Angrily she splashed the cool water upon her face and rinsed her mouth. Mort, who had been lying upon the wrinkled bedclothes, pushed himself to a standing position. As she cursed herself, the dog stretched and yawned, showing off black lips and yellowed teeth and not concerned in the least about Carrick’s whereabouts.
“This is a crisis, you know,” she scolded, and he wagged his tail. “Oh, for the simple life of a dog.” Again he wiggled his back end, but this time gave up a quick, sharp bark. “Okay, okay. Good morning to you, too,” Morwenna muttered. “Though, trust me, it’s anything but good.”
Eager to be petted, he continued to whine until she finally crossed the room and plopped down beside him. “Miss me?” she asked, taking the time to scratch his grizzled chin and ears. He washed her face with his tongue and she almost laughed. Almost. Patting the bristly fur on his head, she said, “I guess I should have stayed here last night.” Sighing loudly, she pushed herself upright, found her shoes, and then reached for her wool mantle hung upon a hook near the door. “It would have been a much wiser thing to do.”
The dog wagged his tail wildly and hopped off the bed to wait at the door while she tossed the russet-colored mantle over her head. The minute she unlatched the door, the dog shot through, bounding down the hallway just as Fyrnne and Gladdys, toting large baskets of fresh laundry, candles, and herbs for the rushes, appeared at the top of the stairs. “Good morning, m’lady,” they said in unison.
“Good morning,” Morwenna responded and realized that so far they knew nothing of the night before. So far. Soon the gossip would blaze throughout the keep.
Finger-combing her hair, she flew down the stairs. She expected Sir Alexander to be waiting for her in the great hall. She’d already braced herself for the rebuke she was certain to see in his dark eyes. How many times had he insisted that her “guest” be treated like a captive? How often had he suggested that Carrick be kept under lock and key and that she not visit him alone?
Oh, ’twas more than an embarrassment to have to tell the captain of the guard about Carrick slipping away; ’twas downright humiliating. On more than one occasion she’d sensed that Sir Alexander was in love with her. Though he’d tried to hide his feelings, bury them deep, she’d both witnessed the way he looked at her when he thought her gaze was directed elsewhere and felt the heat of his eyes upon her back when she was turned away.
She’d attempted to ignore the warning signs, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge his attraction to her, and yet there it was, forever between them, making her more and more uncomfortable each day since Carrick, battered and bleeding, had been dragged into the keep.
But today in the great hall, she saw no sign of Sir Alexander.
Instead she found his second-in-command, Sir Lylle, standing in front of the fire with Sir James.
Lylle was a tall, thick-bodied soldier with thinning brown hair, a scraggly beard, and a voice that usually boomed when he spoke.
However, this morning Lylle’s voice was soft, a whisper that couldn’t be heard over the shouts of the cook, the shuffle of feet, the crackle of the fire, and the general hubbub of the castle getting ready for the day.
Preparations were being made for the morning meal. Trestle tables had already been pulled from their stacks against the walls and carried to the middle of the room. Benches had been hastily arranged around the plank tables while the scents of sizzling meat, baking bread, and cinnamon and ginger wafted through the room. Servants moved quickly from the kitchens to the great hall and back again while Mort explored beneath the tables, his nose pressed into the rushes as he searched for leftover scraps that hadn’t been swept away or discovered by the other dogs.
She glanced at the stack of firewood that lay untouched near the fire. Though the castle dogs were in their places near the grate, and the flames were crackling and popping as they consumed the dry wood, the fire was unattended. Dwynn, who usually seemed nearly omnipresent, was, for the moment at least, missing. Probably carrying in another load of wood. Or listening at someone’s keyhole.
Lylle, warming the backs of his legs, had the decency to redden as he caught sight of her. He whispered something to Sir James, and Morwenna stiffened. It didn’t take a sage to understand that he and James had been discussing her part in Carrick’s escape.
Get used to it. This is just the beginning.
“Where’s Sir Alexander?” she asked.
“There was a disturbance last night, m’lady,” Sir Lylle explained. He’d taken off his gloves and held them both beneath one arm as he rubbed his hands together. “A farmer’s wife claimed that her husband was attacked by a group of men in the middle of the night. They didn’t get good looks at the attackers but assume they are the same band of thugs who have haunted the woods near Raven’s Crossing. Sir Alexander, along with the sheriff, left before dawn to speak to the man who was ambushed. They’ve yet to return.”
Nothing was going right this morning, she thought crossly. “I assume Sir James told you that Carrick of Wybren is missing.”
“Aye.” Lylle nodded. “I’ve already dispatched five groups of three soldiers to search the keep. They are starting with the gates, sally port, towers, and wall walks—the perimeter of the castle—and then slowly working their way inward toward the center of the keep.”
“Good.”
“I’ve also sent another search party into the town, just in case he somehow slipped outside.”
His plan seemed sound. “Let me know if you find anything.”
“At once, m’lady,” he said.
Morwenna felt sick inside. Carrick had left last night. Somehow, because she’d been with him, he’d taken the opportunity to make good his escape.
But why last night? Why on a night when she was in the room? Would it not have been easier to sneak away when he was alone and all he had to do was slip past the guard?
And the farmer who was attacked . . . Was it coincidence that the assault had happened on the night Carrick slipped away?
Or had Carrick done the deed?
Could the band of thugs who had been harassing travelers be the same group who had attacked Carrick and left him for dead?
The questions swirled round and round in her head, and though she tried, she came up with nary an answer.
Frowning, she made her way outside, where a steely sky threatened rain and a brisk wind chased away a few lingering wisps of fog. She needed to talk to someone, to bare her soul, and yet she cringed when she imagined what Isa would say to her. The old woman would speak in riddles and omens and curses when Morwenna needed answers.
Morwenna grimaced, flipping up the hood of her mantle. Nor could she confide in Bryanna. Her sister would try to find some romance or heart-wrenching drama in her seduction and Carrick’s escape. And though she could not confess her sins to Father Daniel, she could pray in the solace of the chapel.
And what if you find the priest as you did before, naked, prostrate, and flailing himself?
Then she’d leave. Find a private place to talk to God, hope for some divine intervention for the first time in her life. Mayhap through prayer and God’s help she could force Carrick of Wybren out of her life forever.
The first drops of rain began to fall and she held her cowl closer over her face. Her pattens squished in the mud as she wove her way along a narrow path leading to the chapel.
Foolish, foolish woman. Will you never learn?
A flash of lightning sizzled in the sky. Somewhere a child cried and a horse neighed in fright.
Fires glowed in the candlemaker’s hut, and the farrier was at his forge, his hammer ringing as he pounded out red-hot horseshoes. Boys were opening the sluice dams to the ponds, fishermen retrieving the eel traps. One young girl, the potter’s daughter, gathered eggs while her younger sister spread seed to the ever-ravenous noisy chickens, ducks, and ill-tempered geese. A peacock screeched and preened, his bright tail feathers plumed, as nearby peahens scratched at the dirt along the cattle sheds.
A
clap of thunder echoed over the hills and the little girls cast worried looks at the sky. “Come, Mave,” the older one said, grabbing her sister’s hand. “We’ll do this later, once the storm passes.” Together, carrying their baskets, they scampered toward the kitchen.
Morwenna watched them go and felt the cold drizzle of the rain. It seemed a long time since she had been so young. She dismissed the thought and walked rapidly toward the chapel. The rain was spitting madly now. She had almost reached the door when she spotted Isa sitting in the garden, her back propped against a tree.
“What are you doing?” Morwenna called to the old woman. But she knew. The sorceress had probably stayed up all night, drawing runes and whispering prayers to Morrigu and Rhiannon and Morgan le Fay and the like.
She’d be furious all her work was for naught and that not only had Morwenna given herself to Carrick, but then the rogue, true to his character, had abandoned her.
“Isa, come in. ’Tis freezing and you will be soaked to the bone.” Morwenna approached the old woman, but Isa didn’t respond. “Isa?” she asked, and the first whisper of dread raced up her spine. “What’re you doing?”
It was then she saw the blood.
Deep red stains covered the old woman’s neck.
“No, oh, God, no!” she cried, rushing forward, horror burrowing deep inside. “Help! Guards!” she screamed, praying that it wasn’t too late, that Isa was yet alive, that . . . that . . . Morwenna’s knees gave way as she reached her old nursemaid.
“Isa!” she cried, grabbing Isa’s shoulders, shaking her, hoping for some signs of life in those blank eyes. “Isa, please. Say something. Oh, please, please wake up!” She was screaming, demanding, praying, and yet knew it was already too late. “Help! For God’s sake, someone help us!” she yelled, cradling the unmoving body. “No, no, no! Isa!” She clung to the woman who had helped raise her, holding her, rocking her, willing life into the cold flesh.
Footsteps rushed forward, splashing through the puddles. Men shouted as Morwenna desperately searched for some sign of life, a hint of breath, a faint pulse, a tiny heartbeat, but it was too late. Isa’s skin had already grown icy.
Tears fell from Morwenna’s eyes.
“Lady!” someone cried, as if through a long cavern. “Lady Morwenna! Please. Let go! You’ve got to let go! Mayhap we can help her.”
It was Sir James’s voice and Morwenna finally turned her face upward toward the sound. Through the drops of rain, she saw the worry in the lines in his face, the deep regret in his eyes.
Still holding the old woman, cradling her head and rocking her as the rain peppered the ground and soaked through her clothes, Morwenna heard the sound of approaching soldiers and peasants as they hurried forward, shouting and talking among themselves.
“Call for the physician.”
“And the priest!”
“God in heaven, what’s going on?”
As they closed in, their faces twisted with dismay and their eyes grew round with horror.
The mason’s wife, carrying her toddler, sheltered her son’s eyes as he shivered from the cold. A crippled man who had once been a tanner made the sign of the cross over his thin chest.
“Please, Lady.” Sir James bent down. Rain ran down his nose as he offered help. “ ’Tis in God’s hands now. Let me carry her inside, where it’s warm.”
Still Morwenna could not let go. She bit her lip and tried to quiet the rage that welled in her blood.
I will find who did this to you, Isa, she silently pledged, her throat raw with unbroken sobs, her fingers trembling as she gently closed the old woman’s eyes. Whoever did this will pay and pay dearly. I will hunt him down if it takes the rest of my life!
This I vow.
She slowly released the woman who had been with her all her life, and as she did, she noticed for the first time that there was something clutched in Isa’s fisted hand. With care, she pried open the dead woman’s fingers, and there, glittering wickedly in the gray light, was Carrick of Wybren’s ring.
A woman gasped. Dully Morwenna glanced upward. The woman’s horror-struck eyes were transfixed on Isa. Automatically Morwenna followed her gaze.
Isa’s throat had been slashed in a jagged W.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Nay! Not Isa!” Bryanna face was a mask of pure horror. She sat on a stool in her chamber as Fyrnne worked at braiding her unruly hair.
“ ’Tis true, Bry. I found her myself. By the chapel.”
“Someone killed her?” Bryanna brushed Fyrnne away and crossed the room. Tears filled her eyes and her lower lip quivered. “Why?”
“I know not.”
Blinking rapidly, Bryanna drew in a long, shuddering breath. “This has something to do with Carrick of Wybren, doesn’t it?”
“Probably.” Morwenna motioned Bryanna to sit down on the stool again and then asked Fyrnne to leave them alone. Once Bryanna was seated, she told everything she knew about Carrick’s escape, Isa’s death, and the ring that was discovered clutched in her fist.
“Carrick killed her,” Bryanna said, her jaw thrusting in anger as tears fell from her eyes. “That spawn of a maggot sliced her throat and probably Sir Vernon’s as well.”
“We don’t know that.” Why was she defending him?
“Who else could have done it?”
“I—I don’t know. But when Sir Vernon was killed, Carrick wasn’t able to move.”
“We think he wasn’t able to move. It may have all been an act.”
“You saw him, Bryanna. He was beaten black and blue, could barely speak.”
“He was conscious enough to whisper a woman’s name, was he not? Didn’t he repeat the name Alena over and over again?”
Morwenna felt as if a thousand knives made tiny cuts all over her heart. “But he did not know what he was saying; he was still unaware.”
“So you think.”
“And when Vernon was killed, Carrick was guarded, unconscious, and lying in a room with only one way out.”
“Just as he was last night! But he got past you, didn’t he?”
Morwenna sighed. “Yes.”
“And somehow slipped past Sir James as well.”
“But—”
“After which he eluded every bloody sentry in the damned keep!” Bryanna made a broad, sweeping gesture with her arm, a motion that was meant to include everyone residing within the solid walls of Castle Calon. “How do you explain that?”
“I can’t.” Morwenna shook her head. The questions that had been plaguing her for hours still had no answers. Carrick’s escape was a mystery. She walked to the fire and warmed her hands, but deep in her soul she was cold as ice. It was as if every stone that had been used to construct Calon’s walls had been placed solidly upon her shoulders.
“Let me see her.”
Morwenna’s head snapped up. “I don’t think you should—”
“Let me see her,” Bryanna insisted, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Now.”
“But the physician has yet to examine her.”
“I don’t care.” There was a new fire in Bryanna’s glare, a determination that wouldn’t be denied. Not as tall as Morwenna, she angled her head upward and met her older’s sister’s gaze. “You wouldn’t forbid me one last moment with Isa, would you?”
“Nay, but I don’t think this is the right time.”
“Where is she?”
Morwenna hesitated and then decided there was no dissuading her. “She’s in the physician’s quarters.”
“I thought you said she hadn’t been examined.”
“She hasn’t. I’m waiting for Nygyll to return. He was called into town. The smith’s son started shaking and convulsing in the early hours of the morning. Nygyll should be back soon.”
Bryanna raked her fingers through her hair, tearing out the half-finished braid as Morwenna led her through the keep. The castle was abuzz with the news of Carrick of Wybren’s escape and Isa’s murder. Everyone was edgy and gossip was rampant.
The gates had been locked and now the guards were occupied searching for Carrick, a quest that Morwenna believed was not only useless, but a distraction from their more vital mission to find and arrest Isa’s murderer.
Outside, the day was brisk and cool, a few shafts of sunlight penetrating the clouds. Workers were at their tasks, the carpenter’s hammer rang, and fires blazed under the vats of ale being stirred by the alewives. The weaver’s loom clacked, and knots of women and children gossiped and whispered as they washed clothes, gathered scraps of food for the poor, or plucked feathers from chickens, geese, and ducks.
Morwenna heard snippets of the gossip as she passed. Two boys in wool caps sniggered as they walked the dogs. The tanner spoke in low tones to one of the huntsmen, but upon spying Morwenna, he quickly closed his mouth and his ears reddened.
’Tis going to be a long day.
With Bryanna at her side, she rounded a corner near the candlemaker’s hut and saw two women sitting on three-legged stools near a fire. They didn’t look up from their tasks, didn’t realize that Morwenna had stopped short near the seamstresses’ hut.
“A shame about Isa,” Leah, the beekeeper’s toothless wife, said, her meaty hands rotating a plucked bird over the flames as she singed off the pin hairs.
The smaller woman, Dylis, widow of a slain soldier, plucked a goose skillfully, her hands quick as they sorted through the feathers, piling them by size and weight into separate bags. “ ’Tis almost as if God punished ’er for praying to the great goddess,” Dylis said, and as if to make certain she wasn’t in the same state of fallen grace as Isa, Dylis quickly made the sign of the cross over her scrawny chest.
“I wonder what it has to do with Carrick of Wybren,” Leah pondered. “Isa is said to have found his ring. That it was clasped so tightly in her hand that the W was impressed upon the skin of her palm.”
“And ’er throat was cut the same way, I ’ear!”
Leah’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “You know, Carrick was practically a prisoner, and he vanished into thin air, as if he were a bloody ghost.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that!”