Temptress (33 page)

So it would be her task to locate him.

“Assuming Carrick stole the horse,” she said, and everyone in the room nodded slightly, “where do you think he’s gone?”

Kyrth shrugged. John didn’t venture an answer, and Sir Hywell snorted, “Who knows where the likes of him would be goin’?”

Sir Lylle thought a minute, a smug, nearly patronizing smile pinned to his lips. “Carrick is getting as far from here and Wybren as possible,” he said. “He took the strongest steed, one with great stamina. I would guess he would travel toward the sea, mayhap to a town where he could secure passage on a vessel leaving Wales.” His eyes thinned as he thought, his grin widened, and at that moment, Morwenna realized Sir Lylle was an idiot of the highest order. Though she knew Carrick to be a liar, a womanizer, and a cheat, deep in her heart she didn’t believe him to be a murderer. In the time she’d been with him, nothing had changed her opinion.

She thought that what he would want more than anything was to clear his name. And the only way he could do that was to return to Wybren. The opposite of what Sir Lylle thought.

And precisely where Morwenna planned to follow.

 

The castle loomed, a behemoth of a keep with rounded turrets, massive walls, and a wide moat that surrounded the hillock on which it stood. Red-and-gold standards snapped in the breeze, and as twilight was fast approaching, torches had been lit.

From atop his spent horse, he stared at the keep.

Zing!
Like an arrow, a memory sizzled through his mind. He was in bed with a woman with flaxen hair. She glanced up at him and smiled, as if she had secrets he would never uncover, and then pulled his head to hers.

He’d loved her once . . . or thought he had.

Another memory, a sharp-edged picture of one of his brothers . . . which one he knew not . . . whipping a horse as it balked at jumping a rail. The frightened animal reared, blood at the corners of its mouth from the bit, lather forming on its dark coat.

As more splintered memories cut through his mind, he had no doubt that this was his home.

He remembered the apple tree in the orchard from which he’d fallen as a child, recalled a small shaggy-haired pony that had tossed him to the ground before he learned to ride, called up images of swordplay with weapons made of sticks before he was allowed to use a real blade of steel.

A fleeting picture of his father—a big bear of a man—smelling of ale and sex as he stumbled up the stairs, heading to the door of the chamber he shared with his wife.

As for his mother, his memories of her were still dim. It seemed she was weak, her eyes always sad, her touch lifeless.

His father and mother had lived here in a cold state of marriage where they were formal to each other and treated their children distantly, through the service of wet nurses, nursemaids, teachers, and anyone who would keep them occupied. There had been grand balls and dark secrets and a childhood littered with fantasy and fun and despair.

Aye, this was the place he grew up. More fragments of memories rose to the surface of his consciousness: apple fights and catching frogs and having his ears boxed for stealing the priest’s chalice upon a dare . . .

Guilt twisted his insides as he stared up at the watch-towers. How had he survived? Why, with all the memories that assailed him, could he not remember who he was, or the horrendous night when most of the people he remembered in bits and pieces had died, caught in a fire from which there was no escape?

His throat closed in on itself. It seemed certain. He had to be Carrick . . . and if so, he was a part of what had happened.

His eyes narrowed as rain began to fall.

One person knew the truth.

The answer to everything lay with Graydynn, Lord of Wybren.

“I’m coming, you miserable son of a dog,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He kneed his mount toward the main gate. “Be forewarned.”

 

The Redeemer slid noiselessly through the inner bailey of Wybren.

His home.

Where he belonged.

Fires from the huts of the potter and tanner and smith warmed the night, casting the glow of inviting patches of light. From the great hall he heard the sound of voices, even merriment, as soon the evening meal was to be served.

Rain misted from a near-dark sky, but the cold of winter didn’t settle in his bones. It was staved off by the thrill that pulsed through his blood, the anticipation of finally realizing his dream. ’Twas so close at hand.

He glanced upward, to the second story and the lord’s quarters. The keep had been rebuilt stronger and loftier than before, but if he closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, he could recall every detail of that night, the night he’d heard God’s voice. Even now he could still smell the scent of burning oil. He remembered the crackle of the flames as they’d moved hungrily under the doors to the rooms of those sleeping unaware.

Even now he felt a thrill just imagining the fire creeping through the rushes, surrounding the beds, igniting the drapes hanging from the canopies, crawling relentlessly through the linens to the slumbering sinners. That they had died in their own little hells was fitting. . . . More than fitting . . . ’twas sweet, sweet justice.

And redemption.

He smiled to himself, satisfied at a job well done . . . well, almost done.

Soon all that he had planned would be realized.

The mistake he’d made earlier, inadvertently not killing everyone he’d intended to in the blaze, would be rectified.

This night.

And all he had worked for would be his.

Including Morwenna of Calon.

Frustrated, he felt the same tremor of lust run through his body, the heat of desire. He tamped it down with an effort.

He would wait.

Finish what he’d started first.

Suffer a little more torture by not being able to touch her . . . yet. But soon, mayhap on the morrow, she would be his. He rubbed his hands upon his breeches, drying them, creating heat on his thighs.

Tomorrow.

His work would be complete.

And God would be pleased.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“
H
alt! Who goes there?” The sentry’s voice boomed through the night, ricocheting off Wybren’s thick walls.

For a heartbeat, he froze upon his steed. But he’d already formed the lie, and it was easy enough to say, “My name is Odell. I come from Castle Calon with a message from Lady Morwenna for Lord Graydynn.” He spoke in a raspy tone, as much from his injuries as to alter his voice lest this guard remember him, for now he was certain he had lived here, grown up here as a son of Dafydd.

He’d hidden the small knife inside his sleeve and appeared unarmed. He wanted to say more, to start talking to convince the man, but held his tongue. If need be, he could pull his knife quickly and force the man to let him pass, but he didn’t want to cause any trouble, didn’t want anyone to see a commotion. No, he wanted to float into the keep as quietly as a soft breeze.

The guard held his torchlight aloft though a curtain of rain kept the flame low and helped disguise him. “Odell?” he repeated as if the name sounded strange.

“Aye. I came with m’lady from Penbrooke, where I worked in the service of Lord Kelan.”

“Ye seem familiar.”

“You were at Penbrooke?”

“Nay, never.” The guard shook his head.

“Then maybe we shared a cup of ale in Abergwynn or at the Cock and Bull near Twyll?”

“Nay, I think not but—”

Two horsemen approached from behind, and the sentry’s attention shifted for a second. The newcomers were loud and demanded to be allowed inside. “Hey, what’s the holdup here? C’mon, mate, we need a fire and a woman and a cup of ale to warm our bones! Belfar, is that you?”

The guardsman, standing in the illumination from his dying torch, scowled and muttered something unintelligible. He cast one last glance at the solitary rider. “You can pass,” he said. “Sir Henry will escort you to the lord.” He motioned toward the gatehouse. “Henry, you there, take this rider from Calon to see the baron.”

A man darted from the gatehouse.

Upon his worn steed, the rider’s heart was beating hard, and he hoped that the new man wouldn’t recognize him. Sooner or later someone would. He’d grown up here among these people, and surely they had heard that Carrick had been found near Calon, so he was pressing his luck if he met too many people. Fortunately most of the guards were mercenaries, men whose allegiance was paid for in gold and who often found a higher bidder for their services, many of whom were new to Wybren.

With one of Graydynn’s soldiers walking briskly beside him and carrying a small lantern, he rode through the gates and into the lower bailey.

In the dim, flickering light, as rain poured from the heavens, a barrage of memories hammered in his brain. He knew instinctively where the flock of sheep were penned. Though he couldn’t remember the name of the one who sheared the animals, he saw him in his mind’s eye, a spry little man with a balding head and a big belly. . . . Richard, aye, that had been his name, and he had a son, a red-haired lad with a gap between his teeth and who was deadly with a sling-shot.

The rider also recognized the farrier’s hut, where, this night, he caught a glimpse of the brawny man silhouetted in front of the fires of his forge. . . . Timothy was his name, and his wife, Mary, was a big woman with large breasts, who had flirted mercilessly with all the boys in the keep.

He swallowed hard as memory after memory assailed him and yet he attempted to keep his mind on his duty, to act as if he had not woken every day to the sounds and smells that were Wybren. He and the guard stopped at the stables, where a young lad, a page whom he didn’t recognize, took the reins of his horse. “I’ll see that the stableboy, ’e takes care of ’im. Feeds ’im, waters ’im, and brushes ’im,” the boy promised.

As the page led the big stallion to the overhang of the stable, another recollection came to mind, one of York, the stable master, a robust, bowlegged man who was always up at dawn, checking the animals and the stores of feed, calling each horse by name.

York’s daughter was Rebecca, a girl with doe eyes, an innocent smile, and an infectious laugh. Rebecca had been the first girl he’d ever kissed, just inside the stable door.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

So why couldn’t he remember the fire?

If he was Carrick, why didn’t he recall setting flame to straw, or running from the keep to ride away while the castle burned. . . . Why, why, why?

Tonight, he would find out.

Gritting his teeth because he wanted to flee to the great hall, he let the other man guide him. Fortunately, the guard took a path that was familiar to him. He knew just where to make his move, where to pounce. Though he appeared to be paying the guard no attention, when the path jogged and they were in a tight spot between the miller’s quarters and the windmill, out of view of everyone, he let his knife slide into his palm, his fingers curling over the hilt. The guard was half a step in front of him.

In one swift motion, he leapt, held the knife to the guard’s throat, and with the man sputtering, eyes wide, forced the surprised sentry against the wall. “Drop your weapon,” he ordered through clenched teeth.

The guard struggled. The lantern went flying, the candle’s flame fizzling out, the metal clanking against the wall.

“Fine.” He kneed the man in the groin and, as he doubled over, took his weapon. His knife was at the man’s throat again.

“Do not kill me,” the sentry whimpered, holding on to his groin and looking as if he would throw up or piss all over the stones and mud of the path.

“ ’Tis your choice,” he said quickly. He couldn’t afford for the man to soil his uniform. “Trust me. If you obey, I’ll let you live. If not, I swear, I’ll run you through with your own sword.”

“Nay, I—”

He placed the tip of the man’s sword to his chest. “As I said, your choice!” Eyes upon his captive, one hand steady on the sword, he removed his belt and quickly put it over the man’s mouth as a gag. Once assured the sentry could not call out, he shoved him into the base of the windmill and stripped him of his clothes. The air was thick with dust and the smell of crushed grain, the room black as pitch.

Working quickly, he sliced off the sleeves of his own soldier’s tunic and used them to bind the sentry’s wrists and ankles, and then ripped off the hem of the tunic and used it to tie the naked sentry to a post near the center of the building. No doubt the man would be able to struggle free of his bonds or someone would find him, but with any luck, hours would pass before he was freed.

In the dark he finished stripping and then dressed in the uniform of Wybren. He made a few mistakes, wasting precious time by pulling the tunic over his head backwards before twisting it around, and he struggled with the laces of his breeches. The clothes fit poorly, the tunic tight over his shoulder, the breeches snug over his thighs. And they smelled of the guard. But they would have to do.

He slid the knife into his sleeve again and carried the stolen sword. He was ready.

Stealthily he slipped into the night and, with the rain as his shield, crept along the familiar paths that wound across the large middle bailey. He found his way to the back of the great hall, eased through a kitchen door, and then noiselessly climbed the servants’ stairway to the second floor. To the lord’s quarters.