Wild and Wicked

  To Serennog.

  Through the fields and into the woods, faster and faster. Time was his enemy. The longer he was separated from Yale, the more likely the boy would suffer. He thought of how easily he’d been seduced by the woman and how quickly she’d betrayed him. Teeth gnashing, he spurred his mount as the beast stumbled through a creek, sliding on the slippery rocks before scrambling up the far bank and shooting into the woods.

  Down the road, faster and faster, until he came upon the dogs barking and shifting at a junction where the road splintered into three directions. He pulled up, his horse sweating and lathered, the breath from his hot lungs fogging the air. The lead dog headed north toward Serennog, but that seemed too easy. The smart bitch chose the western bend, and a few others were sniffing and barking toward the east.

  Devlynn hopped lithely to the ground and, with only moonlight for illumination, studied the tracks as the rest of his small army reached him.

  “Which way?” Rudyard asked.

  “North,” Devlynn said with more certainty than he felt. Could he be leading his men into a trap? Would the enemy have gathered, joining forces with more of their own, hiding and ready to strike when Devlynn and his troops reached a certain point on this lonely stretch of road? Should he send a spy ahead to report back? Nay, he had not the time.

  Angrily, he kicked at a pebble in the path and sent it reeling into the bole of a nearby oak. Thunk. “We’ll split up,” he decided.

  “Is this not what the enemy expects, m’lord?” Rudyard dismounted to join him. “Divide and conquer?”

  “To what end?”

  “Mayhap they have stolen the boy only as a means to lure you from the castle. Whoever is behind this might not be after your son but has used him to capture or kill you.”

  “So be it,” Devlynn said furiously as the wind rustled through the few dead leaves hanging on brittle branches. “Better me than my son.”

  “Better yet neither.”

  Other huntsmen and soldiers dismounted to study the roadway in the pale moonlight. “The horses’ tracks, they go north,” Kirby, the rotund archer, insisted, his eyes reading the frozen roadway.

  “Aye, there are others leading to the east.” Spencer frowned and tugged on his short beard. “And west, as well. ’Tis too dark to be certain. With all the travel for the revels, all the carts, wagons and horses, ’tis hard to tell.”

  “We’ll split up,” Devlynn decided.

  He knew in his gut that whatever cur was loyal to Apryll of Serennog would ride straight to Serennog, to seek cover behind the grate of the portcullis and thick walls of the castle. So be it.

  “M’lord!” One of the soldiers had reined his mount and was looking westward along the ridge. “I see firelight, nay … moving fires … torches.”

  “Aye, I see them as well,” another soldier called.

  Devlynn squinted and saw, far in the distance, the lights winking through the bare branches.

  “’Tis the army.” Rudyard was certain. “Leading north. The shortest route to Serennog, over the mountains.”

  “Why would they risk torches?” Devlynn thought aloud, the gears in his mind grinding. “’Tis a lure—a trap.”

  “Unless the traitors thought there was enough distance, that we would not ride until morn because of the fire. Mayhap they think they are safe and cannot be seen yet cannot risk resting. It could be that they must use the torches to illuminate their path,” a soldier suggested.

  “Aye,” Rudyard agreed. “The cliffs upon the ridge are treacherous and they cannot see the path to travel safely. Yet they dare not rest. Mayhap they would rather risk being noticed than take a chance on being caught.”

  “Or tumbling down the mountainside,” another soldier said.

  Devlynn wasn’t convinced. He looked at the dogs circling anxiously. The lead dog had never failed him, though usually the bitch was a tracker as well. She was whining, half running down the fork leading west, then returning to whine and bark loudly. Aye, she had the scent of something. Yale? Or was she as confused as these men—his best soldiers? Leaning down, he touched the earth with his gloved fingers as if in touching the soil he could divine which direction to follow.

  “We split up,” he said, watching the bitch whine and circle, then head off to the west yet again. Standing, he dusted his hands. “I’ll head west. Six men will travel with me. You, Rudyard, and six others, follow the torches north.” Straightening, he motioned to Sir Benson. “You take the rest of the men and head east. We ride all night and through the morrow.” His eyes narrowed against the cold wind. “If we’ve not found Yale by that time, we shall all meet at the gates of Serennog. Each party will send a messenger back to Collin at Black Thorn with a report and requesting more troops, supplies, the battering ram and catapults to be sent to Serennog.”

  “Would we not be stronger as one force?” Rudyard asked.

  “Stronger, aye, and slower. Now, be off with you and find my boy!” Devlynn swung onto the back of the horse he’d claimed. His fingers wrapped around the reins. There was no wall high enough that he would not scale it to save his son; there was no gate strong enough to keep him from rescuing Yale.

  It mattered not who got in his way. He kicked his mount and rode west. He should have brought Lady Apryll with him, he thought now. He might have been able to read her expression and learn which route her band of thieves and cutthroats had taken.

  Wrapping the reins around his gloved hands, he kicked his mount as the cold night wind shrieked through the canyons. The horse bolted and he leaned forward, setting his jaw and silently damning himself for his fascination with the woman. Oh, she’d been lovely and coy and sweetly seductive in her jewels and white gown, and he’d been addled by her beauty, her charm, her wicked wit.

  Had he not learned about women from his wife? She, too, had been a beauty, a seductress, and she’d never given him a moment’s peace. The horse flew down the road and Devlynn tried to force his thoughts away from Apryll. ’Twas a stroke of luck that he had found her hiding in the priest’s chamber.

  His horse valiantly struggled up the final rise of a hill and the empty road stretched out before him. He pulled up, allowing his mount to breathe, waiting for the soldiers lagging behind.

  Could they not hurry? Yale’s fate was at stake.

  Mayhap it was already too late. His heart shredded at the thought. Something vital within him died—that spark of humanity that separated him from a cruel, savage fiend intent only on blood-lust. There was a chance that it wasn’t ransom the kidnappers were after, but pure vengeance. Christ Jesus. No!

  He wheeled the horse. He would find his boy. And soon.

  Then he would dispense with the kidnappers.

  Those who held Yale would pay dearly.

  Even the woman.

  Chapter Eight

  “Halt!” Apryll yelled once she had closed in on her brother. “Payton! Stop!” For the moment there was enough distance between herself and Black Thorn keep that she could spare a few minutes.

  Payton turned and, spying her, drew back on the reins. He was holding fast to the boy, who slumped over the pommel of the saddle. “Where the devil have you been?” Payton charged, riding back to her. “I turned around and you were gone!” Fury etched his features. “What happened?”

  “You disappeared.” She pulled her laboring mare to a stop and the two horses milled around each other, walking, blowing, bridles jangling.

  “You knew we were meeting up with …”

  He didn’t finish and she wanted to reach over and slap him. “I knew nothing. This entire plan has been changed.”

  “I thought mayhap you decided to stay with the beast of Black Thorn.”

  “And why is that?” she demanded, then waved in the air, pushing aside the argument as if it were a bothersome fly. “It matters not. We don’t have time to argue.” Her poor mare was breathing so hard Apryll thought the beast might collapse beneath her, and she was tired to the bones. Devlynn’s son did not
look better. As Payton turned in the saddle to skewer his sister with a disgusted glare, the boy was limp as a wet rag in his arms.

  “The plan has changed,” she insisted. “If we are to survive tonight we have to ride to the next town and release the boy to the local priest. He will see that the child is safely returned to Black Thorn and then, mayhap, we can prevent a war—”

  “I took the boy for a reason.” Payton glowered down at her from his taller, more regal destrier.

  “And we will all suffer for it.”

  “I think not.”

  “Devlynn of Black Thorn will never rest until not only you and me, brother, but all of Serennog pays. There will be devastation the likes of which you can’t imagine.”

  “Not if he is worried for the boy’s safety.” Payton’s eyes glowed in the moonlight, his teeth, set in a cruel smile, flashing white. The boy groaned and Apryll’s heart went out to him. “Now we have Black Thorn where we want him. He will do nothing to risk harming the child; he will give us everything we want and more.”

  “He will give us vengeance and death.”

  “Nay, I have seen to it.”

  “You disobeyed me.”

  “I did what I had to.”

  “You promised no bloodshed.”

  Payton lifted a shoulder as the boy moaned. “I lied.”

  Somewhere in a nearby tree an owl hooted and the wind rustled eerily through the brambles.

  “You betrayed me.”

  “I did what had to be done, sister, to bring Devlynn of Black Thorn to his knees. Now, there is no time to waste and I’ll not listen to your complaints. Either you ride with me, or you face the enemy and you face him alone.” He slapped his reins against the stallion’s sides and the big horse bolted. The child, still drugged, muttered something thickly.

  Gritting her teeth, Apryll kicked her mare and followed after him. She had no choice for the moment, but as the moon rose higher in the sky, she knew that she would have to right this wrong herself—find a way to get the boy back to his father, yet save her castle in the bargain.

  Aye, Payton was right on one score. She had been a foolish woman, a dreamer, but no longer. Despite what Payton might think, she could be as ruthless as he. And she would start tonight.

  ’Twas too late, Geneva thought as she glanced at the crumpled bed within the small hut where Mary, a large sweating woman, was trying to deliver twins. She’d been at it for hours and the withered old midwife, Britt, had hurried off to fetch a pail of water and summon the priest.

  The laboring woman moaned piteously from her stained cot. “Help me. Help my babes,” she whispered, her fingers clutching Geneva’s sleeve, her face contorted in pain in the dim light from the embers in the grate.

  “’Tis not my place.”

  “Please,” Mary begged, her face bloated and distorted in pain, her hair molded to her head in wet ringlets. “Before the midwife returns. Britt, she cares not for the babes she brings into this world … her eyes are weak, her hands clumsy. You know this yourself.”

  “She is old.” Geneva glanced at the door, still slightly ajar. Oh, ’twas a night of the full moon and shrill wind. A night filled with foreboding. Geneva had felt the chill of forewarning deep within her soul, as if the forces of nature, the spirits in the forests, fields and oceans, were restless.

  Because of Payton.

  She bit her lip and felt her heart tear a little when she thought of the man she dared not love though she had willingly allowed him into her bed. He’d stolen her virginity and, worse yet, her heart. Absently she smoothed her tunic over her flat abdomen, where deep in her womb Payton’s seed had been planted.

  “Aye, Britt is too old,” Mary agreed. “She’s lost her touch … please, for the love of whatever god it is you pray to, help me. The twins, they be comin’, but I fear … I fear I’ve already lost them.” Mary was desperate, her thick, calloused fingers clutching the fabric of Geneva’s ragged sleeve. “I beg of you, help me. Help my babes.”

  How could she not?

  Knowing she would incur the wrath of Father Hadrian as well as the miserable midwife, Geneva stole quickly to the door and shut it soundly. Steadfastly she pushed all her thoughts of Payton aside. Aye, she would help this woman who spent her days plucking feathers and singeing hairs off the fowl for the lady’s table, though deep in her heart Geneva suspected it was too late.

  Reaching into her basket, she found bits of dried thistle, catmint and raspberry. She sprinkled the herbs over the tapers burning near on a table, then placed clumps of mistletoe on the bed for protection and tossed a handful of silver fir into the fire to bless and protect both mother and children. Chanting softly, invoking the Great Mother to help and protect this woman and her unborn babes, she sprinkled oil upon her hands and placed them on Mary’s bare belly—touching gently—but she felt no vitality within the woman, no signs of life from the twins.

  Mary let out another agonized cry and bucked upon the stained cot. Outside the wind keened and a lone dog barked from the castle kennel.

  Using the dagger hidden in her basket, Geneva scratched a rune in the dirt beneath Mary’s bed, a triangle within a square, intersected to create the family, hoping this symbol of protection would save the babes. Again she laid a hand upon Mary’s protruding belly. She felt only cold, empty despair.

  “They—they are strong?” Mary asked as Father Hadrian swept into the room, his vestments billowing, the candles flickering with the cold draft of air that chased after him.

  “What is going on here?” he said, his deep voice gruff. “Geneva, if you’ve been practicing the old ways, ’twill be your downfall. Now, Mary, lass,” he said as his gaze fell upon the sweating woman, “mayhap we should pray.” He shot a knowing look at Geneva. “To the one true God.” As if by instinct he slid one shoe under the cot and rubbed out the rune.

  Britt, toting a pail of water, hurried into the room and sniffed loudly at the scents of burning herbs. “What be ye doin’, Geneva?” she demanded. “I’ll be having none of that pagan talk and”—she pointed to the candles as she adjusted the blankets—“what is that ye’ve sprinkled? Don’t ye be callin’ on Lucifer, woman. This ’ere’s a Christian castle, I’ll be remindin’ ye, if the good Father is too kind to tell ye himself. There now, Mary, ye just breathe deep, and I’ll see to them babes fer ye.”

  “Ye would not be invoking’ the devil now, would ye, Geneva?” Father Hadrian asked, seeing the greenery on the bed.

  “’Tis but holly, mistletoe and ivy, for the yule time.” Geneva lied easily to this man of God.

  He snorted, disbelieving. “I’ll have to tell Lady Apryll upon her return.”

  If she returns, Geneva thought, feeling a chill deep in the marrow of her bones as she cast a final glance toward Mary and slipped through the door of the hut. Outside the wind was bitter cold, the night clear but for a few clouds that ringed the moon, yet something was wrong, terribly wrong. Geneva sensed a shifting in the fates this night and in her mind’s eye she saw Apryll of Serennog’s ruin.

  All because the sorceress had lied.

  Chapter Nine

  Apryll’s mount was no match for the gray. Within seconds Payton was out of sight and the jennet began to lag, her strides uneven. “Hurry, hurry,” Apryll urged, but she heard the beast’s ragged breathing, knew the feisty little mare was spent. “Oh, for the love of St. Jude,” Apryll muttered, reining to a stop and sliding to the ground. Holding the reins in one hand she began to walk to let the animal cool down, only to realize the mare was favoring a foreleg. Now what? Apryll wondered as she continued to walk through the forest. They were far from the old inn where the soldiers from Serennog were to meet, farther yet from the castle. And there was a fairly good chance that Payton had ordered the men to gather elsewhere, at a hidden spot unbeknownst to Apryll.

  Payton’s plan was more treacherous than Apryll had imagined. To what lengths would he go? He’d already lied, betrayed her, stolen from Black Thorn and kidnapped the boy. He’d ki
lled to make good his escape.

  Lost in her thoughts, she heard a rumble. Low. Far away. But getting closer. Horses. Damn. The ruse didn’t work. The beast of Black Thorn was approaching. Quickly, she pulled the unwilling mare into a thicket, a small copse of saplings and briars. ’Twas little cover but the night was dark.

  Then she heard the hound.

  With a bloodcurdling bay that echoed through the forest.

  “Cursed beasts,” she growled. She tied the mare to a sapling, then flung her hat down a ravine, hoping the damned dog would follow it down the steep cliff, allowing her more time. But where to hide? There was no cave, no hut, nothing.

  The dog’s soulful cry drew nearer. Hoofbeats thudded louder. Closer. Apryll’s heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear herself think. She could run, but wouldn’t get far … nay, her best chance was to hide and, as the army passed, double back upon her own trail, her own scent mingling with those of the soldiers and horses … if she could outwit the dog. She pulled off her mantle and threw it down the ravine, farther along the path, hoping to fool the bloody curs. Then, running headlong toward the coming search party, she plunged through the forest, feeling twigs and briars pull at her sleeves and tangle in her hair.

  Men were shouting. Oh, Lord, they were close. Over the roar of blood rushing through her head she heard deep voices, excited yips and the crash of hooves on the hard, icy road.

  Lord help me, she silently prayed, diving behind a burned stump and pressing her back to the charred bark as the army sped by. Dogs barking, horses galloping, men shouting, bridles and swords rattling. Heart in her throat she waited, certain that at any moment the small band would turn and hunt her down.

  Yale opened a groggy eye. ’Twas dark except for moonlight and he was being held by strong arms as the horse beneath them seemed to fly through the night. His head spun and he wondered why his father had taken him from his bed to ride like the wind on horseback. Yale’s head pounded with every jarring hoofbeat and he was so tired, so sluggish, and something was wrong, very, very wrong. Yet Phantom’s strides were long, his gait sure.