Wild and Wicked

  “He views me as his enemy.”

  Miranda smiled slyly. “Then you’ll just have to convince him that you aren’t.”

  “No messenger has returned with word from the group led by Spencer?” Devlynn asked as he and Collin strode through the bailey during a break between the bursts of rain. Dark clouds roiled overhead and the winter wind gusted, knifing through his mantle and tunic. Frowning, he surveyed the damage to the stables. Blackened beams were still visible though a crew of carpenters had been working day and night to replace the charred logs and strengthen the structure.

  “There has been no word from Spencer.”

  “Nor from Rudyard’s band?”

  “Nay. Only Dennis, quickly followed by Lloyd and those who rode with you.”

  “They must have gone on to Serennog.” ’Twas odd, Devlynn thought, alarm bells ringing in his mind. He’d ordered each group to send a messenger back to Black Thorn. Even if Rudyard had turned traitor, the others should have reported in.

  “We’ll send a search party out in the morning,” Collin said as they headed into the great hall. Evening was closing in and the clouds had started to unburden themselves again, a few drops of rain falling from the black sky.

  Devlynn didn’t reply. Something was still awry, he was certain of it, but his son was safe, at least for the moment. He’d asked two of his most trusted men to watch after the boy. And every so often he’d checked on Yale himself, only to find him playing with Bronwyn or some of the other children in the keep, or talking with the kennel master. Devlynn had ordered the gates to the castle closed and no one was to pass in or out without the sentry first checking with him.

  No matter what else, Devlynn would not lose his son again. Payton of Serennog and anyone else who tried to steal the boy be damned.

  But what of the traitors within your own keep?

  With no answer to that question, he strode through the bailey. All seemed calm. Serene. The everyday tasks being accomplished. Some of the cook’s helpers were plucking feathers from two dead geese, the dye makers were boiling fabric in a huge vat, turning the fabric with wide paddles, and the candle maker hustled into her hut carrying a pail of tallow. A loom clacked while a potter’s wheel whirred and the sounds of barrels being rolled into the wine cellar were just as they should have been, but Devlynn wasn’t satisfied with the normalcy of the sights and sounds of Black Thorn, not while he was certain there were those plotting against him.

  But who? Which of those who had pledged their lives to him had betrayed him? Which would do so again?

  As he walked up the steps to the great hall, he worried again for Yale’s fate. Would someone in the keep risk killing the boy right under his nose? At the door, he growled at the guard. “Find my son and bring him to me.”

  “We just saw him at the quintain,” Collin protested.

  Devlynn ignored him. “Get him,” he commanded the guard. “Until the traitors have been uncovered, Yale stays at my side.”

  “You cannot run a castle if you are to play nursemaid all day—”

  Devlynn’s temper snapped. He grabbed his brother by the front of his tunic and slammed him up against the wall. “Who is lord here?”

  “You are, of course,” Collin answered though his hands clenched into hard fists.

  “Then I’ll run this castle any way I see fit!” Nose to nose, he glared at his younger brother and wondered if he could trust Collin. Once before they’d been at odds. Over a woman. Devlynn had won. He’d married Glynda of Prys and had never felt a moment’s peace from the day the marriage banns had been posted. Slowly he uncurled his fingers.

  “Mayhap we should make a fight of this,” his younger brother said, glowering at him.

  “Mayhap.”

  But Collin’s anger seemed to melt as he stared over his brother’s shoulder to the staircase. “Christ Jesus,” he whispered under his breath.

  Devlynn glanced behind him and his heart nearly stopped. Descending the steps, her head held high, dressed in a deep gold that matched her eyes, was Apryll of Serennog, his sworn enemy, looking as regal as any queen. He was reminded of the first night he’d seen her and his heart twisted. God, she was beautiful. Too beautiful. Her hair fell past her shoulders in soft yellow waves and the tops of her breasts were plump over the scooped neckline of the gold dress.

  His mouth turned to dust.

  God in heaven, what was he to do with her?

  Send her to the gallows for her betrayal?

  Or bed her?

  Chapter Twenty-three

  She felt like a fool dressed in Devlynn’s dead wife’s dress. The bodice stretched tight across her bosom and the hem dragged a bit on the floor, but worse than the fit was the idea that Glynda of Black Thorn had worn the gown. Cheeks flaming in embarrassment, Apryll descended the stairs and saw Devlynn with his fist bunched in the front of his brother’s tunic.

  He glanced over his shoulder and something flashed in his eyes, some dark emotion she didn’t want to analyze too closely, something dangerous she didn’t want to consider. Slowly, he let his hand fall to his side.

  “Are you two at it already?” Miranda demanded in exasperation. A step behind Apryll on the stairs, she shot forward, stalked across the great hall and wedged herself between her brothers. “Enough of this! You two are as bad as two rutting stags in the forest. We have no time for this … this nonsense!” She beseeched both her brothers with her wide, green eyes. “’Tis time we sent a search party for the others. What if they have been killed, or wounded in battle? Even now they could be rotting in the dungeons of Serennog!”

  Devlynn ignored Miranda’s plea, his gaze centered on Apryll. “What is she doing down here?” he demanded, his face grim. “She is to be locked in my chamber.”

  “Your chamber?” Collin asked, one side of his mouth lifting. “How convenient.”

  “Oh, stop it.” Miranda looked as if she wanted to slap both her brothers. “I thought she should come down for a meal. Mayhap she can tell us where the rest of our troops are. She might know of Payton’s plans.”

  “We’ve been over this,” Devlynn said, white brackets surrounding the corners of his mouth. “Why didn’t she wear her own dress, the one she left here during the revels?”

  The back of Apryll’s neck burned but she met his eyes and said evenly, “I wasn’t offered it, m’lord, elsewise I would gladly have donned it.”

  “Would you?”

  “Especially if it were to please you,” she mocked, the air between them crackling as servants began preparing the table. Apryll felt curious eyes upon her, heard whispers rustling behind the thick curtains, hushed conversations punctuated by her name. With all the pride she could muster, she somehow managed to hang on to the threads of her poise.

  “You look magnificent,” Collin said, earning a suspicious glare from his brother. “But we are all on edge because some of our men have not returned, men who were searching for Yale and who are presumably still following some of the outlaws from Serennog who so boldly raided this keep.” He was pacing between the base of the stairs and the main door and the tables where serving girls were placing knives and mazers. From the kitchen the smells of roasting meat and warm bread seeped into the great hall. “Mayhap you might be able to help us locate the men.”

  “I know only what I told Lord Devlynn,” she said and repeated her insistence that she didn’t realize Yale would be kidnapped or lives taken. “… the only thing that is odd is that my brother, too, was waiting for his soldiers. He was about to break camp, as they hadn’t met him, when I managed to drug him. He fell asleep just before Lord Devlynn arrived. As we rode off, a few soldiers, some from Black Thorn, appeared.”

  “Who?” Miranda asked quickly.

  “I don’t know their names.”

  Disappointment reflected in Miranda’s eyes and Apryll finally realized that she was in love with a soldier, one of the missing men. That was what all her talk about an unhappy marriage was about. She was tied to a man whom she d
idn’t love. Apryll understood Miranda’s plight. Had not she been urged to marry anyone who would ensure Serennog’s good fortune? Payton had been all too ready to have her wed Lord Jamison or Baron William of Balchdar without any regard for her own desires.

  Collin began shepherding them toward the lord’s table. “Mayhap they’ll return soon. Now, come , let us eat. As I said, we’ll send troops in the morning if they have not yet arrived.” Apryll forced herself not to limp. Lady Glynda’s boots were a little too tight and the knife she’d managed to swipe from the huntsman’s footwear and tuck into the new boots while Miranda’s back was turned earlier pressed against her calf.

  Yale bounded into the room and leaped over a small bench. With a squeal of delight Bronwyn chased him and the castle dogs barked.

  “Slow down,” Miranda warned.

  Yale was breathing hard, but he still was able to duck under a table with Bronwyn on his heels. He scrambled to his feet and ran past Aunt Vi’s vacant chair and received a sharp glance from his father. Unconcerned and flush-faced, he took his seat and Bronwyn plopped down beside him, sharing a short bench wedged between Devlynn and Miranda.

  If they realized they were in any trouble, they didn’t show it, laughing, joking and jabbering like crows in an apple tree on a sunny afternoon.

  Though she was starving, Apryll could barely eat a morsel of the succulent salmon and roast goose. She listened to the buzz of conversation, heard her name spoken from the tables below the dais and wished the ordeal was over. Being seated next to Devlynn, as if she were his wife instead of his prisoner, made her want to squirm away. Sharing a trencher with him seemed laughable, yet she somehow found her dignity and even when his hard thigh brushed against the folds of her skirt, skimming her own leg, she didn’t show the tiniest bit of notice.

  Pages and serving girls stared at her, knights and freemen ogled her as they slowly chewed their food at the lower tables, while maids and villeins avoided her gaze. Over the clink of mazers and knives she heard the gossip that whispered around her like a dry, brittle wind.

  “Look at her, sittin’ next to Lord Devlynn, as if she has the right, as if she’s his bloody wife,” one soldier seated next to Lloyd muttered.

  “And isn’t that the lady’s favorite gold gown?”

  “Aye, but she fills it out nicely.”

  “Some nerve of her, after what she did. She’s lucky the baron hasn’t had her drawn and quartered.” Lloyd offered a greasy-lipped smile at her, then lifted his mazer in a mock toast.

  “Yes … there still be time. The baron may yet mete out his punishment.”

  “Aye, she’s locked in his room, I hear.”

  Both men laughed their evil laughs but Apryll leveled Lloyd with a haughty, cold stare. Oh, she would love to start chanting again, as if she were conjuring up a spell, just to watch his reaction and show him for the fat coward he was.

  More laughter and sneers, titters and jeers, were made at her expense. The air within the great hall was tense and filled with hatred and suspicion, most of it aimed at her, though again, she sensed a darker presence in the castle, an unhappiness. There were undercurrents of unrest at Black Thorn and even Devlynn was not immune to those who, she felt, were plotting against him.

  Those very souls in league with Payton.

  At the thought of her brother, she wondered what he would do. Would he mount an outright attack? Try to free her? Convince the traitors within Black Thorn to rise against their lord? Oh, God, what then?

  She glanced at Yale, who, plopping a date into his mouth, tossed Apryll a happy smile. Her heart warmed for just an instant, until she caught Devlynn’s stern glare. ’Twas enough to shrivel her appetite.

  She looked away and gathered herself. She could not let him intimidate her. She would not allow anyone in the castle to see that she had any fear.

  She nibbled at a bit of buttery-crusted plum tart and silently swore that she would leave Black Thorn as soon as she was able. If Devlynn didn’t free her then, once again, she would find a way to elude him.

  Someone within the castle was a friend of Serennog. Someone had helped Payton sneak through the gate and past the guards. That same someone had helped her escape through a sally port a few nights earlier.

  Who?

  Would he show himself again?

  How could she contact him?

  ’Twas impossible, she realized as she glanced around the large room at the sea of unknown faces. Knights. Peasants. Freemen. Servants. None so much as offered her a smile. Nay, she could not depend upon an unknown ally, she had to use her own wits if she was to escape. Feeling Devlynn’s gaze upon her, she attempted to hide her thoughts and quickly turned her attention to a platter of dates drizzled with honey.

  “See any traitors within my castle?” Devlynn asked as he reached for his mazer. Was she so transparent that he could read her mind? “Mayhap someone who will help you escape again?”

  “I know no one here,” she said as she bit into a piece of warm bread. “Only you.”

  “Then you are in trouble, lady.”

  That much she already knew, though she kept her thoughts to herself. She had her wits, the knife the farmer’s wife had given her and a bit of knowledge of the keep, enough to mayhap find the same sally port that had been her escape route once before.

  But this time you’ll have to find it on your own.

  This time there will be no horse waiting for you.

  And this time you will have to evade the lord himself.

  Her heart sank. The fates seemed against her.

  Well, destiny be damned, she decided. Apryll was a woman who had grown up believing in herself. For the moment, she could rely on no one else.

  “Call for the physician and the midwife,” Father Benjamin ordered the guard at the gate of Serennog. The portcullis rattled shut behind him. Geneva was weak. Losing blood. Softly moaning as Henry helped keep her astride the mule. With every step of the beast’s hooves she’d whimpered and Benjamin worried that, despite his prayers and fumbling attempts to bind her wounds with the hem of her skirt, her soul would pass out of this world and on to the next.

  “I’ll find ’em!” Henry’s voice and footsteps faded as he ran ahead just as Benjamin sensed the guard coming closer.

  “Help me get her down,” he told the man.

  “For the love of God, ’tis Sir Payton,” the sentry said as he examined the body draped over the backside of the mule. “He’s dead.”

  Geneva choked back a sob.

  Did the man have no brains? “Aye, I’ve offered up my prayers for his soul. Now, man, help me with the woman.”

  “Oh, right.” Together they managed to help her to the ground. She leaned heavily against Benjamin and he felt her shiver, though he doubted it was from the bite of the winter wind. Nay, she was cold from the inside out. Not only had she witnessed Payton’s death, but she had endured a horrid rape and, finally, been forced to ride next to the body of her beloved. “We’re home, lass,” Benjamin whispered to her as quick, sharp footsteps accompanied by the rustle of skirts hurried toward them.

  “What’s this? Oh, for the love of Mary—forgive me, Father—’tis Geneva. Come on, Charles, help Father Benjamin git her into me hut, I’ll see to her,” Iris, the mason’s wife, ordered. “And what is this? Heaven help us. Sir Payton … what happened?”

  “I’m not certain,” Benjamin admitted.

  Iris was a devout woman, mother of three boys, and she worked in the kitchen, oftentimes kneading bread dough or skinning eels or boiling eggs. “Millie—Millie, over here, help me with Geneva.”

  “Wha—? Migawd,” the twit of a laundress said. “She’s bleedin’ she is, omigawd, she’s—she’s—and—” She let out a tiny squeal. Benjamin assumed it was that she’d laid eyes upon the slain man. “Sir Payton! What in God’s name—”

  “Shh! Geneva needs help, that’s what she needs. As for Sir Payton, there’s nothing we can do for him but pray. ’Tis in the Father’s hands now,” Iris insi
sted and as Henry came back with the midwife, Father Benjamin followed the women into the mason’s hut, where the smells of warm bread, ale and goat cheese made his mouth water.

  The midwife was clucking her tongue. “She’s lost a babe, I’ll tell ye that much. Now we’ll need to clean her up, lay her on the bed there, and we’ll see what we’ll see.” Thankfully Geneva had stopped moaning and Father Benjamin, though he was blind, excused himself to allow the women privacy. “I’ll be outside,” he told Iris and slipped through the door, nearly running into Henry, who had returned after, he claimed, reaching Sir Brennan and giving him the news of Payton’s death. Brennan would come straightaway.

  “How’s Geneva? Will she be all right?” the boy asked, concern tinging his words.

  “If God allows it. Sometimes He calls us home before we think we’re ready.” Benjamin pulled his cloak around him. He was cold to the marrow of his bones, hungry and tired.

  “Like Sir Payton?”

  “Aye.” Benjamin placed a hand upon the lad’s shoulder. “We must pray, shall we, for Sir Payton’s soul.” Without waiting for the boy’s reply, he forced Henry’s head into a bent position and offered up a short prayer. “… Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Benjamin felt the boy’s right arm move as he quickly made the sign of the cross. “Now, run along. See that the mule is taken to the stables and put up proper, then get some sleep, ’tis late.”

  “What about him?” he asked and Benjamin knew he was speaking of the slain man.

  “Leave him to me.”

  “Aye, Father,” the boy said gratefully and slipped into the night, the sound of his footsteps diminishing as the wind picked up and the cold breath of winter blew over the priest’s round face. He thought of the chapel and his warm chamber but didn’t move except to rub his hands together and shift from one foot to the other. Who had killed Sir Payton? Where had they gone after slaying him and defiling Geneva? Was it the soldiers of Black Thorn, or Payton’s men who had turned against him and the sorceress? But why? For gold? For the woman? Out of anger? Oh, who could understand the ways of men? He rubbed his fleshy arms and felt the turn of the wind, bitter cold, sharp as the bite of an asp. Where was Lady Apryll? Why had she not returned? His kind heart bled at the thought that she, too, was in mortal danger. Would she endure the horrid trial that Geneva had faced? Oh, this winter night did not bode well, not well at all.