“For the love of St. Jude, what do you think you’re doing?” Apryll dashed across the short distance separating them. She was about to say something else, probably order him to unhand the boy, but she stopped dead in her tracks. Her skin took on the color of pale milk as she stared at the blade near the boy’s throat. “Aye, Yale,” she amended, her voice barely a whisper. “You must do everything we say so that we might win the game.”
“There is no game,” Yale spat, and wiped the back of his mouth with the sleeve of his free hand while Payton kept the leather strap taut.
“You know that not,” she cajoled but she was worried. “You need not tether him like a mule,” she said, turning to Payton.
“He acts like one.”
“Let me go!” Yale cried, pulling at the leash.
“Later. If you behave yourself.”
“My father will have your head!”
“Your father isn’t here!”
“Release him,” Apryll ordered.
“When we return to Serennog.”
Yale pulled on his tether, then fell onto his rump, trying to use his weight to upset Payton.
“But—”
“I said, when we return, sister. For now, I can take no chances.” With a swift yank, Payton drew Yale to his feet and though the boy struggled, swore and spat, Payton wrestled him and quickly managed to wrap the strap over his free wrist, manacling the lad.
“This isn’t necessary! Payton, please, let the boy be free!”
“And take the chance of losing him? I think not.” Payton skewered her in his cold glare. “Now, there are supplies inside. Salt pork and the like. We’ll prepare a meal and celebrate by opening a cask.”
“This be not the time,” she said.
“Nay?” Payton snorted. “’Tis the perfect time. I’ve brought the baron of Black Thorn to his knees.”
“Never,” the boy snarled, pulling at the leather cutting into his wrists. “Let me free.”
Payton laughed mercilessly as clouds crawled over the pale winter sun.
Tossing his hair out of his eyes, Yale stiffened his spine and thrust out his hands, drawing the leather thong tight. “Cut me free,” he ordered. “I be the lord’s son and I order you to cut me free or suffer the consequences.”
“Not yet.”
“I command you.”
“And I command you to hell. I, too, be a lord’s son,” Payton said, and the fire that had raged in his heart from childhood burned ever brighter.
The boy had the nerve to lift his chin, to somehow seem to look down his nose as he stared up at the man who had dared bind him. “You will rue this day,” he said calmly and Payton knew a second’s fear.
“I think not.”
“My father will cut you to your soul.”
“Mayhap I don’t have one.”
“Then he’ll settle for your liver.”
“Enough,” Apryll said. “Untie him.”
“I think not.” Payton shook off his discomfort and breathed deeply. He wouldn’t let the boy unnerve him, not when victory and retribution were so close at hand. “So tell me, Death, like you not the game?”
“The game,” Yale repeated. His eyes narrowed on his captor with such intensity Payton wanted to slap him. “And what be the prize for the winner?” Yale asked.
Justice, Payton thought, glancing toward the sky where a hawk circled beneath thin clouds. Finally, at long last, sweet, sweet justice.
Leaving his horse and dog tied farther into the forest, Devlynn crawled on his belly up the far side of the creek. He hid behind a small mound of earth where the roots and branches of a pine tree offered cover.
Peering through a low-hanging branch, Devlynn felt a mixture of relief and rage. Yale was alive. Healthy. Impudent as ever. And he was being restrained by the bastard who had the audacity to place a blade at the boy’s throat.
“God in heaven, no!”
Every muscle in Devlynn’s body grew taut. It was all he could do to restrain himself from vaulting over the deep stream and running his sword through Payton of Serennog’s heart. But he couldn’t risk it. Not with the wicked dagger angled against Yale’s soft and oh, so vulnerable throat.
Apryll flung herself at her brother, then stopped short as she noticed the blade. Fear shone in her gold eyes and she tried cajoling both Payton and Yale, trying to stave off any bloodshed.
Do not fight him, son, Devlynn silently thought, as if in prayer. I will save you, I swear it.
The bastard yanked his son to his feet and bound both his wrists as Apryll sprang at her brother, arguing fiercely against Yale’s manacles. But Payton was relentless. Unmoved. Yale, as if he didn’t realize how dire the situation was, argued and jeered at his captor, throwing himself against his restraints. For once Devlynn wished his son would still his impudent tongue. Taunting Payton might make him react violently.
Again Devlynn silently rued the very night on which he’d met Apryll of Serennog, when his head had been turned, his defenses let down and his son stolen from him.
Devlynn’s teeth gnashed in frustration. His fingers itched to strangle the bastard. And yet he waited. As mist clung to the forest floor and the branches dripped with the thick fog, Devlynn considered killing the bastard here and now. With his bow and arrow. The trouble was, in the shifting, foggy light there was a chance he might wound either Yale or Apryll, for Payton held the boy close.
Apryll stayed close to her brother, alternately yelling at him and whispering in his ear. Nay, it was too hazardous. He could not risk either life.
But there was a chance things would improve and he might get a clean shot. Slowly he reached behind him, withdrew an arrow from his quiver and strung his bow while lying upon a bed of dead pine needles. He could stand quickly, step away from the cover of the trees, draw back his deadly weapon and fire within a matter of seconds. His aim was true enough … if Yale or Apryll did not step into the arrow’s deadly path.
His gaze never leaving the unlikely threesome, he started to roll to his feet. At that moment Payton lowered his blade and, with a hard glance over his shoulder, shepherded the boy into the building. But Apryll paused, standing at the doorway, her golden hair damp with the fog, her eyes turned in his direction.
His heart nearly stopped, for he was certain she’d seen him, sensed his presence; then, she shook her head, as if to dislodge a silly notion, and hurried through the sagging entrance to her brother’s lair.
Devlynn silently cursed himself for hesitating.
The opportunity to save his son had slipped through his fingers.
But only for a moment.
The next time, he would not fail.
Chapter Seventeen
Collin waved the sentry into a chair near the fire. The man was half-dead from the looks of him, pale, nearly trembling, dirty as sin. “Sit, Sir Dennis, and tell me of my brother,” Collin said as Miranda, blast her, had the audacity to enter the great hall.
“Is there word from Devlynn?” she asked, her fingers wringing nervously. “And Yale? What of the lad?”
“I know not of the boy.” Dennis’s dark eyes were sunken far into his skull. “But Lord Devlynn rides with Sir Lloyd, Sir Rearden and a few others. At the crossroads just north of the old mill, we split into three groups, each searching for the outlaws.”
Collin settled back in his chair, resting a boot heel on a stool, his eyes narrowed as Dennis explained what had happened in the ensuing days. Miranda listened intently and snapped her fingers, ordering a page to fetch the soldier food and wine from the kitchen. While Dennis was explaining Devlynn’s strategy, the nervous page deposited a jug of wine and three mazers, while a serving girl brought a tray of cheese, smoked meat and bread.
“Does Devlynn not know that ’tis better to keep the army together, that there is strength in numbers?” Collin poured three cups, handed them about, then took a long swallow from his mazer. With a snort he added, “Our brother may be a warrior, aye, there is proof enough of that in the battles
he’s won, but he is no general.”
“Let Sir Dennis finish,” Miranda snapped. She sat upon a bench and leaned forward on her elbows, eagerly drinking up every word the soldier reported, as if she wished she were riding with their headstrong brother through the dark forests and rugged cliffs while searching for the enemy. Collin had always suspected his sister would much rather have been born a man. Oh, she was a good enough woman, he supposed, if not a devoted wife to her old grunt of a husband, an adoring mother to her child. But whenever there was rumor of a battle, Miranda’s eyes would gleam and she would ask intricate questions, demanding details that most women of her station would find either boring or distasteful. Not so Miranda. Oftentimes Collin wondered if, given the chance, his sister would don a warrior’s armor and ride into battle herself.
“… So when the Lady Apryll of Serennog was captured, the lord was furious. He sent me here to warn you that there are traitors within the walls of Black Thorn. Someone aided the enemy into the keep as well as helped her escape.” Dennis eyed the platter of meat and cheese and quickly Miranda nudged it his way. “Eat. Please.” Dennis tore off some of the bread and sliced a thick slab of cheese.
Collin scowled, rested his foot on a stool near the fire. “We have yet to find the Judas.”
“Lord Devlynn will force Lady Apryll to talk,” Dennis said, eating hungrily.
“How?” Miranda asked.
“I know not, but he told me he would interrogate her himself, find out who was betraying him. When he returns, his justice will be swift.”
“And deadly,” Collin muttered as he glowered into his mazer. Was it his imagination or did he hear a quiet cough behind one of the curtains? He glanced behind him but saw no movement, no indication that someone was listening from the shadows, and yet the hairs on the back of his neck raised.
“What of the others—of Rudyard and Spencer?” Miranda asked, trying to sound casual, though, Collin suspected, she was more interested than she feigned. He’d seen her in the company of Spencer, where she transformed from a determined, unhappy woman to a silly lass whose eyes sparkled and whose cheeks blushed. ’Twas scandalous as she was married to another—an old codger who was Lord of Clogwyn, a man who spent his days warming his feet by the fire, feeding his pigeons or waxing philosophic about the tense state of affairs between the bastard English and the righteous Welsh. Lowell of Clogwyn hadn’t bothered to leave his keep for the revels and scoffed at any sort of celebration. ’Twas no wonder that Miranda found life with him dull and had returned here to live and, it seemed, find a different life from that of her husband.
Lowell of Clogwyn made Aunt Violet seem youthful. Collin had often wondered how his niece, Bronwyn, had been conceived and had speculated that Sir Spencer might be the girl’s father. Bronwyn looked so much like her mother, ’twas hard to tell, but he couldn’t imagine that the old man had the fortitude to sire a child.
“Are the men who rode with Devlynn safe?” Miranda asked.
“I know only what I have said,” Dennis admitted. He’d polished off his first portion and was cutting another slice of bread.
Miranda turned serious, worried eyes to her brother. “We must send troops to help.”
“And leave the castle defenseless? Nay,” Collin disagreed. “Our best men are with Devlynn. They will prevail.” With a glance to the hungry soldier, he added, “Did Devlynn ask for more men?”
“Nay.” Dennis shook his head. He ate heartily, piling meat and cheese upon his bread and washing each bite down with a swig from his mazer of wine.
“But we should send some troops to help,” Miranda insisted.
Collin wouldn’t budge. “Until he requests fresh soldiers, we will stay here and defend Black Thorn.”
Miranda didn’t argue any further but silently seethed, defiance sparking in her green eyes. That was the trouble with his sister, always thinking she knew more than he or Devlynn, which was ridiculous. For the love of St. Peter, she was a woman. A woman!
In a whisper of velvet Aunt Violet appeared in the archway near the base of the stairs. “Is there word of Devlynn?” she asked hopefully, as a serving girl scurried over the rushes carrying a second tray filled with boiled eggs and slices of winter apples. The girl deposited the tray on a table while a page appeared to refill each mazer.
Collin and the weary soldier climbed to their feet as Violet made her way into the room. She used a smooth walking stick to aid her balance, then dropped into a chair.
“Sir Dennis has come from Devlynn’s camp,” Collin said.
“Has he found Yale?” Her old eyes brightened at the prospect.
“Nay, m’lady.” Dennis plucked up an egg from the tray Miranda held for him, then plopped it into his mouth nearly swallowing it whole. “Not yet.”
“Oh.” Crestfallen, Violet sighed and pursed her lips. Her fingers linked together over the top of her walking stick. She was the eldest woman by far within the keep, yet she had no ailments other than a knee that twinged with the cold weather and a mind that sometimes betrayed her with spells of forgetfulness and fancifulness. Nervous fingers tapped against the knot at the top of her cane. “Has no word of ransom been brought here?”
“Nay.” Collin shook his head and settled back into his chair by the fire. A lad of eight or so brought in more wood and tossed a few mossy logs onto the iron dogs. Flames hissed and spat and smoke spewed up the chimney.
“The poor boy,” Violet thought aloud. “I hope he is all right … all that blood in his chamber.” She sighed and shook her head, small teeth pressing into her lower lip. “We must do something.”
“We can do nothing but wait,” Collin argued. “As I promised Devlynn.”
“’Tis enough to drive one mad, all this waiting,” Miranda complained.
“Devlynn will find his son.”
“If the boy’s alive.” A strand of Miranda’s hair had fallen from its braid, but she ignored the wayward curl and sipped from her cup, her eyes dark with worry.
“He is alive,” Violet said, tapping her cane on the cold stones of the floor. “He has to be.” But her eyes were troubled, her bravado slipping visibly, and she seemed to sink within the chair. The tapestries upon the wall appeared dull this day and even with the candles lit, the hall was gloomy.
Ever since the raid on Black Thorn, Collin had been tense, seeing the suspicion in the eyes of the servants and peasants, sensing the worry that troops would be called to war, aware that many within the castle walls didn’t trust him, had pledged their allegiance to Devlynn and considered Collin nothing more than a figure-head, a man incapable of ruling the keep.
Well, they were all wrong. Dead wrong.
“All we can do is pray,” Violet said, “and put our trust in the Father.”
Collin didn’t argue, but thought the old woman a twit.
Prayer had nothing to do with what would be the fate of Black Thorn.
The boy sat glowering at the fire, his back propped by a sack of supplies, his bound hands dropped between knees drawn nearly to his chin. “He’ll kill you, you know,” he said as he glowered at the fire where a rabbit and dove were roasting on a spit. “My father, he’ll kill you all.”
“You mustn’t think of it.” Apryll cast a glance over her shoulder. Payton, full into his cups, was adding wood to the fire, and settled on one knee, his attention, for a few seconds, averted.
He’d asked Apryll for another mazer of wine and she’d agreed, feigning disapproval and knowing this was her one chance for escape before the others in Payton’s band joined them. While Yale stared at the sizzling carcasses, Apryll turned her back to the fire and, using her body to cover her actions, hid the fact that she was rifling through the pouch Payton had left unguarded in a corner. Though the air within the drafty old building was cold, her fingers were sweaty, her skin prickling at the thought that she could be caught any second.
She found the vial and retrieved it, pulled out the stopper and poured the clear liquid into Payton’s empty mazer
. Then she filled the cup with wine and sent up a quick prayer that the concoction had no taste, for as drunk as her brother was, he might discern a change in flavor and toss the wine out before downing it.
“Where the devil are they?” Payton growled. “We can wait here only another hour and then we must be off.”
Mother Mary, help me, she silently prayed, pouring water from her cup into the vial, stopping it and dropping it into the pouch again before glancing over her shoulder. Her hands sweated and every muscle in her body was tightly drawn.
“The longer we tarry here, the more likely Devlynn and his troops will arrive.” Nervously Payton plowed stiff fingers through his hair. “Christ Jesus, what could have happened?”
“Mayhap they were captured.”
“Yes, that’s it!” Yale cried. “My father found them and beheaded them all!”
“Enough!” Payton snapped. “I’m sick to death of hearing about your father. ‘My father this, my father that.’ Well, where is he, eh? He hasn’t shown up here, has he?”
“He will.”
“Oh, for the love of bloody Christ! Have you got that wine?” he demanded of Apryll just as she turned with the doctored cup.
“Aye, but I think you should only have one more,” she said, hoping to sound stern and disapproving so that Payton wouldn’t change his mind. “This is no time to lose your wits in drink.”
Adjusting his breeches, Payton cast a glance around the bleak room and sent her a mistrustful look. “I’ll drink as much as I like.”
“But we both need to keep our minds about us,” she argued, lifting the mazer to her lips. “Mayhap I should drink this last one. You’ve had enough.”
“’Tis not for you to say,” he argued and crossed the room swiftly.
“But, we have the boy to think of—”
“He’s fine.” Payton cast a glance at Yale and a smile of satisfaction stole across his beard-darkened face. “You just need a meal in you, don’t you, boy?” he asked.