As if the floodgates of heaven had suddenly been opened, the rain became a torrent. Icy drops peppered the ground and puddles grew deeper as Rhys, held fast by two of the strongest men in the keep, disappeared into the tower.
He would have to be tortured, of course, for how else could his tongue he loosened and those who were in league with him flushed out?
But Rhys had already once survived being flogged nearly to death. He’d endured the harshest of physical torments that Tremayne had inflicted upon him, and never had his will been broken.
No, the lord of Twyll decided as his mantle soaked up the rain, the only way to make Rhys talk was to threaten physical harm to those he cared about. If Tremayne suggested that some of his men be hanged or flogged or that the woman, Rose, and that odd daughter of hers be either branded or thrown to the soldiers and used as whores, Rhys might break his silence. Tremayne’s lip curled at the thought, for Peony was young. But this was not the time to be weak of stomach. His entire barony was at stake.
“M’lord.” Percival’s thin voice brought him out of his reverie. “Let us go inside, for ‘tis time for you to make a plan. Cavan’s army approaches.”
The old man clutched his hood with bony fingers and though the sodden fabric covered most of his bald head, raindrops ran down his nose and dripped from its tip.
“Aye. ‘Tis well past time, old man,” Tremayne grumbled and started walking toward the keep. His boots sank in the mud, but he barely noticed as he thought aloud. “The men who were to go out and ambush Cavan’s army will remain in the castle a while longer.”
“If you wish, m’lord.”
“I do. First we find the witch. I want every soldier to search this keep until she is discovered.”
They walked up the steps to the great hall. “And what if she isn’t found?”
“She will be.”
“She is but a woman—a nuisance, nothing more.”
“Nay, Percival, this is where you are wrong.” Ignoring a greeting from a guard at the door, Tremayne strode to the fire and threw off his mantel, letting it fall onto a bench where it dripped onto the rushes. Wondering whether his old friend could be trusted or was a Judas like so many others, he said, “Finding this woman is the key to defeating the bastard and uncovering those traitors who had joined with him.” He held up a finger as he thought. “When Rhys knows we have her and her life is threatened, he will offer up his spies to save her.”
Percival let out a long, low sigh and tossed off his hood. His face was ruddy from the cold, his lips a color akin to that of a mussel’s shell. “I think not. He is loyal to those men. He would not give up so many lives for one.”
“But a woman changes a man’s thinking.” He thought of Rhys’s betrayal, how the bastard had accepted any kind of punishment in order to save Anna years before. “Rhys would die himself, turn traitor to all those who trust in him, give up any treasure or friend, to save the woman he loved.”
“And ye think he loves this one?”
“No, Percival, I do not think it,” he said, wondering why the fire’s hot breath could heat his skin but wasn’t able to chase the winter from his soul. “Nay,” he admitted with a sigh, “I know it.”
Spying a page, he snapped his fingers and ordered wine for himself and the old man. ‘Twas true. He knew that Rhys loved this woman, and that disturbing thought brought him the only hint of joy he’d felt since seeing the bastard in chains.
“Do we know why the woman dared come here?” he thought aloud, then shook his head for he couldn’t answer the question himself. Did she have the magical stone, the dark emerald of Twyll? Was she the daughter of Lord Gilmore and Lady Farren? If ‘twas true, where had she been all these years and why would she appear now, just as Cavan was making his claim?
The page returned with two mazers, offered one to Tremayne, then handed the other to the older man. Percival took a long swallow and let out a loud “aahh,” as the wine slid down his throat. “And she has the stone to prove that she is daughter of Gilmore?”
“According to the girl,” Tremayne said.
“So is she here to cause trouble?”
“Why else?”. Tremayne paced in front of the fire, disturbing the dogs, who thumped their tails in the rushes and stared up at him lazily. Worthless spotted beasts.
“To seek the truth?”
“Mayhap.”
“From whom?”
Tremayne’s fingers drummed around the base of his cup as he thought. “She was seen by the watchtower that old Father Simon calls home, was she not?”
“Coming out of it, according to Sylvie, the butcher’s wife. She and her daughter, little Isabel, spied the woman. Now, Sylvie, she’s been known to spin a tale of two, but this time, it seems, she be tellin’ the truth about a beautiful strange woman that had been in the north tower.”
“So this woman—the stranger—must’ve been going to meet someone or to visit the old priest,” Tremayne thought aloud. “No one else is in that tower.”
“Aside from the watchman. And Quinn.”
“Quinn?” Tremayne froze. Images of the lad skulking around in the shadows slid through his mind and danced in forbidden, deceitful territory.
“Aye, the lad is known to spend time with the old priest.”
That much was true. A knot tightened in Tremayne’s stomach. Surely his own son would not … nay, he would not think it. Never!
“So the woman seeks out the old priest. Why?” Tremayne frowned darkly and wondered at this twist, and a new thought, warm and sweet as honey in the sun, came to him, chasing away his worst fears. Rhys would have to be killed.
There was no choice but to hang the traitor, but ‘twas too simple, too quick and painless for a criminal who had caused him so much pain. He needed to suffer and feel the pain of humiliation that Tremayne had endured, not only when the bastard had been born to a whore but later when he’d had the audacity to rape Anna, the woman that was to be Tremayne’s bride.
Would it not be sweet justice to bed the one woman Rhys loved—this witch? “You think this woman be beautiful?” he asked, gazing up at the high ceiling, now darkened with smoke and cobwebs.
“The few who saw her all agreed.”
For the first time in a long while Tremayne’s manhood stirred. The thought of mounting this particular comely woman—the bastard’s witch—one with enough courage to sneak into his castle, brought a tightening to his gut. Unexpectedly, his cock hardened a bit.
Mayhap this wench was the one who could bring his old member back to life. Ah, ‘twould be sweet, sweet vengeance.
“Call for the watchman, Father Simon, and anyone else who was in the tower today. I’ll speak with each of them.”
“And Quinn?”
He hesitated. Then nodded. “Aye, the lad as well.” Did he hear a swift intake of breath in the hallway or was it his overzealous imagination again? No matter. Other, more pleasant ideas kept him occupied. “Would it not be a bitter turn for Rhys if I were not only to bed his woman but marry her as well?” he asked suddenly, as soon as the thought struck him.
“Marry her?”
“You have always said I need a wife.”
“But … but … you know this woman not!” Percival sputtered. “She … she could practice the dark arts or call up the spirits or—”
“She has the dark emerald, does she not?” Tremayne cut in. “What if she be the true daughter of Lady Farren and Lord Gilmore?” He took a long swallow of wine and finally felt his blood begin to warm. “Would it not be wise to meld the two houses—to rule with mine enemy, as opposed to fighting her?”
“But you know not that she is the real heir, nor that she would agree.”
“Oh, she would agree,” Tremayne was certain. “There are ways to ensure her submission.”
“I do not think—”
“Send for the guard and the priest and the rest of the lot who were in the tower today.” As Tremayne warmed to his plan, he became impatient. This would be perfect. ??
?We must find the woman. Now!”
“Father Simon—”
“I know, I know. He speaks not, but today will be different.”
“What about your son?”
Tremayne scowled into the blood-red depths of his wine. What was it about his boy that made him chase after the old silent man of God? ‘Twas odd. But then, everything about Quinn was. Older than his years, he often stared at Tremayne with troubled, haunted eyes.
“Aye, find him as well.” Mayhap the boy had seen something. Tremayne tossed back his wine, smelled the mingled scents of dogs, smoke, and wet wool as his mantle started to dry, and heard the barest scrape of a boot move off down the hall.
Was someone watching him?
A man he trusted?
A spy? For Cavan of Marwood?
One of Rhys’s informants?
A gossiping wench?
Who?
“Be off with you,” he ordered. He dropped his mazer onto the table. “And check with Regan. Find out why we haven’t found the woman. God’s teeth, how hard can it be to locate her?”
“Mayhap she be a witch and has cast a spell upon the castle.”
“Aye,” Tremayne sneered. “And mayhap I be Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the last true prince of Wales.”
Chapter Fourteen
“They caught him.” Quinn was breathing rapidly as he flew into the dark chamber that had been Tara’s prison for what seemed hours. Gasping, he nearly tripped over the stack of six crossbows and tumbled against the wall.
“Who?” she demanded, but she knew the answer. Her heart nearly stopped and her knees sagged. No! No! No!
“Rhys. The outlaw. My … my father …” He stumbled over the last word.
“Nay, oh … Rhys,” she said, not wanting to believe a word that the boy spoke. Her heart tore and she tried to think. They had to save him. Somehow. Some way.
“Go on.” James was more practical as he stacked the weapons that he and the boy had stolen with the help of some unnamed friends.
“He is to be taken to the dungeon and they—the soldiers—they be looking for you.” He was nodding wildly as he stared at Tara.
“For me?” she replied.
“That makes the two of us. They search for me as well.” In the shifting light, James stuffed arrows into quivers.
“Nay, three. Tremayne ordered me found as well, and Father Simon and the guards and anyone who was in the tower today.”
“Dear Lord.” Tara was beside herself. Why had she been such a fool? So interested in her own destiny? What had it mattered? The thought of Rhys imprisoned brought her painful despair.
This is your fault, Tara. Yours. He followed you here, that horrid, nagging voice reminded her. She’d been stacking bolts for the pilfered crossbows, but now she stopped, dropped the short, heavy, barbed missiles, and concentrated on the boy.
“Where is Rhys now?” she asked him.
“In the dungeon, under the north tower.”
“With the rest?” James asked.
“Aye.” Quinn nodded so vigorously that a candle flame flickered and threatened to fail. “But he is to be put in a separate cell.”
“Good.”
“Good?” Tara demanded. “There is no good in this.” Unable to stand another minute of being cooped up, she began walking the length of the small room. There had to be a way to free Rhys. There had to be.
“We will make it so,” James said. “But we will have to work fast. As soon as darkness falls, we must leave this place with the weapons and disburse them to those who are our allies.”
“Have you many?” she asked, hardly daring to hope. Hiding in this dank crypt, knowing that she was doing nothing while the candles burned low and the walls dripped, added to her case of nerves.
“A few.” James’s smile twisted at the irony.
“Who are they?”
“Only I know,” he said with a finality that warned her he would never divulge his secrets. “Why are the soldiers looking for the lady?” he asked the boy.
“ ‘Tis said she is a witch. The girl—Peony—she told Tremayne that Tara has a magic ring that she used to bewitch Rhys.” He said Tremayne’s name with a snarl, and Tara wondered about this odd boy, a lad who would turn against the man who had raised him, a child who embraced the notion that he was sired by a rogue outlaw. In his own way, Quinn was as odd as was Peony, the lovestruck girl who seemed so adoring of Rhys that she would do anything to champion her cause, to win his heart.
“Is this true?” James asked, and Tara shook her head. “Have you this ring?”
“Nay, but I did,” she admitted, feeling the fool. “It … it was taken from me.”
“Stolen?”
“By Rhys.”
“The master thief.” James, who was squatting, rocked back on his heels and ignored the stack of longbows he’d been counting. “So now Tremayne has the ring.”
She hesitated. “Rhys planned to give it to Abelard. I know not if he did.”
James sighed. “But Tremayne believes you have it still?”
“I know not.”
“There is more,” Quinn insisted. “I overheard Tremayne telling Percival that ‘twould be sweet justice if he were to … to … be with the lady as some kind of repayment for Rhys and … my mother. He … he even talked of marriage.”
“Marriage,” Tara whispered, appalled and stunned. Her stomach roiled at the thought.
“Aye, because he was married to my mother and she loved Rhys and … and ‘twould be only fair …” Quinn’s voice broke a bit and his jaw trembled for only a second before he regained control, but in that second, Tara caught a glimpse of the real boy who tried so hard to be a man.
“Think not of it,” she said softly and resisted the urge to reach forward and rumple his hair or to pull his young body close and reassure him. Fearless and smart as he was, Quinn was but a boy.
A boy who took chances with his life by spying on the man who thought he’d sired him. And now he brought news of Rhys. Guilt wrapped around her heart and squeezed so painfully she knew her face had turned ashen. “Mayhap I should bargain with the lord.”
“You?” James stopped short from gathering long-bows. “Why?”
“He might release Rhys and the others…”
“And why is that? Have you the stone?”
“Nay. But … if what Quinn says is true—”
Quinn was nodding furiously. “It is. I swear it on me poor mum’s grave.”
“I know, I know. It’s not you I doubt,” Tara reassured him.
“ ‘Twould do no good for you to give yourself up. Without the stone you have no bargaining power. Unless you want to agree to marry him.”
The thought brought bile to her throat. She’d not met Tremayne of Twyll but had heard of his cruelty, not only from Rhys but from others as well. Had not her own mother warned her? Oh, Lodema, I miss you. She rubbed her arms and tried to think. There had to be a way to save Rhys. To save the others.
“If you were to approach Tremayne there would be yet another prisoner to help escape,” said James. He motioned to the piles of weapons. “We will move these closer to the door to the bailey, in the stables. Then we will be ready.”
“For what?” she asked, still not certain that she could trust this man who admitted to being a mercenary.
“For the end of Tremayne.” His eyes glittered in the shadowy room. “Now, come. There is no time to tarry. Gather as many weapons as you can and follow me. Quinn, you as well.”
Tara grabbed several longbows, James lugged two of the six or seven crossbows that he’d managed to steal, and Quinn slipped two quivers filled with arrows upon his back.
Morrigu, help us. Help us all, Tara silently prayed as she pretended to go along with James’s plan.
But she wasn’t convinced that throwing in their lot with Lord Cavan was the answer. The new lord of Marwood was an impostor to the barony of Twyll, a warrior interested only in his own selfish gains.
Should James’s plan fail
, Tara would have to barter herself for Rhys’s release. ‘Twas she who had dragged him into this war, and she would not let him give up his life for her. Again she sent up a prayer and hoped that God was listening.
Rhys stumbled down the stairs. The stench of the dungeon permeated the air.
Every bone in his body ached. His head throbbed. His muscles felt as if they’d been turned to mush. But the fight had been worth every bruise and cut he’d suffered. Each blow he’d taken to his chin and even the spittle that had run down his face was a humiliation he would have gladly gone through again, for now, hidden in his fingers, he had a weapon.
“In with ye!” The fat jailer opened a cell door, pushed him inside, then unlocked the chain that bound his hands behind him. Rhys clutched the barbed arrowhead hidden in his fist so tightly that it drew blood.
“The lord ‘e’s gonna want ta ‘ave a word with ye, so clean up from the bucket there and make yerself presentable.”
Rhys didn’t respond but held fast to his tiny blade. The dungeon with its smells of rot and waste, smoke-blackened walls, and sense of despair ebbing from souls without any hope brought back memories he’d kept locked away for years. Jaw clenched tight, he remembered waiting in this very cell and listening for Tremayne’s boots as he stormed down the stone steps, knowing what fate held for him. The posts where he’d been strapped and flogged were still in place, ready for the next victim his half brother wanted to whip into submission.
The little bit of metal Henry had passed to him during the fight would be his way out of this dungeon. His freedom. And the freedom of those men and women who were here because of him. A simple arrowhead would give him an advantage, so that he could find Tara and save her from…
“Sir Rhys!” A girl’s voice. He glanced over his shoulder to the next cell and spied Pigeon, her face white as death, her hair matted and tangled. She stared at him with round, fearful eyes. “What happened?” Small feet flying, she nearly tripped over the old bones and filthy straw lying upon the cell floor, then flung herself against the rusting bars. Her tiny, dirty hands gripped the cold metal and, sliding to her knees, she pressed her body as close to his as possible. “How did they catch you?” she whispered, her small face drawn into a knot of worry.