proud, determined, Kelan would not only want to know what was happening here but would no doubt send an army led by himself or their brother, Tadd.
Morwenna tossed her mantle over a stool and frowned when she considered the younger of the two. Tadd was as handsome as Kelan, but as irresponsible as Kelan was reliable. She wanted neither one of her domineering brothers telling her how to handle the situation. “And if you were lady of the keep, Bryanna,” she asked, folding her arms under her breasts, “would you so quickly run to either of our brothers?”
Bryanna snorted as she plopped onto a bench near the fire and sat studying its flames. “Nay,” she admitted, shaking her head, her long curls showing red in the firelight.
“Kelan might help,” Isa advised.
“I think not.” Morwenna walked to the window. From the elevated position, she could look down upon the inner bailey, where the morning was starting just as if it were another day and there had not been a brutal murder within the keep.
The farrier was already pounding out horseshoes at his fire, a boy working a bellows to keep the embers hot while the big-muscled man was straining to curve and then flatten the red-hot iron as it was molded into horseshoes.
Not far off, a freckled girl of about five was busily gathering eggs, while her gangly redheaded sister was flinging seeds into the air, strewing them for a flock of cackling chickens that flapped and pecked angrily at one another around her feet. Near the center of the bailey two straw-haired boys, the miller’s sons, were hauling pails of water from one of the wells, slopping far more water than Cook would have liked, while three huntsmen on horses were being detained by guards beneath the portcullis leading to the outer bailey.
And all the while Sir Vernon lay dead. Killed by an assassin’s hand. Morwenna rubbed her shoulders, and as if reading her thoughts, Bryanna sighed loudly.
A quiet knock sounded on the door.
“Who is it?” Morwenna called over her shoulder.
“Alexander, m’lady.”
“Come in.”
He entered and his expression was as grim as it had been in the gatehouse. “If I may have a word,” he said, glancing at the two other women.
“Certainly,” Morwenna agreed, eager for any news. She could not just sit about. “I’ll be right back,” she said to her sister and Isa. Quickly Morwenna followed Alexander into the hallway, where rushlights burned and flickered. She closed the door behind her. “What is it?”
“A messenger arrived at the gatehouse just minutes ago. We detained him, of course, but he swears he’s from Heath Castle and it appears he is. All was in order. He brought this.” Alexander handed her a letter, rolled tightly.
Her heart nose-dived as she recognized the unbroken seal from the house of Heath. Lord Ryden’s seal. She contemplated not opening the damned letter. The last thing she needed right now was to deal with the man to whom she was betrothed. But Sir Alexander was waiting, and deciding she could not put off the inevitable, she broke through the wax and unrolled the letter. It was short and to the point. Lord Ryden had heard from a traveling merchant that there was trouble at Calon, that Carrick of Wybren had been found half-dead at her castle gates.
Dear God. Did this mean that the news could have traveled to Wybren as well?
Of course it has. . . . You are foolish to think otherwise!
Her shoulders slumped. What had she been doing? Trying to protect Carrick?
Or keeping him held nearly a prisoner until he woke up so you could demand answers, not only of his attack but of why he left you for his brother’s wife?
She closed her mind to that line of thought. She had to face what was happening now, whether she wanted to or not. She would have to contact Graydynn immediately. As for her intended . . . what was she to do with him?
Lord Ryden not only offered her his help with returning the traitor to justice at Wybren, but also promised to visit her as soon as was possible. If all went as he planned, he’d arrive at Calon in three days’ time.
Morwenna stared at the letter and then crushed it in her hand. She felt no joy at the prospect of seeing him again. If anything, she felt anger with herself for accepting his proposal and a silent fury that she still harbored feelings for Carrick though she was loath to admit it to anyone . . . even herself. What was wrong with her? Why did she still care about the man who had betrayed her, and what on earth had possessed her to promise herself to Ryden of Heath? She must have been mad!